The Cornell Daily Sun (https://cornellsun.com/tag/sex-on-thursdays/page/2/)
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.”
So what’s the solution? I think a lot of these things relate to level of experience, but I do think we need to transform how we think about sex. No one is a master.
I remember when my mom sat me down to explain how babies were made. It was Christmas Day and there was a new, tiny rodent running around with our two, supposedly male guinea pigs. My mom knew this was her chance to tell me how that happened.
Scrunchies and mom jeans aren’t the only trends that are making a large resurgence in today’s day and age — astrology is also making a roaring comeback. Checking Co-Star to see our daily compatibility or listening to Spotify’s questionable “Horoscope Today” podcast is, whether you like it or not, a large part of many youngins’ routines. But what if you don’t want to hear about how you’re going to act or what you’re going to encounter that day, but instead you want to know what you’re going to be feeling at… night? Well you’ve come to the right place. As your resident sexual astrologist, I’ll be able to enlighten you with all that your heart, or genitalia, desires.
He chuckled at his phone with the sort of strained enthusiasm meant to spur a person’s curiosity. Curiosity spurred, I crawled to the foot of the bed and peered over his broad, tattooed shoulder. I wasn’t exactly eager to stow aside my feminist propensity of ignoring men when they, in typical fashion, summon attention to themselves whilst performing some act wholly unworthy of the attention they summon. But his shoulders were broad, and tattooed. And we had just had some cool sex, so all in all I was feeling benevolent.
Her:
The girl who was shown how to love herself—
I walked into my first frat party during O-week, clutching my Keystone tightly to my chest and covering it, worried that someone would spike it, and I would be found unconscious in a ditch. Sex to me was a dirty thing, something that a guy wanted to take from me — and take and take and take until I had nothing left to give. I carried the clouds of a variety of my sexual assault experiences and traumatic stories of others with me. I had sex willingly for the first time three weeks into college. In my new room, under my string lights, I tried to remind myself that it was okay to have sex and that it was okay to have sex casually, for fun.
I rock back and forth in my childhood room rewatching every episode of Seinfeld. I furiously latch hook a rug to keep my hands busy. I’ve already knitted seventeen hats, rolled five beeswax candles, made a papier-mache dragon and assembled a tiny ship in a bottle. I’m starting to run out of things to occupy my sexual energy — before my hands will resort to frenzied masturbation instead of frenzied arts and crafts. This is one of the few times Anya Neeze is going to strongly advise you not to seek out physical sexual contact with anyone outside your home unless you own a full hazmat suit or medieval plague doctor costume.
Picture this. You’re in bed with your not-quite-a-friend, not-quite-a-hookup, but more than just a stranger. You’re casually talking when he brings up a dream you had about him where he rejected you, a dream that you told a mutual friend about in confidence. He asks you about it, joking (but is he?) that he didn’t know you cared so much. You panic but hide it, doing your best to brush it off as nothing, saying that you have dreams about people all the time and that they never mean anything.