Tag Archives: sex

So I Guess Hairy Legs Aren’t Sexy?

I’m not quiet about the fact that my leg hair and I have a rocky relationship, which can mostly be summed up by me doing everything short of plucking each individual hair out and my hair going “Fuck you and fuck your mother”, and then promptly growing back in the next two hours. Understandably, I’ve given up on this endless war and have resorted to shaving my legs on a schedule that depends on the weather. For example, if it’s cold and rainy, I won’t shave. If it’s sunny, I won’t shave. So basically, I don’t shave. If I do, it’s because I woke up super motivated to be an adult for the day and after shaving will proceed to clean my room and do laundry. So, like, once a month.

A couple weeks ago, my man friend and I were making out on his bed and when we realized where it was headed, we both stopped to quickly assess if we had accomplished enough personal hygiene for the day to be seen naked. A quick sniff and a fond memory of my last shower, I decided I was good to go. “So, shower after?” he asked. I nodded and we resumed where we left off. I pulled off my jeans and he grabbed my legs and suddenly paused. “Actually, let’s shower now.” “What? Why?” “It’s just… it’s a little… prickly right now.” I felt my face get hot, and then, oh the horror!, I started leaking embarrassing tears probably because I’m horribly insecure and his dislike of my physical appearance confirmed my worst nightmares. But that’s just a guess. Before he knew what was happening my furry legs and I ran into the bathroom and started shave-sobbing.

The more I shave-sobbed, the more my anger built, and with each stroke of the Razor of Justice, I spewed a rant through the bathroom door that included some, if not all, of the following statements: Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t you know what feminism is?! I don’t get turned off by your body hair! You’ve been tricked by the social beauty construct! Society! Big Brother! What about the hippies?! How do female Yetis get laid?! It was then that the angry/conflicted texting to my sister began. ME: So Man Friend basically told me he’d rather I shave my legs before sex and I can’t decide if I’m really really pissed at him or if that’s a valid opinion. SISTER: Well, it’s a socialized opinion. I mean, we shave our armpits and legs and pubic hair because we’re taught that women are only sexy when they’re hairless. ME: I FUCKING know that. (I’m a douchebag-know-it-all when I’m mad). SISTER: I know. So it’s hard to fight against socialized preferences. You can for sure but it’s uphill.

We exchanged some “Ugh, society” texts for a while and after we were done I started to feel better. And I realized something. Society aside, I want to make my partner happy. I definitely make him do certain things for me because I like it (for example, I love when he doesn’t cut his hair too short and whispers sports facts to me), so if he wants me to shave my legs, then by golly I’ll shave my legs. As long as he doesn’t say anything about the bushiness of my eyebrows, because I am NOT enduring the public humiliation and pain of getting my eyebrows plucked in the middle of busy mall again. No fucking way.

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Apparently I Have an Abnormally High Sex Drive

I’m pretty sure I’m the stereotypical guy in every relationship. It doesn’t help that to start off I’m not a very “girly” person. I rarely wear makeup, I fail at shaving my legs consistently, and when I try and shop for semi-nice clothes I always end up buying six graphic t-shirts. I literally called my mother the other day to ask if it was okay to pee while wearing a tampon (The answer is Yes, or in my mother’s words, “What are you, 12? The urethra is a completely different thing from your uterus”). That’s how bad I am at being a girl.

None of this really bothers me, though. What bothers me is that I always seem to have a higher sex drive than all the guys I date. Don’t get me wrong; I’m definitely not obsessed with sex or anything. I’m just always the one to start it. And if we go a certain number of days without sex, the number is like one of those flipcharts at a warehouse, except instead of Days Without Injury, it’s Days Without Sex. This was first called to my attention when an Ex and I were doing a Seventeen Magazine Couples Quiz. Yes, I want to kill myself right now too. So, we were doing this stupid quiz, and one of the questions was, “Would you say your sex drive is low, normal, or high?” Ex subsequently puts his foot in his mouth and replies, “Yours is definitely higher than mine.” I had a sudden flashback montage reliving all of our Sexy Times in which, yep, I definitely started it every time. I became instantly embarrassed at my apparent tendency to be a sex-crazed horndog (although this shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering I told a guy I loved him just to get in his pants).

Since that moment, I’ve been acutely aware that I seem to have a higher sex drive than most of the boys I date. (Thanks Seventeen Magazine, for ruining my life one couples quiz at a time). I’m the one trying to feel up my boyfriend during a movie while he distractedly pushes my hand away so he can appreciate the dialogue. I’m the one trying to make out with my boyfriend at eleven pm while he explains he has work in the morning and has to get up early. And I’m the one who gets antsy if we haven’t had sex in a week and worries why it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with a female friend who echoed my sentiments that I didn’t feel like a complete freak. And honestly maybe it just seems weird because in our culture, guys are the ones who are typically portrayed as wanting sex all the time. Well, whatever. I have now come to terms with the fact that, yes, I have a higher sex drive than the boys I date. No, it does not mean I’m a sex addict. No, it does not mean they’re not attracted to me. Yes, I need to learn how to properly masturbate and get over my fear of vibrators. But that’s a story for another post.

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You Stress-Bake, I Stress-Pregnancy Test

These past weeks have been very stressful. I graduated college. My lease ends in two months and I have nowhere to live. I ran out of peanut butter. Today I sat in a Peet’s Coffee and ate turkey and raspberries out of my purse because I didn’t want to buy their food but needed free wi-fi. I also didn’t realize there were thin sheets of paper between the turkey slices and ate a sheet. Too embarrassed to spit it out in the middle of a coffee shop, I swallowed it. So now I have a paper poop to look forward to. When most people get stressed, they shove a bunch of cupcakes in their mouth and binge-watch Netflix until they forget their 99 problems. Or maybe they work out, or call their friend, or squeeze a stress ball. When I get stressed, this happens:

1. My boobs get really sore and I walk around all day going to first base with myself.

2. I am very emotional. Everything makes me cry. Like running out of peanut butter (special shout-out to Boyfriend who hugged me and nodded with understanding as I clutched the empty peanut butter jar in his kitchen wailing, “But how will we make peanut butter sandwiches?!”)

3. I get headaches.

4. I’m always exhausted.

By number three, I will have obsessively googled my symptoms and discovered there’s a 130% chance I’m pregnant. Inevitably, I spend the next two days stressing about my future as a twenty-one-year-old mother. There’s a lot of crying in the shower, apologizing to my parents at their hypothetical reactions, dealing with the judgment of my moms’ friends who use words like “wasted potential”, and imagining the apathetic receptionist in the waiting room of an abortion clinic. On the bright side, this has by now distracted me from all my current stresses. When I finally gather the courage to take the pregnancy test, I reach into my stash (you heard me right; this happens so often I have a Costco box of pregnancy tests). I stuff a test into the front of my pants and run out of my room to the bathroom, hoping none of my ten housemates will see the suspicious pink stick under my shirt. I then perform the now-familiar ritual, which includes getting pee on at least one hand. After the ten seconds of waiting, I discover that I am, in fact, not pregnant. I let out a simultaneous sigh of relief and annoyance with myself for falling for this once again and take a look at the cold, hard facts: I’m on birth control, my boyfriend and I use condoms, and this happens to me every time I get stressed. Shaking my head, I wrap the dripping pregnancy test in a roll and a half of toilet paper and throw it in the trash. Then I remember that I still have nowhere to live in two months and there is no peanut butter, and my boobs become sore all over again.

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I Thought I Lost My Virginity Three Weeks Before I Actually Did

By the time I got to college, I was super ready to lose my virginity. I’m not saying I was getting drunk and passing by the frats propositioning myself. Mostly because I can’t drink alcohol without getting nauseas and I don’t own any sexy clothes. Otherwise I totally would have. Basically, I was sick of being a virgin and fake laughing at sex jokes because I had no idea what they were referring to. (My mom would make us do this thing where if we laughed at a sex joke she would demand, “Explain it to me” to see if we really understood the joke. I could never explain it).

So, when I started dating a couple months into freshman year, I was hormonal, horny, and ready to lose it. While the stereotype may be that guys have sex on the brain and girls are coy, I had the opposite experience. My boyfriend (we’ll call him Todd. Todd seems like a nice name) had never had sex before either, but his religious background gave him all that good ol’ fashioned Christian guilt. Since I grew up with absolutely zero religious guidance, I was like, “C’mon, let’s do this thing.” (This post just inadvertently became fuel for the argument of bringing your kids to church). At one point during a make-out/dry hump/awkward rubbing session, my hand started to take things to the next level when Todd stopped me. He looked right into my eyes and asked, “Wait. Do you love me?” In this moment, I knew my answer would dictate what would happen next, so… I lied. I looked right into his eyes and said, “Of course I love you”, and the next thing you know I’m down to my underwear. And that’s how I first said “I love you.” To get into someone’s pants. Yes, I know I’m terrible. I was taking advantage of poor Todd and didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Well, his consequences. I was perfectly fine with my sexual choices, but Todd was apparently experiencing moral crises almost nightly. Hell’s gonna be great, you guys.

A couple months later we finally did the deed. Or I thought we did. I really wasn’t sure. We were both naked. And our, you know, private parts were touching and definitely moving against each other. It was like watching two dogs meet at a park, running in circles and sniffing each other’s butts and all that jazz. You’re probably laughing at my ignorance of what sex should be, but how the hell was I supposed to know what it should feel like?! Neither of us had done it before and porn can only teach so much. So we did this non-penetration thing for a couple weeks, and neither of us really talked about it but there was definitely a sense that something wasn’t quite right. And then, totally by accident, it happened. And I instantly knew. Because that shit hurt. (This is coming from the girl who cried the first time she put a tampon in). I guess the rest is history. Weirdly, I don’t regret anything. There’s a lot of talk about “saving yourself for the right person”, and sure, that may work for some people, but I just wanted to do it. And, for better or worse (definitely worse, in Todd’s case), I got what I wanted. I’m going to be a horrible mother. But at least I understand sex jokes now!

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The Genesis of this Blog: It all Started with a Queef

About a year ago, I was dating an asshole. I met him on a film set and we had absolutely nothing in common, but I thought he was kind of cute and he had this thing for me and before you knew it we were having sex (which I regret to this day). Some people say, “Only have sex with people who care about you,” which I always thought was lame, but now I know if you’re going to have sex with someone who doesn’t really care about you and who you don’t trust, at least make sure it’s fun and they have a decent-sized dick. Otherwise you’ll be left cringing to yourself a year later, wondering why you don’t respect your vagina enough to keep it away from guys like that. Sorry, vagina.

One particular sexing with this guy (we were at his mom’s house…I know, I know), I queefed so loud you’d think a part of my soul departed with it. I. Wanted. To. Die. I immediately thought how this would be at least number four on the list of “Top Ten Embarrassing Moments in Carly’s Life”, and for the next week I obsessed over every second of that moment and wished I could erase it from my memory. It got so bad I felt like I had to get it out of my brain through some means or another or else I would explode and my gravestone would read, “Died From An Embarrassing Queef”. So, I wrote about it. At the time, my blog existed, but only as one of those angsty pre-teens rants that people make fun and I only published about once a year. Plus, they were all shitty posts. With my essay reflecting on the queefing nightmare, I now had a couple paragraphs on my hand and a forum to release it into the wild. So, I published the post (The Night I Queefed) to my blog because…well, I don’t know why. Maybe I thought there was someone out there who could read it and assure me that they, too, had queefed and survived. Sure enough, a day later I had a comment from a reader about how they sympathized with my queefing PTSD. The rush of emotion that came from sharing a deeply embarrassing, personal connection with a faceless stranger was addicting. Not only that, I had tapped into what would fuel the content for the rest of my weekly posts.

I’m a fairly awkward person who does awkward things and to whom embarrassing things frequently happen. For example, a couple weeks ago Boyfriend and I were doing a crossword on his laptop together while eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In the middle of quiet contemplation over a particular clue, a chewed up, saliva-soaked piece of CT Crunch shot out of my mouth and landed on the keyboard. We sat there looking at it until I wiped it off with my finger, looked around for a place to put it, and then ate it when he wasn’t looking. When people laugh at embarrassing stories like these in my posts, or say, “This happened to me too!”, I feel in control of the embarrassment, which feels so much better than constantly worrying about it. Don’t get me wrong, these posts are hard to write (completing that masturbation post was one of the most difficult things I’ve done). It’s like willingly displaying your diary to your high school, and then going home to your Boyfriend knowing that he just read about how some guy once peed in your mouth (and then understanding why he avoids kissing you). But at the end of the day, people are (hopefully) laughing at what I wrote, and that’s pretty much all I ever wanted out of life.

P.S. Thanks to Beanie for nominating me for a Liebster Award!

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My Masturbation Journey Was Just as Awkward as the Phrase “Masturbation Journey”

While I like to think my parents are pretty open, they avoided the sex talk like the plague (they were practically gleeful when shuffling me off to 8th grade Sex-Ed to hear about the birds and the bees just so they wouldn’t have to do it.) And let me tell you, hearing the words “penis” and “vagina” from some old lady volunteering to teach the class because her husband died and she had nothing to do and therefore hadn’t even seen a penis in ages is the least effective way to learn about sex. I remember nothing about that class except the fact that boys get boners when riding buses and horses, and Ms. Jill’s hair looked like a cat curled up and committed suicide on top of her head. I also remember that masturbation was never discussed. This is a major problem with Sex-Ed classes (can someone please start a petition to rectify this?).

It’s a problem because not only did I grow up not knowing how to masturbate, but I grew up thinking it was for guys only. Despite these setbacks, I was still hormonal and curious and reading Twilight every night, which could only do so much for my needs (I once found a book in my mom’s underwear drawer that was a soft, romantic erotic novel specifically for middle-aged divorced women – exactly my mom’s demographic – and involved cowboys with calloused hands but tender hearts. I skipped to the sex sections and tried to block out the fact that my mom was getting turned on by the same stuff). So, I had these feelings but I didn’t know how to release them (this was before I had a personal computer and I sure wasn’t using the communal computer to google, “How to masturbate and can girls do it too oh my god am I a freak?”). Somehow, through trial and error, I figured out that if I lay on a rolled-up blanket at the right angle and kind of moved around, it felt good. Dear readers, this is the product of Sex-Ed classes failing to explain vibrators, lube, your talented fingers, and the magical clitoris. I blame Ms. Jill. I could’ve been under the covers happily masturbating like a healthy teen, but instead I was embarrassed, awkward, guilty, and humping a blanket.

And to make matters worse, my whole family discovered my secret. I have this distinct memory of my sister bringing her friends over to my room and telling them, in front of me, about what I did to blankets. Okay, I know how it sounds. I promise I wasn’t some sex-crazed maniac running around the house humping blankets in front of company. I was just bad at hearing footsteps approaching my closed door. And some people (my family) have no sense of privacy. It wasn’t until college that I learned how to actually masturbate (I distinctly remember calling my ex-boyfriend and shouting “I finally orgasmed after masturbation!” followed by him stifling laughter and saying, “You’re on speakerphone.”). I still feel guilty and embarrassed, and hide under the covers even though I’m alone (although this time I make sure to lock my door). And sometimes Ms. Jill’s face pops into my mind at exactly the wrong moment. But I’m slowly getting better at it…and I keep a blanket around for old time’s sake.

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Big Bertha the Naked Homeless Lady

The house I live in has a gate around it, and I’ve always felt pretty secluded on our little island. Then I came home to find a homeless woman in the backyard, hunched on the step, pants half down, ass crack visible to the world, painting her toenails like it was no big thang. Clearly she didn’t give a shit about our fence and decided that the area right outside my window was an ideal place to hang. I shuffled around her, avoiding her gaze as if I was the intruder (“So sorry to interrupt, don’t mind me”), and slipped into my room. I didn’t see Big Bertha (I call her Big Bertha because she’s large and in charge and looks German) for a while, until I noticed a distinct puddle in the backyard, realized it was pee, and figured Big Bertha had claimed her territory.

Several weeks went by without a sign of Bertha. I thought maybe she had abandoned our house because of the steady stream of people going in and out, and instead found a new place to pull her pants down and do her nails (I also tend to paint my toenails without pants on. Is this a thing? Do other people do this?) Anyway, Big Bertha had pretty much left my consciousness. The other day, I took a shower and opened the door to my room clad in just a towel. I have a giant window facing our backyard area that has shoddily made blinds, perfect for the general passerby to see me change and paint my nails without pants on. I have quickly abandoned any shame about this, mostly because I’m too lazy and poor to buy real curtains. On the other hand, I get to see everything going on outside my window. And that day I saw Big Bertha, entirely naked, standing outside my window.

She was laughing to herself and dancing around, the sun glinting off her fat rolls, and as I stood there in only a towel, Bertha and I shared this naked moment. Then Bertha doused herself with our hose and I dropped below window level. When I peered back up, Bertha had her clothes back on and I sighed with relief because I wasn’t sure what to do about a large, naked woman frolicking outside my window. I grabbed my own clothes and as I pulled them on, there was movement in my peripheral vision. I turned to look, and, after turning away for one second, Bertha’s clothes were back off and she was completely naked again. She threw her underwear and shorts into the tree outside my window in what I can only guess was a gift to the laundry gods. I stayed below eye level until I was sure she was gone. I haven’t seen Big Bertha since, but I think about her everytime I pass by the crumpled underwear in the tree. One day, I will finally gain the courage to extract the underwear. Or more likely I will light the tree on fire.

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Talking Dirty Sucks Balls

This guy (I’m not allowed to say Boyfriend because he’s scared of relationships and oh god why do I do this to myself) is doing whatever it is guys do during sex. Honestly, I was thinking about what episode of Modern Family I missed and trying to ignore the lump squirming on top of me when I heard, “Hey.” I shook out of my reverie and looked up at his sex face looming over me. You know, sex face. Those half-lidded eyes, mouth wide open (anyone else constantly paranoid of drool?), face with an expression of animal ecstasy. “Hey. Talk to me.” I was thrown for a second. What should I talk about? I could tell him about the last episode of Modern Family I remember (dangit, was that the finale or not?). Ooh, I could tell him about that good thing I did today when I gave a homeless woman five dollars! Hey, this is actually kind of nice. I was starting to feel like we didn’t talk – Thrust. “C’mon, talk to me.” And then it hit me. Or rather, penetrated me. Oh. He wants me to talk dirty. So I gave it a go. I really did. Gave it the ol’ college try. “Um…your penis is so large.” I regretted it as soon as it rolled off the tongue. I could immediately hear that horrible tone of voice that sometimes happens to me when I’m trying to sound sincere but it comes off super sarcastic. Hoping I could smooth over that last one with something else, I blurted out, “Oh yeah, thrust deeper.” Thrust deeper? This was starting to sound like the cheap erotica my mom hides in her underwear drawer. And oh my god this is actually turning him on. “Fuck me [snicker] harder.” Yeah, I laughed. The worst thing to do during dirty talk second only to queefing (see post below). I couldn’t stop the giggles. I kept thinking this is what Chelsea Handler must sound like during dirty talk. Complete deadpan. And the guy? Kept plowing on while I bit my lip to stifle the giggles. I like to think he was being polite.

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The Night I Queefed

It was a demoralizing and regretful night like any other. I was on my back, no wait, my knees…or did I start out on my side? I don’t remember the order. Let’s say it was my back. With my ankles smushed against my shoulders. First of all, ow. Guys, not every girl is a gymnast, okay? Some of us are regular, maybe slightly overweight girls who would rather eat a slice of cold pizza than do a sit-up. And 99% of the time, that’s the decision we make. So when you assume that we are capable of folding in half, you’re wrong buddy. I kind of thought he’d get the message when my “aaah”s transformed into “ow”s. Leave it to a guy to think that’s your way of saying, “Holy chick on a stick you are the best romancer I’ve ever had the pleasure of coming across. Please, bend me more.” Not to mention I had an amazing view of my gathering belly fat, which I guarantee is the biggest turn-off for any sane woman out there. So anyway, there I am in the middle of wishing I had done more sit-ups and less cold pizza, when he decides he’s done playing yoga master with my body that’s as flexible as a stale pretzel. He pulls out, and WWWWHHHOOOOOOSSSSHHHHH, the biggest goddamn queef you’ve ever heard comes speeding out of my vagina like seventy-six trombones leading a big parade. You could’ve heard this queef if you were deaf in one ear. Heck, deaf in both. Not to mention we’re at his mom’s house where his mom is sleeping, presumably awakening with a start and wondering who blew a fog horn at this hour of the night.

I hold my breath for a second, pondering the different directions I could take. I could blame the barking spiders, I could take a pillow and slowly suffocate myself to death, I could pretend it never happened and suggest he has onset schizophrenia if he brings it up…As tempting as that last one sounded, I instead went with the excruciating, “Excuse me.” And then I immediately worried that saying “Excuse me” would make him think the queef was a fart, and then I couldn’t decide which would be worse. And Prince Charming? Didn’t say a thing. Guess he went with the pretend-nothing-happened approach. And then there were the weeks plagued with random attacks of queef memory. QTSD. You know what I’m abbreviating here. Ladies, the moral of the story is: find a guy who can joke with you about an innocent queef (no matter how mind-blowingly loud it is) so you can laugh, move on, and feel self-conscious in peace.

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