Only when enough beer had been consumed to bring a group conversation around to sex did [Joey] feel isolated. His thing with Connie was too intense and strange – too sincere; too muddled with love – to be fungible as a coin of bragging. He disdained but also envied his hall mates for their communal bravado, their porny avowals of what they wanted to do to the choicest babes in the Facebook or had supposedly done, in isolated instances, while wasted, and seemingly without regret or consequence, to various wasted girls at their academies and prep schools. (3.2.28)
"So have you been sleeping with other people? Connie said. "I thought that might be why you weren't calling."
"No! No. Not at all."
"It's OK with me if you do. I meant to tell you that last month. You're a guy, you have needs. I don't expect you to be a monk. It's just sex, who cares?" (3.2.245-247)
The kiddies were perennially enticing and perennially unsatisfying in much the same way that coke was unsatisfying: whenever he was off it, he remembered it as fantastic and unbeatable and craved it, but as soon as he was on it again he remembered that it wasn't fantastic at all, it was sterile and empty: neuro-mechanic, death-flavored. (3.4.42)