“Don’t you know what happens when you get Jenga?” shouted one of the big girls.
“Now everyone’s gotta make out!” shouted the much uglier girl.

There has been a lot of sexual buzz (so to speak) around the office here at the Post and I have been getting asked a lot of questions: What is it like to experience the touch of a woman? Is it true what sex columnist Devon Marie Wiesend says about penises? Is this faux-hawk bad ass or what?

Needless to say, all of these questions have been met with a resounding no!

There is one question, however, that I do find intriguing. It is a complicated inquiry and not just in terms of human sexual response. It has befuddled the gods and is older than time itself.

So, why is it, like, hotter for girls to, like, make out than, you know, guys to make out, and stuff?

The answer, my friends, is more enigmatic than the phrasing.

It came to me one night my freshman year. I was attempting to subdue my mononucleosis with a concoction of UV green apple, lime juice and Sudafed when I stumbled into what most college freshmen would call a “kissing party.”

What seemed to be a normal dorm room by day had transformed itself into a glistening dungeon filled with an unhealthy combination of black light and Drakkar Noir.

I was apprehensive to stay at first, but the two resident bodybuilders ensured me that it was all in good fun — there was Jenga to be played.

“Jenga,” I choked out in a flash of green phlegm, “what a delectable pastime!”

They nodded, smiling at each other, and confabulated via some kind of pectoral Morse code.

This was, and still is, something I will never understand. Regardless, it caused the overweight girls opposite them to giggle and melt out of their struggling halter tops. The whole room trembled with joy and I was offered a seat.

As I slithered into the three inches between these husky broads, nearly spilling my medicine, the room began to cheer and (assuming it was for me) I joined in. The first Jenga block had been drawn by team Greasy Meatmen.

But this was no normal family fun. Bodybuilder No. 2 began to read what was scrawled on the block he pulled, “Kiss the person to your right!”

As loopy as I was, I had mistaken his right for mine. I turned grinning toward the girl next to me, only to be greeted by a wet armpit.

When I turned back, the bodybuilders were making out. Strangest of all, they were doing it to impress these well-insulated girls that enveloped me. As they competed in this preternatural wrestling match, the two bodies that quashed me grew very hot and, once again, the room shook with delight.

The sexual desperation of both teams was making me sick, so I just closed my eyes and gulped some medicine.

With the girls’ team’s drawing came another great cheer, and we mistakenly woke up the poor blonde sleeping in the loft above. She leaned over and my love for her just dove into her eyes. This was truly a lovely specimen and, if I had the strength to escape my flabby coffin, I would have climbed up to join the damsel.

“Kiss a girl!” the husky voice next to me read from the Jenga block.

“Sweet Mercy, hide …” I whispered, motioning to my new found love.

As the two girls puckered and leaned together, they compressed my sickly lungs and I was forced to emit a long, painful honking, like a sour bagpipe. Either I spilled my mixture on my crotch before I blacked out or I did it in response to the shock of waking up to find two fat, pimpled faces slathering each other on top of me, shaking the futon.

I immediately tightened my bathrobe to hide the stain.

I found this more repulsive than the Meatman A vs. Meatman B session. But it wasn’t the sheer surprise of it all or the physical repugnance — it was the shame of the spectacle. These two were basking in the gluttonies of lust and attention.

The girls leaned back, exhausted, and I spotted my opportunity to leave. So I gulped down the rest of my drink, stood up and announced, “I’ve got to get some more medicine,” and winked at my newfound desire as I turned toward her and tickled her toes.

Another cheer arose and I was about to leave in humble glory when I felt a tug at the tail of my bathrobe — they were not hailing my exit but encouraging my stay.

“It’s your turn!” roared one of the slimy muscle men.

“Better make it good!” the other chimed.

I cleared my throat and whimpered, “OK,” feeling very sorry for myself.

As the Jenga board came tumbling down, everyone in the room began to shout. The jock boys were high-fiving each other. The big girls clapped celebrations on their thighs. The blonde above — my lovely — was smiling and yelling something. I guess I just don’t want to know.

I looked at the ceiling, and cursed the Sudafed for being the non-drowsy and too damn strong.

“You knocked it down!” shouted a bodybuilder.

“That’s Jenga!” shouted the other.

“Don’t you know what happens when you get Jenga?” shouted one of the big girls.

“Now everyone’s gotta make out!” shouted the much uglier girl.

That’s when the two teams immediately pounced on one another. The sound of a loud bass guitar began to slap out disgusting licks and was only temporarily drowned out, at times, by Jenga blocks being kicked around and the lamentations of the women.

A hand began to creep up my naked leg, so I smuggled my lover from her bunk into the closet with me, where no ultraviolet rays would expose our mutual fondness.

It all felt so good: our “normality” expressed in darkness. One man, one woman, joined together in an honest and private act of love. There would be no need to compete with those heathens rolling around on top of each other, on top of a 1,000 jagged, wooden pieces.

We must have been in that closet for hours because by the time they threw the closet door open, sunlight hit us. Everyone screamed, but not for Jenga. We two lovers instantly jumped away from each other. Me tearing off her wig and she — he — tore off my robe.

There I stood with my bright green crotch stain jutting out at last night’s players as I just grimaced. My lover, well, he was pretty quiet. He still is pretty quiet every time I see him.

I gave him his wig back and left with my robe. I thought I was going to cry or scream, but rather, I just went back to my dorm room to make more medicine.

In my robe pocket I found the Jenga piece I pulled. It said: “If you ever tell anyone about this, we will kill you.”

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