Content Warning: This article contains a discussion of rape culture and sexual assault.
At Cornell, I feel like there is a sense of entitlement and superiority among guys in frats which creates a predatory environment. What’s the deal with that?
Hi Frat Freaked,
Thanks for your question. While I am no expert, I do have a few theories. The essence of your question is rape culture in fraternities. And yes, it is prevalent here at Cornell. Anecdotally, ask anyone that’s ever been to a frat party or a date night and they will describe the uneven male to female ratios, the creepy grabbiness of men on dance floors, the pressure to hook-up with dates or the drinking that blurs lines of consent.
In a few days, you will be laying on your back, fascinated by a crack in the ceiling, wondering why you need to do this. You are exasperated by the very nature of sex, a nature that doesn’t allow us to fully live inside each other.
Ever since the start of the pandemic, I feel like I have no libido. I have very little interest in sex. My partner is starting to take my lack of sex drive personally, but I don’t know how to tell them that it’s not their fault! Is there something wrong with me?
If there’s a “No Sex Drive During a Pandemic Club,” then you and I are both members. And so are millions of people across the world.
Whether you’re quarantining with a new partner, just went through an awful breakup — but are still stuck living together — or are stuck in the isolation blues, it’s likely that whatever your sex life was pre-pandemic, it’s pretty different now. Maybe, like me, your months in quarantine have been replete with fluctuation – beginning with a time of passionate, consuming sex with a beloved, followed by periods of agonizing sexual and emotional separation, and then frosty post-breakup months spent wondering if you’d forgotten how to masturbate. Maybe, if you really are like me, your body is just waking up as if from a long sleep, the pain subsiding enough that you can finally ask: How can I get off without risking giving COVID to my housemates?!
After hours of scrolling through tinder with zero intention of meeting anyone and of scouring the internet for porn I actually enjoy, I found myself turning to a long familiar form of pleasure: language. So whether you’re looking to spice up your quarantine sex life or you’re just trying to keep your twin bed a little warmer as we head into autumn, look no further than these cliterary classics:
from “When the Beloved Asks, ‘What Would You Do If You Woke Up and I Was a Shark?’” by Natalie Diaz
“Be-loved, is loved, what you cannot know is I am overboard for this
metamorphosis, ready to be raptured to that mouth, reduced to a swell
of wet clothes, as you roll back your eyes and drag me into the fathoms.”
Here is a poem for if love comes to you as an act of submission, of offering yourself completely to a dream or to a lover. Here is a poem for if you ache for acts or for imagery that you fear to speak aloud.
Working up to find your p spot takes time. Ensuring you’re in a comfortable position with yourself or your partner is vital. But once you learn to love your hole, sex and pleasure will never be the same.
Not unlike a miserably small man maintaining a Napoleon complex to counter his stunted stature, I, a small Asian girl, have always harbored a tendency to offset the likely impression of myself as quietly obedient and accommodating with behavior indicating the total opposite.
Seeing a partner lay nude before you like a Thanksgiving meal is a heavenly sight — especially if there is actually a Thanksgiving meal smothered across their body. In my case, it was a generous layer of honey, whipped cream and peanut butter. Synesthesia ran rampant as the sensations of sustenance and sensuous touch were blurred. With every kiss came a taste of sweetness and when we’d roll around it was like two pieces of bread being slapped together to make a slippery sandwich. When I slouched I felt like that vine of the peanut butter baby and my sheets looked like Willy Wonka and all his Oompa Loompas collectively combusted, but it was somehow still hot, like a sriracha-drenched jalapeño popper.