Tag Archives: getting laid

Doctor, Doctor, Gimme the News

Sex, even mere hanky-panky, is a workout.

All that squirming and groping and thrusting makes your whole body (if you’re doing it right) tense and flex. Maybe even throb a little.

Injuries can happen in sex. Hell, people die shagging when their hearts give out. From orgasm to aneurysm, just like that. Continue reading

School Me, Babe: Relationship Education

Had I actually been a guest on Sex with Emily last Saturday night as planned, question number one from them was, “Why is your blog so popular?” Why, indeed?

If I had to say why I wish my blog was as popular as it’s proving to be, I’d say it’s because I’d like to think I’m real. But that’s a pat little answer, isn’t it?

The thing about sex writing is, it’s so easy, in theory, to write about dripping, hard cocks, about the fury and the fumbling of two people coming together in sexual union – the passion, the intensity, the fun, the excitement. The pulsing of hearts, the throbbing of members, the vaginal swelling… we’ve all experienced these things, we’ve all been on both the receiving and giving ends of pleasure, and so it’s easy to relate to when we read about others’ experiences. And if it’s not something we actually can relate to, then it’s something we live vicariously through.

Not a lot of sex writers try to tackle the emotional content under it all, though, and the ones who do tend to inspire more loyalty from their readers. I tend to focus more on the emotional aspect of it – not just the emotions we show, but those we hide. Perhaps this is why y’all dig me. Or maybe it’s my irreverence, or my honesty about my own insecurities and desires and fears and dreams. Who knows. But these are the reasons I would like to believe my blog is popular.

And it’s something I thought about when I saw this “breaking” news on the BBC site. Apparently kids find sex education classes too biological. Gee. Really?

They’re right. It is far too biological. Everything about sex originates in one place: the brain. The brain powers our emotional response, spurs our physical response, and then our juices flow, action proceeds to happen (or not), and the rest is messy history.

Funny enough, in England, the biology of sex is a mandatory class, but “personal social and health education” is optional at the institutions doing the teaching. This latter course brings education about relationship and emotional health into play.

I must have missed the memo where relationships and emotional health were optional in my own life.

In a time when divorce is the norm, moreso than happy marriages, perhaps it’s time to reevaluate the ways in which we approach relationships. Maybe it’s time to acknowledge that the psychology/self-help departments of bookstores are the most popular non-fiction sections for a very good reason: We’re all so fucking clueless about how to deal not only with our own problems but any of the problems that might arise in our relationships.

I have a history of running from relationships when things get tough, which is why I’m stunned I’m even hanging around my present relationship at all, considering all the life-induced chaos within it. My first running-from-adversity relationship happened with a young guy named “JH,” my first real boyfriend. He fell, and he fell hard. He wrote me songs, played his guitar for me, and felt like the king of the town whenever I was around. I dumped him as soon as I saw that a divorce was imminent with my parents. I never told him why I was fucked up because I was too ashamed to admit my parents’ failure, and more ashamed to admit that I was weak emotionally.

I pulled the “but we can still be friends” bullshit and instead learned what it felt like to break someone’s heart. The guy fell apart and wrote a “you tore my heart to shreds” song for me, handed it to a friend to deliver to me, and within the week, stole a car, got arrested, and then never, ever spoke to me again.

Maybe if I’d had a better emotional upbringing I wouldn’t have fucked JH up as much as I apparently had. Who knows. I do know that I didn’t have a clue how to open up, how to trust, or how to react when the fit hit the shan. Instead, I’ve spent the better part of two decades slowly learning these lessons through bump-in-the-night, daytime talk shows, and brief flirtations with both self-help books and actual therapy.

And I’m not an exception, I’m the norm. Isn’t it time we change that?

As for “sex education,” it’s really a misnomer. I know that nothing I’ve ever had to deal with was taught to me by anyone with any authority. I learned through necessity.

I’ve had the fear of a condom breaking with a boyfriend before the age of 20, having to stroll self-consciously into a Free Clinic in order to get a morning-after pill, something I’ve had to take three times in my life. I once was so freaked out I was pregnant that I remember doing a pregnancy test ASAP after purchasing it – in the bathroom of a Subway sandwich shop. I never learned about the possible negatives of birth control pills until the last few years, because I was already so fucked up in so many ways that it just never dawned on me that my depression must have been exasperated by pill usage.

In short, everything I’ve ever learned about sex has come as a result of a need-to-know, and-now education, not before-the-fact. It has been a hard road getting to the place I’m at now, considering I was raised by sexually ignorant parents who weren’t comfortable talking about sex, and schooled by a high school that didn’t teach sex ed. Of my friends, I was one of the first to get laid, even though I was 17, and none of us ever talked about sex. When I lost my cherry, my only education was that provided by television and movies. I had no idea why the hell there was a wet spot, and it scared the crap out of me.

I didn’t understand all the emotions that came with sex, and I didn’t understand that a kiss was just a kiss, not an undying declaration of love. I wasn’t hurt by love; I was destroyed by it, and all because I was ignorant of the power relationships could have over us.

Teaching us the biology of sex does little to prepare us for the emotional overload that comes from relationships. Teaching us about human relationships and the dynamics of emotional response would far better prepare us for life and love, and it’s damned well time schools began to embrace that reality.

In the final paragraph of the article I’ve cited, some talking head spouts this sentiment:

“We trust teachers to use their professional judgement to decide which organisations can support teaching and learning in the classroom and which resources best support schools’ sex and relationship programmes.”

Jesus. Let’s not trust the teachers, okay? Let’s convene some people in-the-know to talk about what needs to be learned by kids today, and then create a program that includes all those essential facets, so as to stem relationship problems, improve self-esteem, and build emotional resilience. Violence in schools is greater than ever, bullying is at an all-time high, and divorces are skyrocketing.

Isn’t it time we learn about emotional health as part of our curriculum? ‘Cos we’re clearly fucked without it.

Love Will Conquer All, Baby

I was reading something just before bed, stated by the venerable clothing designer Karl Lagerfeld, in answer to the soon-to-come fashion onslaught of heavy, dark clothing that’s to be replacing the light, fun, and airy lines we’ve been enjoying of late. Lagerfeld said, “If you read the daily papers, you are not in the mood for pink and green.”

If you are what you wear, are we as a society becoming depressed? Valium and Lithium and Prozac, oh my.

I’d lay my cash on a big, fat yes, but hey, what do I know? I’m just a formerly depressed not-even-yuppie who’s an observer, not a player.

Depression’s out there. Hell, even the upcoming ankle-length hemlines are screaming it. We’re depressed. As a people, we need to get happy. This war shit’s bringing us all down. We got Vice Presidents running around shooting good citizens. Gas prices are nuts. The Canadian economy’s strong enough to be a steamroller. Clearly, it is the end of times, and our nerves are a tad frazzled.

Me, I say the cure is sex.

Okay, let’s look at this, then. Stress and self-esteem issues, as well as external factors (thus the stress) cause depression, as do biochemical issues. Right? Sex is good for the nerves, great for the self-esteem — (especially if you can get ‘em to scream your name. Hmm. I really have to stop falling for the strong, silent types. My ego’s taking a hit.) – and releases endorphins.

In all seriousness, studies have shown we’re all at an all-time touch deficit. I’ve been hooking up with some guys of late, lots of great dates, no seconds, but I’ve kissed (uh, to coin a phrase) every one of ‘em. Life’s too short not to share a kiss (or something) or stretch it out over three or four hours. Sex? Nice but not needed. Making out does wonders for the self-esteem. Gets the juices flowing, the pulse racing. It’s the very definition of alive. No one should have to go without. I’m going into withdrawal, days without a kiss. A necking session would hit the spot, but I know what else would, too.

In a world where there’s famine and war and natural disasters and poverty and stupid religious extremism and pettiness… shouldn’t you at least be getting laid?

I for one applaud the relatively recent revival of the “Make Love, Not War” campaign. I need to get me a button, man. I’m willing to sacrifice myself to the cause. I will have sex in the name of peace, and soon. Afterwards, we’ll spoon, smoke a joint, drink some absinthe, and listen to Imagine, followed by White Rabbit, and some Dark Side of the Moon. Is there anybody out there?

Maybe this whole Iraq thing was just what the Sexuality Movement needed. Drop some bombs, shed some innocent lives, get the tempers flaring back home, have the pacifists realize they’re really pissed off but since they’re pacifists, they can’t go out back and shoot beer cans off the fence, so, instead, they smoke fatties and fuck.

Who knows. Maybe Bush did the right thing after all. I don’t fucking know. I do know that everyone getting a little more action would probably be not such a bad thing. Me, I always liked the fact that Clinton was getting head in the Oval Office. I figured he’d at least be relaxed enough to make the rational choice in any scenario that unfolded.

I think anyone in power with lives in their hands should absolutely be on a sex quota. They must be gone down on once every eight days, minimum, and are entitled to sex twice per week, minimum, with no less than 28 minutes foreplay each time. Sure. As a start. With time on the job, age, and increased responsibility, the sex allotment increases. Like a health plan or any other benefit.

Yeah, I don’t know what the hell the problem is, but I know sex is the solution.

Pity the new fashion scene’ll be here soon and skin will be a thing of the past. But, brothers and sisters, we shall overcome. Right?

*Yeah, I’m a pinko lefty with a loathing for the war and a disdain for both the American and new Canadian regimes. I mean, does it sound like I have conservative sex? C’mon! Get real. You knew this. You like me anyway. I’m the good kinda libertarianish type.

Unleashing Your Vixen: Using Notes Pt. 2

This is the first installment of my new series, Unleashing Your Vixen. Please check that out before you read this. The next installment will probably be on Thursday at some point. That’ll have actual moves in it. This is sort of a tease towards that.

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Ah… smell that? That mix of spring and long-stemmed red roses and perfume dangling on the wind? It’s spring (well, unless you live in New York, you sorry bastards). More importantly, it’s Valentine’s day.

I have issues with Valentine’s day and I’ll share that with you some other time. For now, though, it’s a nice thought that more people will be getting laid tonight than any other night of the year. Far be it for me to rain on your love parade.

In keeping with the Unleashing Your Vixen notion, these are a couple small ideas to put in the arsenal of their education. Preliminary to moves is the act of initiation. Vixens must take initiative from time to time — if not half or more of the time.

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So, you’re on a first date, it’s going well. He’s cute, he’s sexy. Every time he smiles, you imagine what it might feel like to glide your tongue along the edges of those pearly whites. But you’re just a vixen in training. You don’t want to be the good girl who gets a kiss at the door tonight. Nah, right now, you wanna lay a smacker on this guy and see how challenging you can make it for him to have to walk to that door in two or three hours.

But how do you make the first move?

Have you ever noticed that guys almost always head to the john before they start making out with you on the couch? There’s like this switch: They usually relieve themselves before they get all worked up. It’s a pragmatism thing. So, you go before that happens.

Wanna be cute? Put some vivid-colour Post-It with a cute little double-entendre like “Help yourself!” on your prominently-placed bottle of mouthwash.

I mean, if you’re dating and you don’t have a prominently-placed bottle of mouthwash, then you’re doing it all wrong. Tasty kisses are nice, but only when it’s chocolate, wine, etc. Mouthwash is key. Guys’ll help themselves to the mouthwash 90% of the time anyways, but a little note? An itty-bitty green light? I doubt there’s many fellows out there who’ll pass up that chance. Now you just wait.

The “take me now” note always works nicely, in all its varying states. Another fun way to use notes to break the ice when you don’t know how to say what it is you want – say, for example, you’ve been in the relationship for a spell, a couple weeks or month or something, and you don’t want to wade through all the niceties and cuddling and such. You want sex, you want it hot, and you want it now, but you’re not confident enough yet to answer the door a little moist and oily fresh out of a bath, and naked, when he rings. So, a smaller step is needed.

You’re at home, you’re having a nice meal in. Just put a note under the plates at dinner, and ask him to clear the table for you while you step into your bedroom for some silly reason. Try something like, “If the dishes are working for you, continue, but if you’d rather be taking me doggy style, come and get it.”

You can be as dirty as you want to, but the fact is, a little dirty with a little nice is always sexy, always classy, and always lets you feel like you’re as bad as you need to be, without crossing too many lines in your so-called ethical sand.

Hell, you can include a note in your Valentine’s day card that has a list of things you love your partner doing to you. “Things I love that you do to me: Nibbling the back of my knees, biting my inner thighs, when you switch to a more aggressive thrust as you get closer to climax, when you nibble my ear while fingering me…” and anything along those lines. Exchange cards in a restaurant. Let him get all flustered and aroused. Take it a step further and put a couple things on the list that you’ve never done to him, but wouldn’t mind trying, and see where that takes you.

Being a vixen or a rockstar lover means doing little things like this. It means taking initiative sometimes to let him know that you’re wanting this as much as he does, if not more. Too many guys are left feeling like their lovers fuck them out of obligation, not desire, and your job as a vixen is to lower that average. Let him know. Let it be unmistakable: Sex is what you want. No, he is what you want.

Being a vixen, yes, it’s about the moves, the know-how, but it’s also an attitude. It’s a confidence you need to find in yourself, an awareness of the sexy being you have inside, and it’s a desire to let that part of you shine. It’s not about being a size four or wearing a Chanel dress or being a barstar at the club. It’s more real, more innate than that. Being a vixen is about being strong when you need to be, being demure when it’s called for, and knowing what cards to play and when to play them. Being a vixen doesn’t happen overnight, but one night can drastically impact your progress and really spin you in the right direction. Taking small steps like this could be a crack that springs a raging river from the dam that has been your sexuality up till now. Embrace the fissure, and don’t worry, it bursts wide open faster than you might expect.