Many of the liberal colleges now have formalized rules of dating. Supposedly, when you get to the arm around the shoulders gambit, the rules kick in. Dangling of the hand in a manner suggesting a randy fruit sorter is question period time.
"Do you mind if I play with your breasts?"
"No, you can't!"
One hour later, during which banal conservation has reached its zenith, the hand falls again. "Do you mind?", he asks imploringly.
"Huh? What? Just keep doing what you're doing."
The removal of clothing, is another barrier that the lad must face. Do you start undoing her bra as you ask permission, or do you explain pedantically about why, for stimulation reasons, bare flesh is superior to rayon or silk -- or whatever?
This hurdle cleared, he now has her naked body to finesse. Much asking and getting permission to pet like 13 year olds builds towards some nebulous climax. But yards from the goal line a squad of fullback questions arise. Exactly what erogenous zones are her pleasure palaces, and which are verboten territories, becomes a paramount concern. Straying from one to the other could send up the dreaded NO! card. Obviously time for another chat.
Unfortunately by the time her libido is out of control, and she is pawing his privates, he has lost his erection, and it is his turn to say, "No".
Shakespeare probably had some pithy thing to say on this issue; but he is an old, dead, white male; so is not read anymore.
