“She’s nothin’ too special to look at, though. She’s got a glass eye and hair that’s not blonde, whatever color they call that.”

This is the third installment of Assistant A&E Editor Tyler Gaskill’s allegorical exploration of American dating culture.

Under the covers she anxiously sought out what eluded both her and me — sex.

My skin became clammy while I froze like a hostage in a stick-up. I broke my five-minute long coma of laying on my back mouth-breathing and asked with a shaky voice, “C-c-can I touch your boob?”

Sophia stopped unzipping my restrictive black slacks and sighed, “Don’t say boob.”

I yelped in terror when she grabbed my wrist and placed my hand under her shirt.

Sophia’s false-hearted hand reached my boxers’ waistband. The ease in which she used my body caused me to start whimpering. Her eyes peered about like spotlights shining on my darkest, most private areas.

She quietly hissed in my ear, “I’ve got the Gushers wrapper.”

As her forearm confidently snaked under my undergarments, I recalled the events that led me into Sophia’s pitfall of sex.

As usual for Thursdays, Ron and I had been drinking gin out of the galosh that I’d smuggled into our dorm room. He erupted in laughter when he heard me say, “I’m a virgin.”

He put an arm around me and said, “Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. I remember when I lost my virginity. The popped collar had yet to be invented. And there was no Ryan Seacrest or Ashton Kutcher which to model myself after. We just had ‘NSync. The lucky lady’s name was Gloria. Or maybe it was Natasha.”

Ron paused a moment to take a swig of liquid truth from the boot.

He continued, “Natasha was eating a chocolate chip cookie during lunch. I went over to her table which, at the time, was a fearless move on my part to break the unspoken gender barrier of cafeteria etiquette. I licked the side of her face and filled her out like a Scantron sheet.”

Ron’s tale of his chivalrous journey through the gates of manhood brought me to my feet and I proclaimed, “That’s it! I’m gonna get laid tonight even if it means sleeping with someone over 94 pounds!”

Ron guzzled what was left of the gin and slapped me too hard on the back. He yelled to no one in particular, “Good man! I know a girl that you can’t fail with.”

I recalled both the incident with The List and my mishap with Tina and my black spandex suit. I shrugged off the lingering failures and looked forward to a brilliant night of sexcapades.

“Her name is Sophia,” Ron informed me. “She’s a nympho that cuts herself. Messed up in the head. Head cases equal E-Z. She’s nothin’ too special to look at, though. She’s got a glass eye and hair that’s not blonde, whatever color they call that.”

I started gagging.

Ron screamed, “You’ve got to buck up! If you blow this set-up like the other two … well, then I don’t know what. I don’t wanna say Basement Sally just yet, but, it’s a possibility if you screw-up Sophia.”

Ron shot me a wink after he said the words, “screw-up.”

“Her room number is 1760A. Do it, and return to my side. Together we can rule the Sandburg flesh market!”

When I shuffled into the 1760 suite, I noticed painted depictions of sexual positions on the walls of the main hallway — the Kneeling Pretzel, the Jack Hammer, Frog Fashion, and the ever-taxing Race of The Member — From The Perfumed Garden .

While cringing at the depiction of bent limbs, a man walked out of 1760A and tilted his trucker hat in my direction. That’s when Sophia called out, “Next.”

The glass eye wasn’t as noticeable as I’d imagined, nor was the non-blonde hair. There was no doubt that it took a structured pelvic bone to satisfy all of her.

“I’m not serving the Jack Hammer or anal tonight,” Sophia said. “My neck is sore and I’ve still got stitches on the mend. But today’s special is missionary sex for half the time — four minutes.”

I quickly parted my hair with my slick black plastic comb and said, “Sure.”

She turned out the lights and asked, “You got a condom?”

While clutching for the walls, I responded, “No.”

From somewhere in the darkness, she replied, “Don’t worry about it, I just found an old fruit snack wrapper in the garbage — Gushers.”

I let out a shrill screech when Sophia threw me onto the bed. After a few exchanges I found myself with her hands down my pants.

I decided to slow things down by saying, “Hey, uh, stop a minute.”

“For what? I thought you wanted to have sex,” she said, annoyed.

“I do, but …”

“But what? Just have sex.”

I started zipping up my slacks and removing my hand from under her Playboy T-shirt. “But shouldn’t I, like, talk with you for a bit.”

I heard another sigh, “It’s just sex.”

I got off the futon, turned on the light, wiped the tears from my face and stepped into the hallway. “Well, sex is a bonding of souls. It’s …”

“Yeah, whatever, inchworm. I’m horny now, and want sex. Next!” As the next guy entered her room, she looked at me with a genuine grin, “Come back when you know what you want.”

She slammed the door in my face, and I ejaculated in my pants.

“Oops.”

Will Tyler forget about the stain on his slacks when he visits the dry-cleaners? Can Tyler discover that meaning of life is seeing how many Happy Meal toys one can collect? Find out in next week’s episode of Trouser Snake Diaries.

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