From what I have gathered, experimentation with homosexuality is quite normal in college. Unfortunately, this ubiquitous experiment has no formal instructions available for adventurers to follow. That may be the case no longer. Here is a recount of my sexual experiment, gone horribly right.
By horribly right, I mean nothing an inch short of the following adjectives: surprisingly surprising, wonderfully wonderful and mind-blowingly mind-blowing. Don’t let my enthusiasm fool you. Along with such mind-blowingness came sheer and utter terror. Terror, I must clarify, not for the fact I was having sex with a girl, but for “How the fuck I am actually supposed to have sex with a girl?” As lesbian porn has never been my thing, figuring out my “college experiment” was been interesting to say the least.
My attempts at homosexuality came at a time when I honestly felt I was just getting good at hetero sex. “Good” is, of course, relative, but my rhythm with boys was finally on beat. The choreography was becoming natural: This hand here, that hand there, this happens now, this feels good for me, that feels good for him, fun, fun, tra la la, aaaaand finish! Easy. Familiar. Repeat.
So there I was, 18, and pretty confident that I could have sex. Then came girls. Perhaps the transition is a lot smoother for other people simply because they are better lovers, but my first lesbian attempts were a comical set of trials and many errors.
In seventh grade I made out with a boy for the first time. It mostly consisted of slobbery tongue-flailing with my arms hanging idly at my side. My make-out skills had progressed since the seventh grade slobber, but at 18 years old, I reverted back to my pre-teen squareness. On the first few nights I was lips-to-lips with another lady, all previous experience was lost in translation. The kissing itself was not the issue; it was the touching that inevitably ensued. I fumbled through hand placements, worrying that I would offend the girl. I ended up in a semi-robotic make-out session with certain moments arising where only lips were touching. Eventually I fumbled less and fondled more, but it only got more confusing from there.
For this girl-on-girl experience to go a little further, as with hetero encounters, below the belt action began. Here was my straight little thought process: Ah yes, finally, fingering! I’ve done this. I love being fingered. This is glorious! Oh wait, what? My turn? This idea of taking turns was the biggest shock. What used to be naptime became half time as it was expected I would now reciprocate what had just been done to me. Oh shit.
By mid-high school I had mastered the hand job. Wait, that’s a lie, because mastering a hand job is a complete waste of time. Hand-jobs were prep work: an opening act before the big show. Why spend twenty minutes getting a sore forearm when my mouth could complete the job in ten? So, I had not mastered the hand job, but I was good enough to get by. While hand stimulation had always served as an intermediate step in my past experience, it became the meat and potatoes of my lesbian sex life.
If my make-out transition was awkward, my foray into fingering can be described as downright scary. I must pause for a second to mention that my partner was always understanding and accommodating. That being said, I was freaking terrible. Maybe I should have paid more attention to what guys did to me over the years because I didn’t even know where to start. I’d like to say that it was a lack of personal exploration that made me lost down there, but that’s not true. I just didn’t realize that everyone’s lady parts were not the same as my own. I spent thirty seconds trying to find the hole, and when I finally got in I was spooked and embarrassed and quickly ended the first attempt at what I thought would be a relatively familiar action. My learning curve for fingering was painfully slow, but I can confidently say now, six months later, she actually likes it.
As I delved deeper into my experiment, I began to really surprise myself. “Going down” on a girl is not as bad as I had originally imagined. The smell? Not so bad. The taste? It varies. The finish? Nothing shooting down your throat, so that’s a plus. However, getting to this finish was not quite as straightforward as the blowjob bob.
To finish a boy, you really only need time. Admittedly, there is technique involved, but with simple practice and persistence you will get the required result. With a girl, it’s practice and persistence meets precision, and the range of techniques is vast. Blame it on my high school boyfriend, but I had absolutely no idea how proper “going down” actually went down. After floundering in the dark, literally, I finally turned the lights on and figured out just where I was putting my tongue. And so, with much effort, and more patience on her part than I could possibly imagine, I successfully completed another step on my trek without an instruction manual.
So that was it. I did lesbian sex! And while I am by no means an expert, I am proud of the progress I have made. I’ll leave the strap-on saga for a later date, as I am not sure that many other experimenters will venture that far. So, ladies, if you are feeling adventurous, try your best, have fun and remember to take your turn on top.
Fiona C. is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. One Night Stand, a guest column on sex, will appear periodically this semester. Feedback and content submissions may be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org.