I feel his breath hot in my ear. “Just tell me where,” he whispers. I demure. “You know where.”
His hand traces up and down my thigh, just barely brushing the place I want his fingers. “Not until you say it.”
My mind floods with words: vagina, way too clinical; cunt, too demeaning; snatch, too 70s porno.
My boyfriend is more attractive than I am. His narrow face and strong features — a nauseating mix of stereotypically tall, dark and handsome — illuminated among a blur of cafeteria faces. I wanted nothing more from my soon-ending high school career than to get with him. Our routine exchanges of physics problem set answers during our senior year gradually transitioned into a different kind of transaction: offering and receiving stories of past wild nights and their subsequent hookups. In my attempt to truly impress him, I divulged an unforgettable Phi Sig pledge party during Cornell Days.
A couple of years ago, an intense and very witty friend on The Sun sent a message to one of my GroupMe chats asking if anyone wanted to write a Sex on Thursday piece. Coincidentally, I had just returned from a weekend of debauchery in NYC where I had enjoyed a threesome with my high school best friend and our club promoter. So as fate would have it, I began writing Fire & Ice and Cherries in the Snow. Looking back at my previous pieces, I can’t help but feel like this is a bittersweet end of an era as I prepare to leave Cornell. After all, I arrived here having had my first kiss a month before O-Week, so this really was the home of my sexual awakening.
Thinking about writing this week’s column stressed me out even more than my three prelims combined. Truth is, I have no sexy sex story for this week. I’ve been going through a frustrating, disappointing and wretched couple of weeks: a dry spell. All of this time, I had thought dry spells were either a myth or an excuse lazy people use to avoid coitus, but it turns out, they truly can happen to anybody. Now, I stand here before you with the credibility of a bankrupt financial advisor.
Editor’s Note: This piece, though new to The Sun, was originally composed in early 2018. The author has since graduated. I came to Cornell as many of you did: bright-eyed, enthusiastic and, above all else, incredibly naive. I fondly remember my first few fraternity parties, trying to look “sexy” but mostly arriving at some combination of awkward mall-dweller and short-sighted librarian while my more experienced friends guided me through the maze that would eventually become the backbone of my social life. I went through high school incredibly focused on my academics and extracurriculars, knowing that I would move on from my small town to bigger, more exciting things.
Delightfully overwhelming… that’s how I would describe our first time. Not that this was my first, nor was this the first time I found myself between two hot bodies sharing the most intimate parts of ourselves, but it was the first time I found myself sharing my body and my heart with two other people at the same time in the same space. It started off simple: three glasses of red wine, a brief narration of our past, and frivolous comments about our day. Walking into this first date, I didn’t know it was a “special arrangement” (obviously, I don’t read Tinder bios as meticulously as I should). I’d be lying if I said I stayed just to be polite because in reality, I was curious about this unconventional relationship, and Tara and Jack were hot.
There’s nothing like that rush, the warm feeling all over, the euphoria. I’m hooked on Oxytocin, the cuddling drug. The love hormone. Oxytocin is the footy pajama, heart-eye emoji, Beyonce’s “Drunk In Love” hormone. It’s a hormone of bonding — between lovers, between mothers and their babies, and even between humans and dogs.
I had my mind set to write about non-invasive sex toys, but considering current events, it’s critical we discuss sexual consent. Even though it seems like consent is all we talk about some days, it is clearly not in our heads. We talk about sex in terms of baseball, and never has anyone mentioned consent in that analogy. When I had health class in school, we talked about STDs and protection, but never about asking permission. Consent is something I think about a lot.
As a sexually active woman, it my utmost priority to practice safe sex. There are a plethora of options out there to keep yourself baby-free. Personally, I have an Intrauterine Device, more commonly known as an IUD, and not to be confused with an IED (an improvised explosive device). Many women are so fearful of IUD “horror stories” that they may as well be walking in a minefield. My one mission in life is to debunk these IUD fears.
Life is different when you can’t have sex. Not for religious reasons. Not even for pro-abstinence reasons. Just for a I-was-born-with-a-pain-condition-and-can’t-have-sex reason. I thought my life was effectively over.