Science...For Her! (8 page)
No worries—if it’s your husband, it doesn’t really count! Feel free to shower!
Congrats! You’ve made your biological potato clock! You go, girl!!!!!
How long should you wait after meeting someone to have sex? It’s one of history’s greatest unsolved mysteries, right up with the Bermuda Triangle and where Waldo is (lost him again). But I finally have an answer for you. How long should you wait? No more than ten minutes after meeting someone. Preferably under seven.
FIG. 1.6
FIG. 1.6
This is not the advice you’d expect from a woman, necessarily. It’s widely believed that women tell each other to wait months, even weeks, to have sex with a man. This is SABOTAGE. Women are giving this piece of “advice” to each other so that they can swoop in and steal that man while their reluctant and gullible friend is waiting abstinently. One woman telling another woman to “wait” is a very smart evolutionary tactic to become impregnated with the seed, or “not in my hair,” of the strongest male of the tribe. This has been proven incontrovertibly by science, or “number-words.”
Back when men and women were cavemen who lived in caves, women were the more aggressive sex and would often fish men’s condoms out of the cave-trash to steal their seed.
FIG. 1.7
This later evolved into a more passive-aggressive approach where cavewomen would have cave margaritas and tell their girlfriends to respect themselves, and then, when their cavefriends were in another part of the cave blending up the ice for the next round of ’ritas in the VitaMix, the savvy cavewoman would stay behind and have lots of hot caveboyfriend-stealing sex, the moans and grunts of which were conveniently drowned out by the loud blender sound.
FIG. 1.7
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I would like to divulge that my best friend Tiffany basically started boning my boyfriend Xander right after we’d broken up while the three of us were spelunking in the Lava Tube Caves in Bend, Oregon. That has nothing to do with this scientifically based truth-based essay and never will!
When someone is perfect, you do NOT want to mess it up by having sex at the wrong time and letting your best girlfriend get in the way and have your baby. That’s why you should have sex as soon as possible, preferably within the first ten minutes of meeting someone. If you can do it in under seven minutes post-meeting, you’re probably going to marry the guy. Look
at me! Xander and I waited eight dates before we had sex, and now he and my ex–best friend are probably gonna get married in their favorite lava tube with a molten chocolate lava cake and bridesmaids that are dressed like virgin sacrifices to a volcano god of yore. It’s actually a really cute theme, but still, fuck them.
Now, listen. I can only speak from a woman’s perspective. I’ve always been terrible at impressions, and I couldn’t do one of a man if my life depended on it. Actually, that’s a lie. I do a great impression of WALL-E, and technically I think he’s a man. Here, I’ll write a little bit of the impression for you: WAAAALLLLLLL-E. Impressions don’t work as well written out!
For most people, the ten-minute rule might seem extreme. How do you know that they’re tested for STDs? That they’re not crazy? That their pubes aren’t shaved into a swastika or a strawberry (Hitler’s favorite berry)?
FIG. 1.8
You’re going to just have to trust your gut. Or, more specifically, your devil’s-gut (vagina). Humans have an evolutionarily evolved ability to know whether their potential partner has crabs or not. Have you ever been drinking twenty beers and about to hook up with someone and then you throw up? That’s your crab-sense saving you from disaster.
FIG. 1.8
The actual particulars of having sex within ten minutes of meeting a potential baby-father or -mother are a little difficult and nuanced. The whole situation is touch-and-go. Meaning you touch them and then you go. Let’s say you meet a hot guy in a Jamba Juice. He’s everything you want in a guy: handsome, correct number of legs, super fuckin’ into Jamba Juice. How do you let him know that you guys are going to go do it in the bathroom? I prefer the body-language approach. A flirty wink means “I like you,” and saying, “Let’s go have sex in the bathroom” means “Let’s go have sex in the bathroom.”
I’m going to play devil’s advocate here for a second. Maybe you should wait until you feel comfortable, or have more than a fleeting physical attraction to the person. HAHAHA, BOO! First of all, that’s what the devil’s lawyer is saying. You think I’m going to believe him? Sounds like a real snake.
FIG. 1.9
I hope this helps, dear readers. Now excuse me, I have to go have sex with the person who watched my computer at Starbucks while I went to the bathroom!
FIG. 1.9
Insanely, some women don’t want to have children. I recruited one of my best friends to write a little across-the-aisle piece on why
not
to have children. She’s like a second-tier best friend: not close enough that she’d give me a kidney, but close enough that I could steal her kidney.
NO BABIES, PLEASE!
Hi, everyone! I’m Megan’s friend. We met in a laundromat once when she was trying to steal my kidney! I’m here to say: no babies, please!
Most girls have the same life goals: date a boy, get voted homecoming queen (popular and electoral votes), get married, take a picture of a Chupacabra, renew your vows, get divorced, renew your divorce vows, eat a pie behind a middle school, get remarried, and have a baby. Call me crazy, but no baby for me, please! I want my life to be fun and easy, not, as Shakespeare might say, “done and queasy” (SOURCE:
Oxford English Rhyming Dictionary
).
Pregnancy is just a mess. It’s like you’re a turducken: a woman stuffed with a fetus stuffed with the turducken that you eat every day for breakfast. Your clothes stop fitting, and you have to start buying pants/quinceañera dresses/quinceañera tiaras with elastic waists. You have to start eating and mainlining for two. Sometimes you can’t help but sample the cocoa butter that you’re putting on your stretch marks. And I want to keep my figure! (For those of you who haven’t met me, I’m five foot ten, 120 pounds, 34DDD, my name is Heidi Klum, and I’m the model Heidi Klum.)
Have you ever seen a baby? Or, if you’re blind, have you ever touched a baby’s face and smelled a baby’s face and used echolocation to tell what color it is? They are crazy nasty looking. Also, they’re passive-aggressive and love to give the silent treatment. Also, they always try to out-pants-poop me in a pants-pooping contest (as of November 4, 2014, I’m still undefeated).
Some more fun facts: an average baby is approximately six metres long and thirty-one fluid ounces in metric circumference; in comparison, a normal vagina is at most one kilolitre in diametre (SOURCE: British Association of Metric Measurements and Also Obstetrics). Pushing a baby out of your body is like pushing a watermelon through your vagina, and, trust me, that was not a fun Cancun Spring Break 2004 drinking game. The only thing I want coming out of my body is a contented sigh when I’ve eaten an extra-tasty Toblerone in my baby-free bachelorette pad filled with non-baby-proofed coffee-table corners and sharp Toblerone vending machines.
How about the money issues? I can’t afford a child, let alone a kid. With modern science, babies will soon live to be one hundred years old and will grow to be thirty feet tall. Do you realize how much it costs to buy baby food for one hundred years? Diapers alone are thousands of dollars each, if you prescribe to the old wives’ tale that you should only use Gutenberg Bible pages as diapers. I need all the money I can get for adult things like coffins and tax-themed Mad Libs. People with babies don’t get to be adults anymore. I would hate to give up my right to my height-restricted dinner parties. Call me crazy and Heidi Klum, but I just don’t think it’s worth it.
Sure, sometimes I get bored and lonely without a baby. There are only so many times you can stage an intervention for your blow-up sex-doll gal pal, even though she really needs to know that she doesn’t have to sleep with guys just to feel pretty. And there are only so many times you can buy three blow-up sex dolls and pretend to be
Sex and the City
. But even though my biological clock might be saying, “Have a baby,” my biological cell phone voicemail message is saying, “Enjoy your twenties and don’t have a baby,” and my biological fridge is saying, “Eat that cottage cheese, it’s still good.”
So, trust me: babies are the worst. No babies, no staying up all night. No having to share the strained peas and mashed pears you’ve always enjoyed solo. No having to give them fake names like Apple or Anderson Cooper. Always remember, babies are for the weak. And listen to my biological mouth when it says, “My name is Heidi Klum.”
