6 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
(02/20/13 9:35pm)
I do not enjoy giving head. I find the sensation of jamming a phallus against my gag reflex generally unpleasant, and, in my eyes, the activity fails to forge an emotional connection. I find fellatio physically intimate, I can smell the mustiness of his nether region, but I struggle to achieve emotional intimacy on my knees. Certainly, not everyone shares my opinion of blowjobs; roughly a third of women enjoy performing fellatio. Talking to my fellow blowjob administrators, I always discover controversy regarding technique and enjoyment. Varying opinions concerning the topic began long before the current era. The first record of oral sex dates back to Ancient Egypt. With the development of Christianity, oral sex acquired a sinful reputation. The modern age and pornography promoted fellatio as a kinky sexual option, and it eventually became a tool to spice up the conjugal bed. In the last few decades, however, attitudes towards oral sex have inverted. Oral sex has developed into a precursor for vaginal intercourse. Our generation administers blowjobs younger and more casually than any group of Americans before us, beginning as early as middle school. Many psychologists and psychiatrists fear that 11, 12, and 13 year-olds are not mentally developed enough for the activity. They predict that those who prematurely explore oral sex will fail to learn how to create emotional intimacy in conjunction with sexual intimacy.
Although I don’t feel my capacity to love has been stunted, my sexual exploration runs congruent with this trend. I gave my first blowjob years before I lost my virginity. I feel more comfortable administering fellatio casually than having sex casually. However, I take issue with my own opinion. Why should oral sex be casual? It is not physically safer than vaginal intercourse; it can spread sexually transmitted diseases. A lack of eye contact during oral sex enables emotional distance, but hiding during a sexual encounter is defeatist. If you want privacy, just stay clothed and keep your tongue in your own mouth. Although vaginal sex offers intimacy through shared pleasure, 69-ing can provide the same effect. By demoting oral to the world of one-night-stands, we discredit its capacity for pleasure and intimacy.
Additionally, I believe that the growing acceptance of fellatio has left “cunnilingus” in the dust. While writing this column, I’ve discussed oral sex a great deal recently, and many people have never heard the word cunnilingus. Cunnilingus, for those of you in the dark, is the practice of using one’s tongue and mouth to pleasure a vagina. This vocabulary failure is evidence of my opinion. While I feel expected to offer my mouth as a receptacle for penis during a casual hook up, guys seem to only consider eating out a serious girlfriend. I hear men express their reluctance to learn how to perform cunnilingus, whereas past partners assumed I would instantly understand how to expertly tongue their penis. Clearly, an imbalance exists: we label cunnilingus as disgusting and relegate it to the sphere of committed relationships, while fellatio has attained acceptance and ubiquity. In a world where only 40-percent of women have G-spot orgasms, we ladies should utilize all the extra appendages we can muster to achieve climax! Why limit our pleasurable options to fingers and grinding when the tongue works so well?
Meanwhile, although several orifices besides the mouth offer a snugger, more pleasurable fit for penises, blowjobs have attained widespread acceptance. I find this paradox frustrating, and I encourage you to rectify it! Do not be afraid to dislike or refuse oral sex, but do acknowledge its potential! Remember that oral sex spreads STD’s, and act accordingly. Consider how you use oral sex, and question the legitimacy of your habits. Learn your way around your preferred genitalia, and don’t be afraid to use a little tongue.
(01/23/13 7:11pm)
As human beings, we desire privacy in our sex lives. Originally an evolutionary imperative, this drive persists in modern society. We lock doors. We close shades. We turn up the music. As college students, however, communal living often thwarts this need. Dorms are shared spaces in which we temporarily reserve small, sterile rooms, and this situation results in the compulsory sharing of intimate moments. That cute girl down the hall will inevitably hear you poop. The sweet guy who lives next door will eventually see you in your pajamas. Sex, however, serves as the most intimate experience we share inadvertently with our dorm mates. Three issues epitomize sexual conundrums facing dorm-dwellers: the practice of sexile, coital noise and shower sex.
My freshman year, I lived in a diminutive double in Battell. Luckily, my roommate and I became fast friends. We shared everything: academic woes, social discomfort, Proctor crushes, et cetera. No matter how close we became, however, when it came to sex, neither of us wanted to share the experience completely. As a result, we practiced sexile, as most roommates do. Despite its ubiquity, the practice of sexile made me feel guilty.
Ultimately, the decision to place my sexual pleasure over her desire to return home seemed selfish. When living in a shared space, no one has the right to monopolize the room. However, as humans, most of us desire sex, and sexile becomes necessary. The key is to act courteously. In the end, jeopardizing a roommate relationship yields far worse consequences than missing an opportunity for hanky panky.
Another sexual obstacle in communal living is sound. Whether you’re a heavy breather, a bed squeaker or a screamer, the sound of your sexcapades has most likely leaked at some point. In the moment, those breathy moans are sexy and exhilarating. After the fact, however, when the embarrassment that your neighbors listened in begins, they seem less wise. Or, perhaps, you’re never the perpetrator, but only the punished. Nothing quite beats lying awake at night, listening to the girl next door enjoy herself. Perhaps it turns you on, or perhaps it reminds you that you aren’t getting any. Either way, the noise is just another way we dorm-dwellers share in sex, and it can only be avoided through muffling your moans or plugging your ears. Some noise, like bed squeaking, is inevitable. Like the practice of sexile, however, shaking the rafters with your sexual prowess is rude. My advice: keep the volume down and have fun trying to contain your screams.
Shower sex serves as my final coital conundrum in dorm life. Personally, I think pleasurable shower sex is a total myth. Slippery surfaces plus running water yield a fatal combination: a dearth of leverage and an absence of natural lubrication. Even if these challenges are surmounted, when using a shared bathroom, shower sex still poses serious difficulties. The opportunity for privacy is negligible to nil. You should feel lucky to find a curtain that closes fully, let alone a door that locks. Plus, the dual wet walk down the hallway with your partner serves as the ultimate walk of shame. If you can find real privacy (Forrest handicap bathrooms), then go for it. Otherwise, you might want to choose a different sexual enterprise.
Sex in dorms proves challenging, but I by no means want to discourage a good romp. Hopefully these hints prove helpful in your pursuit of fornication. Good luck living and loving.
(11/29/12 1:57am)
My first kiss almost caused mutual, spontaneous combustion. The pent of desire coursing through my veins bubbled to the surface and I completely lost control. Suddenly, everything was wet and hot and desperate. My desperation occurred due to sexting. My first boyfriend and I narrated our sexual exploration via our flip phones constantly. Long before laying our lips against each other’s mouths, we had meticulously discussed our sexual fantasies. I offered him titillating details of my shower activities. He told me what he wanted to do to me after school in the band room. We exchanged innumerable descriptions of our bodies and our desires, building insurmountable tension and feverish need.
I broke up with that boyfriend long ago, but my practice of sexting persists. A victim of multiple long-distance relationships, sometimes using technology to express desire proved necessary. Other times, sending naughty texts and messages was just fun. The forbidden condition of the activity and its quality of instant gratification fuels my fantasies and adds another layer of excitement to my sex life. However, I find the larger movement to which sexting belongs – that of instantaneous communication – worrisome.
Generation Z, often called the Facebook generation, communicates more than any other age group. We text, email, message, call, Snap Chat, BBM, iMessage, FaceTime, IM, Skype. The mediums are endless. Our multilayered, technologically-charged communication extends into our sex lives. Even when I’m living in the same building as my significant other, I text him three or four times a day, not to mention email, Facebook and phone calls. Most of this communication barely moves past content as shallow as “Hey, how are you?” Other texts might get steamy, even though I could just as easily go say the content of my messages and get a physical rather than textual response. Technology proves even more powerful at the beginning of relationships. A thorough Facebook stalk is the first step for any flirtation, even before the relationship matures past Proctor crush status. Next commences the dangerous dance of the textual courtship. The endless exchanges tapped on a keyboard replace first-date conversations. Perhaps once a relationship has progressed into the sexual arena, sexting can launch and titillate both parties while they attempt to do their homework.
Our dependence on technology to communicate our love and lust stems from the fact that virtual communication feels safer than speaking to someone in person. It’s easy to type out and send the reasons why you love his body or where you want her lips, or how you want it from behind. Contrastingly, in the bedroom, in the nude, a real person in front of whom you are vulnerable, might judge you. Whether that person is a crush, a new boyfriend, or the love of your life, that vulnerability exists and is terrifying. Snap Chat, sexting, and IM circumvent that vulnerability, providing the illusion of safety behind a screen.
Failing to accept vulnerability in our love and sex lives sacrifices a huge opportunity. Vulnerability is the bread and butter of exploration. Surmounting it generates confidence and creates closeness between two people. Every email with an invitation for dinner this weekend, every Facebook message suggesting a future date, every text asking if I like it dirty avoids vulnerability. These modes of communication substitute virtual communication for genuine communion. Sexting is fun. I’m not going to stop doing it. But I recognize its dearth of power in comparison to real-life, in-person sexual experience. At best, sexting and virtual communication functions as a supplement, at worst, it’s a crutch. Avoid the protective screen. Explore your sexuality in the flesh.
(11/07/12 10:44pm)
I turn off the lights and open my laptop. I begin browsing. What will it be this time. Amateur? Three-way? Anal? It hardly matters. Women scream. Men grunt. Cum sprays across stomachs, backs and faces. Everyone looks miserable. They even cry out in semi-erotic shrieks, as if to indicate their torture.
Don’t get me wrong, the nudity and the visual impact arouse me, but my repulsion supersedes my lust. I begin to worry that the men with whom I engage in real sex watch this theatricality and believe it. Do they think it’s indicative of reality? Do they seek to emulate the techniques it presents? I hope not.
On the other hand, who am I to judge the sexual practices of others? Views to the contrary have allowed laws to prohibit sodomy and oral sex through the present day. Freedom in the bedroom leads to freedom of orientation. In fact, although many studies have attempted to prove causation between the consumption of violent porn and sex crimes, none have succeeded. Furthermore, we can’t regulate sexuality any more than we can legislate morality. Even if I don’t want to be whipped, who am I to impose my preference on another? Besides, pornography is by no means new. It began with the dawn of civilization, starting with the well-endowed Venus of Willendorf from the Stone Age. Since then, examples range from Pompeian wall graffiti to impressionism. Artistic expression is rife with sex. A major change has occurred recently, however the advent of the internet, which has increased the pervasiveness of pornography exponentially, affects our communal sexual psyche.
The genre usually features men pummeling women with oversized members, pulling apart their labial lips to show the now gaping cavity of her vagina or anus. Consistently, the male character chooses cum on the face of his partner. Most porn prioritizes the male orgasm, and often does not feature the woman climaxing. Although some videos feature cunnilingus, its presence is negligible. Fellatio, however, plays a central role in most pornographic episodes. Usually women pepper their ministrations with exclamations such as “you taste so good” or “I want you to fill my mouth” or, my personal favorite, “choke me with your cum.” Anal sex in pornography ranges from rough to abhorrently violent, complete with screaming and tears.
This imagery frightens me. If someone were to try these techniques with me, I would be out of bed, in my clothing and out the door faster than you can say three-way. Perhaps most people recognize that pornography is not indicative of reality. Even so, pornography has implanted and perpetuated new ideas in our collective consciousness. It perpetuates the degradation of women in the bedroom, prioritizing the male orgasm and subjecting women to abuse. Hairlessness in pornography has encouraged an entire industry filled with wax, creams, blades, pain and razor bumps. The popularization of breast and labia augmentation through surgery has increased rapidly in recent years, perhaps due to the comparison of real women’s genitalia to those of actresses.
Pornography is not morally abhorrent, and consenting partners should feel free to partake in whatever satisfies their desires. I am concerned, however, that as a society we are becoming more complacent with sex that moves further away from lovemaking and closer to humping with every click of the mouse. No real-life encounter can live up to the staged performance on your computer screen. Nor should it. The human sexual experience defies props and sets and demands genuine connection. Remember that pornography is not real, vulvas have hair and if a woman screams, you’re probably hurting her. Separate real sex from the fictional fantasies of porn.
(10/24/12 8:51pm)
I spotted my Proctor crush across the dance floor. We had met early in the year, but had rarely spoken since. I had stared at him while he picked choice tomatoes from the salad bar and as he drank tea from a glass. Never a mug. Upon catching my eye, he walked over and slid behind me. We began swaying erotically to the music.
While the room literally fogged with the condensation of horny college student sweat, our activities also grew steamy, as I pushed him against the wall and we danced face to face. He grazed my neck with his tongue and lips, occasionally nibbling on my ear. We gyrated in unison.
I felt pleased that I had finally taken this “relationship” to the next level, transforming an acquaintance into a potential lover.
As I enjoyed the adrenaline and arousal coursing through my veins I wondered what the rest of the evening would hold, contemplating taking him back to my room. As I considered the possibility, he leaned down and whispered in my ear.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
At first, I chided him for having forgotten. I reminded him of past conversations we had enjoyed and where we had met. He looked at me blankly. Slowly, I came to the realization that he had not misplaced my name. He truly thought that we had never met.
As this epiphany dawned, I pushed him away. I felt repulsed that he had danced so erotically with someone who he perceived to be a total stranger.
My disgust grimaced my face as I left the party, and it didn’t wear off for weeks. In retrospect, however, my actions mirrored his. I remembered his name, but I hardly knew him. We had established no level of intimacy or even comfort between ourselves. In any other context, our dancing habits would have suggested sensuality, intimacy, perhaps even love. But on a college campus, we were merely dancing.
When I discovered that my Proctor-crush-turned-dance-date viewed me merely as a nameless partner in lust, I felt dismayed. That night, we both chose the security of a dark room, loud music and a crowd of strangers over the development of intimacy.
Perhaps some people view sex with strangers as evidence of liberation. I view it as a lost opportunity. Sex is fun almost any way you do it, but so much of the power and pleasure of sex comes from connection with a partner. I only truly feel comfortable asking for what I want with someone I know.
It’s hard to suggest to a stranger that he change his angle or perhaps consider using his tongue less like a battering ram. To get what you want in bed, you need to get to know your lover. When I know the guy with whom I am naked, my exposure is fun, exhilarating, not violating. Sex is the ultimate form of communication and honesty. We cannot expect to fulfill its potential with strangers.
Our campus overflows with sexual tension and one-night stands. Under the influence of crowd mentality, cheap liquor and high hormonal levels, sex often enters the public sphere and seems to exist solely as a casual pastime. Our communal decision to bring sex into public and our reluctance to pursue anything more than a single night of lust evidences our discomfort with true intimacy.
Ultimately, I hope the ideas in my column get you laid and help you have fun while you do it. By speaking openly about sex, this column can also motivate our quest for communication, honesty and intimacy.
(09/19/12 11:21pm)
Why did I seek out the position of sex columnist, you may ask? I didn't. I was offered the position. I'd like to think it is because I remind people of a younger, less horse-like Carrie Bradshaw, but it probably has more to do with the fact that I talk so brazenly about my experiences (fine, sexperiences).
Since it is so challenging to separate sex and alcohol at Middlebury, I'm not even going to try. Wine makes me horny, vodka makes me slutty and tequila makes my clothes fall off. Oh, I forgot beer. Beer just makes me feel fat. I guess it is possible that my synapses are uniquely susceptible to fermented drinks. I know that's not true though. Don't lie to yourself. You're a slutty drunk, too. If I'm wrong here, you probably fall into the "whiney drunk" or "violent drunk" category, both of which, I would argue with bias, are worse than getting naked.
Have you ever woken up in a bed far off campus, next to a guy you vaguely remember having a drunken political debate with the night before and realized that the only way to get back to your room is by waiting for him to stir from his alcohol-induced coma and drive you? No? Me neither. Since we're being honest, I've also never done the walk-of-shame at five on the first Monday of classes in September. Nor have I ever peed my pants at a music festival.
I hope you picked up on my sarcasm in the previous paragraph. Despite having done all those things and way more, I have somehow (as far as I know) avoided the "slut" taboo. How on Earth did I manage that? Well, I take Usher's advice very seriously: "We want a lady in the streets but a freak in the bed." I won't lie and say that it's easy to avoid the offensive and demeaning slurs that go along with being a modern, horny woman. It requires practice. I learned by trial-and-error, mainly during freshman year.
I didn't really drink in high school, so the novel combination of open access to alcohol and empty beds led to behavior that the Parton Health Center dubs "risky." No, I was not having unprotected sex – I'm not an idiot. Nor was I charging people for sexual favors – I'm not a criminal. But I definitely took advantage of my freshman girl appeal.
Luckily, freshmen are granted the leeway to act like imbeciles. Just this past weekend I saw a freshman boy introduce himself to an upperclassman girl as a lacrosse recruit. No name, simply a potential lacrosse player. To the youngster's credit, I saw him walking, hand-in-hand, towards Battel with a nice-looking freshman girl later that night. Apparently you don't even have to be on the team to score.
Now that I've got a few years of college under my belt, my skinny belt (I've been avoiding beer), I am thankful for my "risky" freshman year. I learned that there is a way to have a casual hook-up without being denigrated by peers, to laugh off almost anything and most importantly, that anonymity is not overrated. In fact, the reason I am not using my real name in this column is because I would like to be employed someday. Considering our current job market, that may be optimistic, so at the very least, I'll be confident that my parents, siblings and future children will have no proof that I was anything other than a celibate, doe-eyed prude in college.