What would you say if I said that about a month ago I made a four hour trip to a quaint little mid-Pennsylvanian town to get my groove on with some chick over a whole weekend?

"I'd say you were a dirty liar!"

What if I said I made that trip and while not scoring in the strictest sense of the word, at least got to make out intermittently over the course of the weekend?

"Well, that sounds a little more like it, but why didn't you mention it before?"

I don't know. Maybe because it came right on the heels of the writing about never getting chicks and not needing sex and then driving four hours on the nebulous promise of a carnally good time. I don't think I would have been comfortable surrendering the bragging rights of my 4.5 year purity streak, but if the moment was right, I probably would have caved.

So, I didn't cave, but I still got a little busy. The problem was that, even considering the fact that it had been 2 years since I'd so much as kissed a chick, the passion level in my gut was similar to that I feel about rotating my tires. There was nothing wrong with the chick, and she was overall pretty cool, but alas! I fear that whatever part of my brain handles the sex drive has either atrophied away or has been burned out by elevated hormone levels that had not received any release for years.

So, it seemed, my sex life was finally over. It seemed that I had finally broken that horrible addiction to that hormone thing. "Love," it seemed, no longer held any promise for me.

As always, though, fate just can't leave me alone.

The VERY NEXT WEEKEND after I finally had proof that grandchildren were not a strong probability in my mom's future (good thing she had TWO kids), I discovered that I was still a slave to my hormones.

So I go to a bar/club which is relatively empty. As usual, I'm talking to my friends, minding my own business. This time, though, TWO hot chicks drag me out into the relatively empty dance floor. Over the course of the evening, I end up dancing with both of them (nasty dancing, too). They were under 21 and had snuck in with fake ID's, so they were obviously not my kind of chicks, but I still hung out with them. Yep, I would have bought them drinks and everything, had the opportunity arisen. Fortunately, they left fairly early before I could damage my ego much further. No, I didn't grovel for digits or anything like that. I didn't want to ruin a perfect evening with any kind of follow-up.

So, in conclusion, I'm still a sucker for chicks. I may be hopelessly out of practice, but I wouldn't have the guts to turn down even a kind of hot chick if she pulled me out onto the dance floor or, God forbid, wanted to screw. I guess what they say is true. Once an addict, always an addict. I think that estrogen causes my my spine to dissolve and my resolution to evaporate.

Want to know a fun recipe for instant tool? Take one Jason, add chick, stir, bake for 5 minutes, and serve.