The Cornell Daily Sun (https://cornellsun.com/category/opinion/sex-on-thursday/page/2/)
Over the summer I called into question this nonchalance toward cutting off all romantic partners that never earned the title of “MY partner” when it came time to actually tell them that I would not be seeing them any longer. Even though we had spent loads of time together out getting drinks, going for walks or in bed, I was incredibly tempted to dismiss it all and just use my lablelessness as a fog cover to fade away into obscurity.
At some point in my adolescence I must’ve developed the belief that if there’s a penis in the picture, the sex is meant to last only as long as the erection does. Then it’s game over. I can’t be sure where I picked up that idea, nor the idea that it deeply, physically pains men to be aroused for too long without orgasming. That if they’re cruelly forced to be too hard for too much time continuously, their balls — their most pain-sensitive body parts — become oxygen-deficient and literally turn blue. And then maybe their bright blue balls explode like some gooey gender reveal (it’s a boy!) as they writhe around on the ground, injured and emasculated. And so if a guy is notably aroused, he ought not to be left that way for too long, lest his goods be put through intolerable pain and perhaps quite permanently damaged. Again, I’m not sure why I thought I might reduce a man to ruin if I didn’t bring him to come, but I do remember having these thoughts long before I even started having sex.
Why does it always feel like when we’re in a relationship, we’re yearning for the single life we once led? On the other hand, why does being single for too long feel like an endless search for a decent partner in a sea full of Mr. Wrongs? Our partner asks for too much, and we yearn for the times when the only person we had to please was ourselves. They ask for too little, and we worry that they’re about to call it quits.
Oct. 11 was National Coming Out Day. I do not speak for the queer community — in fact I speak for no communities. I only speak for myself with the hope that I can contribute to uplifting queer narratives and maybe even help someone feel less alone in their own relationship to their sexuality.
Let’s rewind: the year is 2019 and I’ve been sexually active, much to my best friend’s knowledge, for almost exactly two years. We’re sprawled out on the floor of my childhood bedroom, wine drunk on Barefoot’s Peach Fruitscato, praying my parents don’t overhear our inebriated conversation. Somehow the topic of vibrators presents itself, and it comes out that I’ve never owned nor used one of the magical machines (I’m not sure how the logistics of using without owning would work).
Looking back on them now, the events of the night and the order in which they occurred are blurry to say the least — many parts stored in my memory now only as blank segments of emotional turmoil with physical pain periodically piercing through. But here’s some of what I do remember.
As far as middle school sex education programs go, mine was weak to subpar at best. Sure, I got lovely anatomy coloring sheets to bring home and share with mom and dad, but my midwestern abstinence education never served me too well. Good thing I had YouTube. On a separate note, I’ve talked to a disturbing amount of men and women at this school who have casual sex, but never use condoms. It’s understandable when you’re seeing someone regularly and exclusively, but no condom with a random guy? Surely, sex education taught you better.
The talking finally slows down and we look at each other. But not for too long at a time because the bridge built between our eyes struggles to withstand the weight of our silence. Just as I begin to contemplate reviving our conversation about running, or reading, or whatever topic we chose to distract ourselves from the real reason we were spending time together, he puts his arm around me. At first we just lie against each other breathing and listening to each other’s heart rates skyrocket in anticipation of what approaches. Then I turn to him and our lips finally make the long awaited connection.
This summer I was blocked by a former romantic partner. Now, I wish I could emerge from my veil of (sexy) anonymity to gaze upon your face as you read that sentence, beloved audience member, because your reaction to my excommunication reveals loads about your romantic life. For some, this blockage serves as the ultimate blemish on my character and establishes me as a problematic partner whose involvement with someone can only end in dramatic falling-outs. For those unflinching others who had trouble even identifying what noteworthy statement I claimed to have made — I admire your confidence in your own righteousness, but perhaps this piece can prompt you to reflect on how you might better communicate with your romantic partners.
I think emotional people get a bad rap. When it comes to a purely physical relationship, emotional people must be cautious about how much they allow themselves to know their hookup. For example, I think my current hookup is the coolest guy ever. Whenever I learn something new about him, I end up liking him more.