Quite some time ago, Louis Pasteur disproved the theory of spontaneous generation. But I remain skeptical. Especially after this weekend, when the Main and Quiet Greens exploded with couples cuddling, caressing, kissing, and otherwise rejoicing in the felicity of their unions. I swear, before the sun came out, no one was getting any.

I watched these happy couples all but copulate in the company of two friends. We catalogued our conflicting sentiments regarding the pseudo-sex sessions, reactions that ran the gamut from disgust to irritation to fascination to melancholy to nostalgia to amusement. We also agreed on the paradox of PDA — when we’re single we can’t bear it; when we’re with someone we can’t seem to live without it.

As a witness, PDA makes me nauseous. I’m sorely tempted to tell these oversexed couples that they’re about to make everyone else relinquish their half-digested, pre-made Blue Room wraps, which are difficult enough to keep down as it is without the addition of unsolicited sexual exhibitionism.

In other moments, as a PDA participant, I couldn’t care less what anyone else thinks of my erotic exuberance. Feeling sick? Then stop looking! As you can see (because you’re still looking) my neck is currently being stroked, it feels amazing, and I can’t be bothered to take your comfort into consideration. Can’t you see I’m getting play here?

Actually, the above paragraph distorts the facts. PDA-ers render each other oblivious to the looks of distaste on the faces of their peers. Nor are these couples capable of forming coherent thoughts when engaged in public quasi-coitus. If they were capable of reason, however, they’d probably be thinking something akin to that stanza in John Legend’s song “PDA”: “Ooh I don’t care about the propriety/ Let’s break the rules and ignore society/ Maybe our neighbors like to spy, it’s true/So what if they watch when we do what we do?”

Public displays of affection produce intriguing results on both sides of the equation. Legend is right; even if you’ve witnessed PDA and found it indecent in the past, a sense of propriety magically vanishes when you’re engrossed in the act. And the rest of us find ourselves co-opted into voyeurism. When you’re sticking your hand up your girl’s skirt, do you really expect us not to look?

And speaking of extreme sexual interactions in public, there is a difference between PDA and PDP — Public Displays of Affection/Public Displays of Pornography. The first type can be sweet, though that’s rare. The second type I have zero interest in seeing, unless I’ve paid good money expressly for that purpose.

Though generally objectionable, different situations dictate varying amounts of PDA latitude. What’s inappropriate in one setting might be more, or less, acceptable in another. You might be able to get away with some handsex (NOT a handjob; I’m talking about handsex, the mutual and sexual caressing of each other’s hands) in a dark corner of Al Forno, but try that sh*t in class, or even in the pool room at the GCB, and you’re transgressing some major rules of decorum.

Though the dance floor makeout is still a hotly contested issue in many circles, it’s not an uncommon sight on a Friday night at Bravo, and not so roundly indicted that if you do suck some face during “Blame It On The Alcohol,” you’ll have committed a grave social offense. But do know that you make out on the dance floor at your own risk. Because someone, usually a “friend,” may capture your antics on film. Everyone has a camera on their cell phone these days. And God forbid someone decides to watch you on their video phone.

We also have to contend with the emerging realm of digital PDA, most clearly manifested on Facebook. I try not to use this column to issue edicts, but I’m going to break my own rule for what I’m classifying as the greater good. For the sake of my Newsfeed, please stop uploading the Photo Booth images of you and your partner making out in an album called “Us <3.” Those pictures are for you, not us.

So, when it comes to PDA, here’s what I’m thinking: the sun may be out now, but your PDA needs to stay in the dark.

…Unless, of course, it’s me. And when it is, I don’t want to hear any complaints. Because I’ll be busy. Getting busy. On the Quiet Green. In front of everyone.