Twentyish Dudes Ago...

Twentyish dudes ago, I was just another public school victim of my home state’s atrocious abstinence-only sex education program. Partly because I was cheated out of the whole condom-on-a-banana high school experience (and partly because my partner had serious delusions of grandeur and outfitted his ween with a Magnum), my first sexual endeavor concluded with a condom floating around lost inside my body for two days. It had slipped off during the sex and despite our best efforts to find it and drag it out, neither my tragically overconfident lovah nor my 16-year-old self emerged successful from our deep sea fishing mission.

Thinking back to the glorious moment when the rubbery, slimy souvenir surfaced from the murky depths of my vag a couple of mornings after the incident (putting a stop to the nightmares in which I gave birth to a baby who had this condom growing out of its face in place of a nose), I wish I’d had the presence of mind to throw the thing in a jar and save it. It was, after all, a symbol of sorts — representative of my 16-year-old ignorance, emblematic of the sexual lessons I was going to learn by trial and sometimes horrifyingly embarrassing error as the notches climbed higher on my bedpost over the coming years.

On second thought, I’m glad I didn’t save it; it was kind of stinky. You know what else is kind of stinky? The fact that the government has spent so much money funding these abstinence-only sex education programs in schools and employs scare tactics in so many federal-grant-receiving classes — exaggerating failure rates of certain contraceptives, for example — to discourage young Americans from having sex. Here’s an idea: give the kiddos comprehensive sex education and then, for homework assignments every night, ask them to Google Image the name of an STI with the SafeSearch off. That will probably help with obesity rates, too; eating is damn near impossible for at least two hours after such a visual feast. Look at that: two birds, one stone. Some day, I should run for president.

But while comprehensive sex education in schools across America would be a kick-ass way to keep young’uns up-to-date about pregs prevention, contraceptive options and general birds and bees stuff, I must admit: sex — just like love, social aptitude and the correct color of makeup for your skin tone — is a multifaceted, dynamic subject that really can’t be “taught.” There is a collection of unmentionable “lesson learned” pearls of wisdom that everyone accumulates throughout their sexual careers — whether it’s a mortifying the-condom-got-lost-in-my-vag story or the surprise mid-bang fart. There’s a whole laundry list of things I wish someone had told me — about twentyish dudes ago.

Let us begin with the subject of 13-year-old dude humor everywhere: the queef. The queef, allow me to clarify, is not a “pussy fart.” A fart comes from a butthole; a queef from a cooter. When you have sex, air gets pushed up into the honey pot and little pockets of it sometimes get trapped up there. As we learned from the lost condom, what goes up must come out. In the case of a queef, the air makes an exquisite Whoopie Cushion sort of noise when it exits the juicer. The air is completely fragrance-free, so you and your partner can have a nice little laugh about it. And by the way: don’t be afraid to laugh during sex! Banging is hilarious and intimate and foul and raw and it doesn’t have to be all serious. Queefs are funny.

Here’s what’s not funny: sleepovers after hookups. Unless the dude who has just laid some pipe in me is someone of whom I’m particularly fond (i.e. a boyfriend), one of us has got to go. Sleeping with someone is one thing — but sleeping next to someone is a whole different ballgame which, to me, crosses the fine line between sexual and emotional intimacy; I like to keep that line solid — and as clear as the vodka that probably facilitated the hookup in question. Over winter break, I picked up a strategy from a dude who executed a flawless Coming and Going Move (har har) in my own bedroom: immediately after a particularly ill-advised sexual experience on my turf, he got up to remove and dispose of the soiled loveglove and, with no classes, work or otherwise excuse-worthy commitments to craft an “I’m kicking you out now” statement, I braced myself for the inevitable spooning session that invariably leads to a sleepover.

And yet, no. He got up, took the condom off, and used the time on his feet to get entirely dressed without coming back to bed at all. After all, the awkward part about making your post-sex exit is breaking the “cuddle” with a (mostly fabricated) reason to peace out. Simply not coming back to bed to cuddle is such an obvious move that it pisses me off that I didn’t think of it first. So, people, remember these words of wisdom: don’t spoon or you’ll be having a sleepover soon. This works for my be-beavered friends too! Both males and females have pressing issues to take care of immediately after sex — the dude needs to pull the latex off his wrinklebeast and the lady needs to pee.

You may think you were able to get out of there guilt-free and unscathed, but check your cooch for a souvenir. I don’t want to start any rumors, but I was recently told that a certain Peen Plantation (fraternity) in which I have dabbled in the past has had some problems with chlamydia as of late. First of all, I hate the word chlamydia, so let’s rename it for purposes of this column. In the spirit of nationally syndicated sex advice columnist Dan Savage, who, after hearing Rick Santorum’s outrageous statements about homosexuality, attached the term ‘santorum’ to the previously unnamed “frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex,” I will name chlamydia ‘The Croc’ in honor of the offensive fluorescent clog shoes worn by many a Cornellian.

For dudes, symptoms of Chlamydia include delicious discharge from the eye of your one-eyed monster and a bit of burning during urination. For women, 70-80 percent of cases are completely symptom-free. People: The Croc is a sneaky little shit! Go get tested! Gannett is right here. I know getting tested when there is the possibility that you may have a sexually transmitted disease is daunting and sort of scary (been there, honey), but the longer you put it off, the more partners you’re going to have to call if you have The Croc or any other decorative genital accessories.

So, today’s advice that you never learned in your classrooms: Don’t participate in spooning if you don’t want to sleep over. Queefing, when demystified, is no biggie. Don’t become a sex columnist if you want a date for Valentine’s Day. And Saran wrap is not a prophylactic. Of course, I wish someone had told me all of this when I was in high school and embarking on my sexual career — but you live and you learn. Hopefully, we can all learn from all of our friends’ horror stories too, so don’t be afraid to talk about sex openly. After all, if we’re passing around STIs on campus, we might as well pass around stories too.

Jenna B. is a senior. She can be contacted at opinion@cornellsun.com [1]. Bedroom Eyes appears alternate Thursdays.