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.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” was the first question my parents asked when I sat them down and told them we had something we needed to talk about. The question seemed laughable to me, considering my long-term boyfriend had just broken up with me and what I was about to tell them. “I’m … not straight,” I told them haltingly, and braced myself for their response. While I love my parents, acceptance of the LGTBQ+ community has never been their strong suit.
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.
Today I want to talk about a situation that I recently found myself in, and that I know other women have found themselves in too. I was hooking up with a guy and asked him to use a condom. He complained at first but then acquiesced briefly, before stopping and saying that he really didn’t want to wear one and it wasn’t going to be good for him and he wasn’t going to be able to finish with one on and so on and so forth. Willing to just go along with things, and honestly mostly just wanting to fuck properly already, I said fine. The next morning, after all was said and done, I got to go on an especially magical journey.
In September, your photo came up on my screen while I was scrolling through Tinder. I accidentally swiped left. My stomach dropped. I hurried to the bathroom to avoid waking my roommate, flicked on the light and proceeded to spend the next half hour trying and failing to download Tinder Plus so I could undo my erroneous finger movement. I flooded my best friend’s phone with texts, frantically trying to figure out which way you would’ve swiped on me, and how to show you in a totally-deniable-but-still-flirty-and-cute way that I really, really meant to swipe right.
The second iteration of The Sun’s annual love and relationships survey offered the insights into the more intimate side of student life, including relationship statuses, hookup habits and dating experiences.
My first time having good sex was in the desert. My then-boyfriend, Desert Not-So Solitaire, and I waited until it was dark, then snuck partway down a trail at Capitol Reef and stretched out a blanket over the burnt orange sand. The stars were so bright above us. The sky seemed to stretch all the way down to our feet. We’d had sex a few times before, but the act was still new and fumbling for me, often accompanied by discomfort or pain.