Living the single life prevails among college students for the most obvious of reasons.

However, there remains an uglier side to flying solo that often goes without mention. What good does the freedom of being single hold when finding a genuine connection with someone at college seems more futile than getting Kanye West to shut the fuck up?

As a single (and horny) college student myself, I was tired of waiting for this elusive connection to fall upon me. While constantly surrounded by male friends dishing about their sexcapades, I decided the best solution to my single-life crisis would be to learn how to have sex like a man. In order to acquire this gender-centric skill, I would have to learn through careful observation.

By the time Friday rolled around I was ready for my education in Manhood 101 to commence. Following my arrival at a mutual friend’s party, I was eagerly approached by Real Man #1. He soon departed to participate in some beer pongin’ festivities, only to return later with the drunken confidence that makes you want to l-o-l. Before going back to his place, he sought to seduce me with the most well-rehearsed moves imaginable. Following an attempt at what I assumed to be foreplay, McSloppy ended our tutelage by passing out from all his manly, excessive drinking. I don’t understand; did player forget to bring his A game that night?

As though my college career was riding on it, I was determined to obtain this trick of the trade. Needless to say, I moved on to Real Man #2 rather contiguously. But instead of getting down to business as I had hoped for, he was quite adamant on talking about — dare I even say it — feelings. Stricken by a sudden wave of nausea, I made my exit before this sensei could get another word in. He insisted on texting me that same night, professing his desire for a spoon sesh the next time we got together. Sorry Real Man #2, but the terms “spooning” and “cuddling” are totally interchangeable. Consequently, both elicit the same nauseating effect as the f-word he pulled out earlier that evening.

Although my morale was undoubtedly weakened, my thirst for knowledge compelled me to proceed on to Real Man #3. But despite publicly announcing his “single” status on Facebook, he was already involved in another relationship. It turns out the bastard was in a serious bromance with some guy named Steve. It has become understood as common knowledge that nothing and no one can sever the indestructible bond of true bromance. From the get-go, I knew that any attempt to fill the shoes of his best bro would be in vain. And that was one battle certainly not worth fighting for.

After my third and final pursuit, I decided it best to put my quest for sexual enlightenment on hold. However, the idea of having sex like a man led me to question the very nature of my own inquisition. What do I even mean when I say “like a man?” The answer that has been recurring in my life more than I would like to admit is that, honestly, I have no idea.

From the moment I realized I have a vagina and a boy has a penis, I began to contrive an image of what I deemed to be the perfect man. And yes, maybe this image has come to closely resemble George Clooney over the years. Yet, after a lifetime of waiting to meet this guy, I had to face the harsh reality that my idealized version of a real man may not actually exist. I knew the only way of ever finding him would be to drop out of school, move to Vegas and become a cocktail waitress in the hopes of crossing paths with Mr. Clooney himself. And I would be lying to say I entirely eliminated that thought from the realm of possibilities, especially during those days when romance seems as hopeless as my George Clooney fantasy.

Ultimately, we are setting ourselves up for future disappointments every time we hold on to an expectation. It is necessary that we question our own intentions, even those that may seem practical and intuitive at the time. At the end of the day, we only have ourselves to blame for limiting our relationships to the constraints of a silly predisposition.