Published: October 25, 2007

Few things command attention, ignite controversy or inspire art with the same unstoppable force as female sexuality. Whether oppressed or glorified, it remains at the epicenter of the societal mind. All that changes, however, on the corner of 60th and Columbus. At Fordham College Lincoln Center (FCLC), the penis is king. With a female majority and a formidable gay population, what could hold a more coveted position? The ladies love it, the gays love it, even straight men can’t keep their hands off of it. So what’s a girl to do? The most enticing feminine wiles can’t make up for the existence of a hole where a pole should be. From my experience with the ever-desirable flesh canoe, the power lies in more than just the structure. Male sexuality exudes a brazen confidence, a self-serving detachment that women dedicate their lives to taming. But in an environment as male-dominated as FCLC, perhaps it’s wiser for women to adapt than combat. When there is simply too much testosterone for the typical female timidity and emotional vulnerability to succeed, we must evolve into a sexual hybrid. In short: Lincoln Center women need to grow some balls.

Now, I’m not suggesting women run out in search of strap-ons and hormones; those sorts of hobbies can stay in the bedroom where they belong. What I am suggesting is that girls imitate some of the approaches to dating exhibited by men on campus. Inside the male mind, body consciousness gets shoved aside at every opportunity for sex, and the desire for respect or an emotional connection never interrupts the fun of casual dating. Men don’t necessarily want to pass up a relationship for promiscuity, but they need to see the rack before they commit to the heart beneath it. And at FCLC, those breasts better come with a side of balls.

Freshmen year, I found myself smitten with a boy down the hall, so I put aside my estrogen-induced neuroses and behaved like a man. Forward and uninhibited (or so he thought), I pretended a relationship couldn’t be further from my mind, and captivated the object of my desire with balls as big as his. Two years later, the same boy still leaves love notes on my nightstand. My suitemates took a more traditional female approach — fear and whining. They hid from men, complained about their thighs and wondered why all their crushes moved on to other girls. Those girls were their own worst cock-blocks, and when the cock is king, behavior like that never goes unpunished.

Even at a school as far removed from female sensibility as FCLC, a woman can’t entirely abandon her natural prudence and just whip it out. A zebra can’t change its vagina. Some women set sexual boundaries, and men respect that, but girls need to tickle the pickle if they want to keep it coming back. One of my favorite Fordham couples chooses to remain sex free, but my male friend isn’t talking his girlfriend off a ledge every time she exposes her body to him. With her confident, independent nature, she’s developed into an irresistible combination: the balls of a man and the ass of a ballerina. I recognize that the evolution I’m proposing does not lack complications. As women, we tread a fine line between confident Cammie and Stacey the sorority slut, but the key lies in moving beyond the limited terms placed on female sexuality and embracing the freedom of androgyny. Balls are more than just sacs of skin that dangle subordinately beneath the penis; balls are a state of mind. Even when buried deep into a pair of boxer-briefs, we all know they’re there. The empowered, sex-esteem they provide proudly displays a badge of masculinity, and at FCLC nothing is sexier than a man. So, ladies, learn to ignore your estrogen instincts and approach men with the same confidence and frisky mind-frame that men use to approach women. If that proves too manly for the girliest of girls to attempt just yet, stuff a pair of socks down your pants, just to get the ball(s) rolling.