The Cornell Daily Sun (https://cornellsun.com/tag/sex-on-thursdays/)
Working in a women’s assisted living and dementia care facility has meant effectively working in a sorority house full of 80-year-old cougars who’ve forgotten their ages — and most of their manners.
No other student newspaper is brave enough to cover the story of what happens in the bedroom, the often unreported stage where so many current events happen, like someone losing their virginity or orgasming for the hundredth time. So many actors strut and fret their hour upon the stage and then are heard no more, a tale told by an idiot like me full of sound and fury signifying nothing — but that’s what life is. Life is one big sex column we’re all writing in our heads.
I’m stepping off of my soap box and placing myself under the critical eye. In truth, in someone else’s story, I’m the dick who hurt them, and in all honesty, it’s rightfully deserved.
I propose that, for a moment, we un-think everything we previously judged about furries, seeing them instead as a revolutionary movement. If you like the subversive ideology of punk rock, you should also respect furries for being noncommodifiable as the producers of their own fandom.
Grappling with questions like these have me dwelling on just how complicated sexual stimulation and satisfaction can really be. But it also encourages me to try making some sense of feelings I’d found too confusing to bother confronting before.
This week, the Lady With No Game has evaded her responsibilities in order to immerse herself in the glittering gilded world that is Netflix’s Bridgerton. I’m even guilty of hiding my headphones and watching the show in class. The hopeless romantic and future gold digger in me can’t resist the world of opulence and courting — the balls, the dresses and the lineup of gorgeous men.
In the same way, a hand all the way through a sphincter does not defy science or anatomy, it just might take some extra work.
Yes, I’ll say it: from the girl who hates talking about feelings and calls them “eelings” because they are too scary, talking about feelings isn’t the sexiest thing, but it allows us to have good sex. It allows us to ensure that both parties agree to the same thing.
There is nothing inherently bad about porn itself until it grooms us into early online sexual activity, making it easy for a suburban five-year-old to see enough creampies to kill a medieval peasant. We have the technological power of a god designed to please the psychological desires of a monkey; there are only so many bananas we can take before we implode.
If using Tinder, Bumble and Hinge all at once wasn’t working for you, it’s your fault for thinking that some campus computer science club could do the trick. But you had nothing left to lose, so you handed over your recreational drug use patterns, your three words of insincere self-description and your shitty sleep schedule to a student-run AI system — as if it could actually locate your soulmate among the countless other sleep-deprived “formal to-do list” keepers at Cornell sharing your passion for “art.”