The two descriptors are contradicting. How can one cultivate power through something on which they are dependant?

Of one fling, Saunders said: "I was so drunk I didn't care what his name was." When I'm that drunk, there is probably a one in five chance that I’ll even be physically capable of climaxing. So really, if it's just sex for the sake of sex, what’s the point? As far as I see it – what she did wasn’t empowering; it was just plain stupid.

I know what you’re thinking. You probably think I am being judgmental of Saunders' frivolous romps. You probably think I am glaringly hypocritical. I do, after all, write a weekly column about my own myriad of frivolous romps.

There are a few key differences. Namely, I have sex with people how, when, and because I want to, not because I want to emulate a fictional character from a television show that falters in its ability or willingness to project reality.

I have sex with people because I want to experience their body and mind; because I expect to learn something. And, of course, because it feels brilliant. I do not have sex with people to fulfill a self-imposed (or HBO-suggested) quota or -- like Saunders -- enter another name (or not) and numerical rating into a bedside notebook.

But I will cease my scrutinizing. Lord knows I've done things some would consider whorish and self-indulgent. The real issue here is the sexual expectations of the modern person.

Do we fuck as much as we can, seek corporeal pleasure everywhere we can, give and take and put ourselves "out there," channel Samantha Jones?

Or do we value the act of sex as a precious and spiritual venture, relish its beauty, only do it with people we care about?

I oscillate between the two attitudes. The best way I can describe my position is, pardon the convenient invocation, with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

Like Christina Saunders, I admire Samantha's sexual confidence and pride. I want to experience as many people as I can, because sex – well – fucking rules. My generation has been conditioned to be tenacious, to go after what we want. Sex surrounds us, and we could pretty much get it any time we want. Or we can at least get online and peruse our zillion of options and jerk off 'til we’re blue in the face.

I, for one, feel pressure – from myself, my peers, from all of the Samantha-like characters in the culture I consume – to be a little bit promiscuous. And I like that. I love sex and I appreciate the validation of my slutty exploits when I indeed pursue them.

But at the same time, I love love. I am a romantic at heart, and I honestly believe that I have experienced feelings of love for every person I have ever slept with, at least for the time I was sleeping with them. I don't want to meet someone at a bar, maybe catch his first name, take a shot of tequila, and then go kisslessly screw him reverse-cowgirl style in a putrid restroom, most likely rendered incapable of orgasm due to the smell of vomit and urine and the sound of another drunk-ass patron pounding on the flimsy stall door. That shit's not worth the tally mark.

Saunders now has regrets about her sophomoric challenge. She says that she "took things too far" and now she wants to "settle down."

The old adage holds true -- reality can certainly be stranger than fiction.

What's your pleasure? Got a problem? Write to Avoine at AvoineSauvage@CrabbyGolightly.com