According to some bit of research that congealed early this week and it appears that men who put down 4 drinks are "low risk drinkers" (or f*cking amateurs as I call them) are actually better off in the sack. Jezebel, ever vigilant of things that may affect smart, beautiful, smug women, goes on to say that teetotalers (or Flanderses) have a greater instance of erectile dysfunction than even abject boozeheads. Jazzy-belle goes on to caution that this booze equals boners revelation only applies to the long-term implications of drinking and that powering through a dozen well-placed Harvey Wallbangers could still lead to droopy dangler.
While it's probably for the better (pro bono, really) that superbly drunk guys aren't more potent than guys who are just drunks. Fine, God's done us all a solid by minimizing the consequences of the besotted's non-tendency to use a barrier method. Plus he'll likely have forgotten the whole sorry affair by the time he's awoken to discover someone's replaced his skull with a blivet. A regular old alch-y with a 7-beer buzz will remember his failure, then decide never to look you in the eye again and probably start writing some self-involved memoir about dealing with his father's convalescence and death ("WE'RE NOT DRINKING THE MERLOT!").
But what about drinking as a way to remove inhibitions? Everyone, to my knowledge, has been both a beneficiary and a victim of beer goggles. Sometimes you stoop and sometimes you soar, it's one of life's little symmetries. And being a little on the tilted side is a good way to try things that you would regularly be too timid to explore but are seriously curiously about (hey, in vino veritas). A person who always has a drink in his hand (as opposed to a fellow who takes his 28 weekly drinks in one sitting) is partially inoculated to this alcohol-as-inhibition-remover effect. So, the goal is to figure out what you want from your guy; vanilla, efficient intercourse with a twinge of underlying sadness or a wildcard who'll likely be willing to do things that there are not names for but could end up passing out as soon as his trousers hit the floor and could splay your bedspread with all manner of effluence (no one wants to get vomited on by a townie during the act, unless the Roman shower is your thing).
So the martini luncher may be a better choice for long-term sexual satisfaction, it can lead to a nasty little thing called codependency. While the periodic jag with an infrequent binge-drinker will lead to either the fulfillment of deep-seated desires OR hilarious stories involving the phrase "too little too late." Your choice, play the lotto or invest in a 401(k).