If you walk west down the Ithaca Commons late on a Saturday night, past Moonies and the State Theatre, the vibe starts getting weird. You see fewer and fewer people, and the people you do see don’t look like students going out to party. The thumping music coming from the bars gives way to a strange quiet. Head down to Geneva and State and you’ll find a “community labyrinth” behind the office of The Sun. This labyrinth, a set of jagged rocks arranged in spirals, is next to a stairway that leads down to a door.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a horny appetite, must be in want of a sexual partner. So, when you have the two horny parties present, what is left to be construed is the nature of this interaction, and along with this, the very important concept of power. Let me just clarify before I begin to explore this issue further that I am always talking about consensual interactions where power-play is a form of enjoyment for both parties present. Power can very easily be broken down to “This makes me feel good. I want this,” and that is where control comes in.
Okay, what the actual fuck am I doing. Oh God. I slyly peek down my Victoria’s Secret lace thong for the eighth time in the past 10 minutes in the middle of 2nd ave to make sure my womanly juices are under control and no pubic hair suddenly erupted. I recall my preparation in hopes of reassuring myself: I shaved four times last night. I faced a mirror in every possible direction.
About a year ago I encountered my first small penis. After what was by far one of the best fucks of my life, I wrote a column to spread the word that it’s not about the size of the boat but about the motion of the ocean: how good sex is depends more on how the guy “moves” than on the size of his dick. I return to this subject, some time and couple of sexual partners later, with my views slightly shifted. I had reached the conclusion that motions trumps size but that big dicks are still more enjoyable. But then, along came a fellow who had both a sturdy boat and eloquent motion, and I realized I don’t like big boats.
Blowing yourself sucks cock. I say this from experience, being thin and limber enough that I can reach my penis with my mouth. Let’s get a few things clear: it’s only strange that I can actually do it, not that I’ve tried. Every man has tried to blow himself at one point or another. Fact: your dad has tried to blow himself.
A very important piece of advice you’ll receive at some point in your life is “don’t live with your significant other too soon in the relationship.” Understood. There are several reasons for this. If you break up it will be awkward, you’re with each other so many hours of the day that, especially at the early stage of the relationship, it can get boring, you’ll get distracted, pooping with them in the apartment is awkward, etc. So then what happens if you start, accidentally (I swear), fucking your roommate? Hear me out.
Men, the bar is set so low for you when it comes to sex with women, it is concerning. Honestly, pleasing a woman is too damn easy — all you have to do is make her orgasm. Most of the time, you don’t even need to make a woman cum multiple times, because other men are so shitty at sex, the poor girl will most likely be delighted to have cum at all. And, contrary to popular belief, making women cum is actually not that hard if you invest a modicum of time and effort into the endeavor. I can get myself to orgasm in five minutes, and, if my female friends are telling the truth, I am not the exception.
As a college female, I’ve heard (and experienced) my fair share of morning after horror stories ranging from the comedic “he couldn’t get it to fit” to the panic induced “I had to take a taxi to Planned Parenthood this morning.” These stories are usually recounted over hungover brunches and amidst a cacophony of laughter, a casual setting for a seemingly casual topic. But there remains a rampant, almost unnoticeable issue in the way many young women both talk about and experience sex. Girls seem to talk about sex as something that happened to them rather than with them. Friends have told me that despite multiple sexual encounters, they have yet to feel any sense of pleasure. Others have said they just “let it happen” and wait for it to be over. Sex positivity has become dramatically more prevalent in our culture in recent years, but why are young women still afraid to talk about sex candidly not only with friends, but with their partners? Why are young women afraid to tell their partners they need oral sex in order to orgasm?
It’s Thursday night. You took a prelim earlier that day, so there’s no way in hell you’re making it to your sections tomorrow. You got out of your exam just in time to make it to the pregame with your girls before the mixer. So naturally, you start the night off with some saccharine mixture of vodka and whatever flat, top-missing mixer y’all were able to find in the apartment’s kitchen. You throw in a few ice cubes for good measure because nobody remembered to put the off brand 2-liter in the fridge.
Nobody ever tells you that there is more than one way to have sex. Growing up, we learn about sex from a variety of resources. My experience began with my cousin literally trapping me in a closet and making me listen to her explicitly state what part of a man goes in where in a woman while I covered my ears and pretended I didn’t believe or understand what she was saying. Then my parents gave me a book when I was around ten years old, explaining that when a man and a woman love each other very much, and are ready to have a baby, there is something nice they could do. Middle school health classes were my next educators on the subject.