Sex is awesome. Like, oh my god.

But if it’s so awesome, I have to wonder: why do taken guys still feel the need to jerk off? Is there something about masturbation that sex just can’t touch?

The question came after watching the latest sex comedy “Don Jon.” I won’t spoil anything, but the guy has an amazing monologue about how he loves his porn more than his women. Self-stimulation caries no expectations, there’s nothing to think about, you’re able to let your mind wander into wherever and with whoever you want. And, despite the happy-ending conclusion to the film, I eventually found myself wondering, “Is sex really that much better?”

You’d think so, right? There are hardly as many college comedies about horny teenagers on an adventure for a Fleshlight, but I cannot think of a single example, man or woman, where either party was so satisfied with the sex that they stopped masturbating.

I could attribute the male rationale to the idea that no woman can fully satisfy all of a man’s fantasies (even you romantics out there, don’t friggin lie).

I blame the depravity on the internet coupled with the social norm that suggests that one should sample the full party platter of hair colors, ethnicities, and orientations, before being a fully-traveled man. It doesn’t matter if you have Aphrodite as your girlfriend, she ain’t a redhead. Guys are just conditioned to want too much.

As much as I hate to admit it, a man’s sex drive is a tough beast to tame, and we’ve learned to do so solo. Even when a ray of sunshine in the shape of a woman blesses us with her presence, every man has that one memory locked tight and away in the spank bank that they’ll never clean out. “Iron Man 2,” Scarlet Johansson: Mmhm.

Then there’s the idea that the theatrics driving porn are becoming the standard to many a man. After years of conditioning in front of computer screens, guys start to expect the theatricality, or at least the enthusiasm, in the bedroom. We won’t exactly be dissatisfied; like I said, sex is awesome; but we’ll still feel wanting.

That leads to a completely different discussion, but in essence it captures the main idea I’m trying to get at: there are some things you can only do for yourself. You’re your best and your worst judge, and when it comes to what you like, you’re the only one who really knows despite what all the romantic comedies and daytime dramas try to tell you.

Again, I’m not knocking sex, but think twice before you get mad at your man for clearing his browser history. Our internet exploits, our wandering eyes to the bottom of the magazine rack, or the random tissues around the waste bin might have no correlation to the quality of a relationship. There are just some times when you have to let men be boys.