Open Season

It’s that time of year again. Cleavage time. Vagina time. Presumably dick time, though it may always be dick time.

Clothes are becoming more scanty, the mercury is rising like a morning erection, and those ridiculously ugly gladiator sandals are back. (I could do without that last one.) Men and women all over this great city are checking each other out like six-year-olds at a dessert buffet. Just the other night I was the recipient of a double-take by a guy riding a bicycle, who turned around to get a better view…while in the bike lane. When hanging out with my tall, dark, and gorgeous ex-basketball player pal, she was cat-called so aggressively, one guy actually stopped in his tracks, mid-conversation, allowing his friend to meander along like a dog without a leash. I’m noticing the toned calves of messengers, the ripped forearms of the UPS guy, the bouncing everything of the girl who lives upstairs.

We’re in that sweet-spot in New York weather where everything is lush, sunny, and warm without being oppressive. We still have a week or two before it starts to feel like we’re walking around inside of somebody’s mouth, somebody whose breath smells like dog piss, garbage, and rotting hooker vagina. Why is it that the weather effects our impetus to humpty-hump? It can’t simply be the fact that we’re removing all sixteen layers of clothing that have protected us over the past snowy six+ months. After all, although I’d argue that people in California probably have sex more often than New Yorkers simply because they’re more beautiful, I think that this is a universal trend. There’s the term “summer love,” after all. It was the season where I had my first kiss, and the first time I gave a guy a disappointed grope of my padded push-up bra. I lost both of my big ‘v’s during the hottest time of the year: eating at the Y with my first girlfriend in July, getting pipe put down courtesy of a male friend in June a few years later.

Turns out that there’s an actual scientific basis, at least in theory. In women, an increase in sex drive has been attributed to melanocyte stimulating hormone (MSH) which is produced more prolifically when ladies are exposed to sunlight. Other than revving girls’ engines, MSH regulates melanin synthesis, which is a fancy way of saying that it’s the hormone associated with tanning, ie, the body’s way of protecting itself from UV rays.

Another chastity-free, charbroiled chemical component is serotonin. This neurotransmitter is linked to appetite, sleep, muscular contraction, memory, and almost every good feeling that starts in the brain, which is also the reason why you enjoyed making out with that buck-toothed chick while rolling on ecstasy. A bunch of studies have linked serotonin production to sunlight exposure: when there’s increased “luminosity,” there’s also a spike in serotonin levels. But I don’t think that anybody’s going to claim that catching some rays is the same as a night spent spelling MDMA on a stranger’s backside with your body fluids.

So science to the rescue once again! At least this explains why I keep grinding up against lampposts in the park, especially the ones in front of the skate ramp. Enjoy the warm weather, if you’re in New York. Pretty soon the concrete will be buckling, the crime rate will be skyrocketing, the piss on the sidewalk will be steaming, and we’ll all be complaining once again.