Filler — A couple good jokes for you

It’s a Monday, and it could be a Very Good Day, depending what goes down, so I don’t want to write right now. I don’t want to tamper with my headspace. It’s sunny, blissful, beautiful out today, and I’m about to head out into the world on my Eurotrash scooter, and plan to find my way to a beach or forest to do some photography. I’m going to try and find Love in images, I think. That would be a fun challenge. (Challenges rock. Ever assign yourself them at the start of your day? Try it!)
But I’d like you to have a smile on your face today, like the one I already have. So, without ado, one of my all-time favourite dirty jokes. I don’t know if it’s really the joke I love, so much as it is the woman I heard it from, and how incongruous the two seemed together. This is why I talk to strangers as often as I can. You just never know. 🙂
Now, I was working in a photo lab back in the day with my colleague Cathy. It was a slow Friday night and we had put out a tray of cookies for customers, for the hell of it. A little old 84-year-old lady stopped in, had some cookies, and began talking to us.
She looked at us both, scrutinizing us. “Do you girls like dirty jokes?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you like sex?” Then she shook her head. “Well, of course you do. We all do.”
Well, anytime you have an 84-year-old lady with plastic glasses and her hair in a bun, leaning heavily on a burled cane, offering to share a filthy joke with you, you accept the offer. Here’s the joke she told.

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In marriage, there are three stages of sex.
The first is called House Sex. This is when you first marry, and you can’t get enough of each other. You have sex all the time, everywhere you can, all over the house. Thus, house sex.
The second stage is called Room Sex. This is when you’ve been together for a couple years and things have slowed down. You still enjoy each other’s company, but you tend to stick to the bedroom and have sex only in bed.
The third stage takes place after about seven years, and it’s called Hall Sex. What it is, is every time you pass each other in the hall, you mutter “Fuck you,” and you’re done with it.

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Little old ladies are wise as hell, huh?

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One for the road:

Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse go to court to get a divorce. The judge checks out the paper, frowns as he’s looking them over, glances up over his reading glasses and peers at Mickey Mouse.
“Mickey, look, I’m sorry, I want to help you out. I watched you as a kid, but really, I can’t grant you a divorce on the grounds that Minnie’s insane. I mean, “for sicker or for poorer…” You know? You made a vow, Mickey.”
“Oh, sir, I never said she was insane,” says Mickey. “I said she was fucking Goofy.”

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The rest of my jokes involve priests or sex toys. Well, here’s hoping I have the day I’m wanting to have. Hope you do, too.

Call, for fuck's sake!

So, date two has come and gone, rather successfully, and a third hovers somewhere on the unspecified horizon.
Now, I’m luckier than the average girl because I have this — a mighty, mighty good decoder ring — available for The Guy to peruse and see what it is I dig or don’t. Because The Guy has a functioning Brain and Powers of Recall, he plays his cards rather well. Such as, calling The Next Day after Date One, and emailing me to thank me for my presence immediately after Date Two. I’m such a sucker for communication.
If you are a guy, and you’re trying to do the whole play-it-cool bullshit, here’s a clue. Most chicks will fucking LOVE YOU if you call. Why? Because suspense might be nice at Christmas time, but it really, really sucks if you’re digging someone after a date and you haven’t heard from them as to whether or not the diggage was mutual. Call. Email. Whatever the hell it takes, and everyone will be all the happier because The Bullshit Factor is cut by half. Plus, there’s the added bonus of anticipation.
Anticipation? It rocks. Knowing a date — a kiss, a cuddle, a grope, a lay — looms on the horizon is a turn on. Suspense, or as I like to call it: Unknowing, takes joy away from things. If you think you’re adding fuel to the fire with “suspense,” you’re not. You’re complicating things and setting the groundwork for what will essentially be a whole lot of head games.
Forget about “being cool.” Be straight up. I’m personally so sick of all that shit that if a guy DIDN’T call the next day, I’d probably write him off. My time’s too valuable for someone who doesn’t know how to clue me in that a good time was had for all. I’ll do my part, he better do his.
Needless to say, not an issue with The Guy thus far, so things are swimming along nicely — a fine happening in time for the first day of Spring, no?

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Now, there could be a “why can’t she call?” line of questioning from the guys out there, and you bloody well know why — she’ll get perceived as needy or clingy, even if it’s not the case. If you boys could stop having such narrow perceptions about chicks that call you, then maybe things would be simpler for you. Unfortunately, yer species’ track record makes it just a tad too iffy for us girlies to take the lead there. As much as some of us might like to. And if, perchance, you luck out and get a chick who’s brazen enough to be open and communicative via giving you the call, and she’s not needy, then at least have the smarts to see it for what it is — a chick who’s willing to help you reduce the Bullshit Factor.

Being Alone And Dealing

I’m weird, one of my best times for getting inspired to write is during housecleaning. I think it’s a procrastination thing. I wasn’t planning on posting, but I checked my comments and one made me think. Then I started doing the dishes, and snap, crackle, pop, a memory kicked in, and next thing you know, I sat on down and got crackin’.
It’s not until you’re single and you’re all right with it that you finally realize just how much of society is centered around fitting in and joining the club — getting married, getting laid, getting validated. Society pats us on the back when we find ‘someone’ and if we’re single, we’re told to look at ourselves and find what’s wrong with us, not what’s wrong with them.
Maybe, just maybe, we’re fine. Maybe, just maybe, they’re not good enough for us. Maybe, just maybe, we’re holding out for something better.
I’ve come to learn the hard way that being comfortable with being single is one of the biggest challenges we can face. It’s so easy to run into the arms of someone “who’ll do” instead of toughing it out alone. It’s so easy to stay the course of least resistance in a relationship that doesn’t deserve your commitment. Getting laid is a breeze, if you set your sights low enough.
We’re scared of being alone. I remember my mother breaking down in tears several months before her death, before she even got sick, when she accidentally got stinking drunk (the first time I’d ever seen her drink more than a glass or two of wine) on my birthday and was throwing up and was horribly hung over the next day. I took care of her, cleaned up after her, washed her vomit-stained comforter, and anything that needed doing. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m not scared anymore… I’ve been so scared that no one would look after me when I got old and sick, and now I know I don’t need to worry about that.”
I think we all ultimately know that fear. God knows I’ve been intimate with it.
We’re a tribal society, despite how uncivil we can sometimes be to each other. It’s our heritage, our legacy. We’re in it together… so being alone is something seemingly incongruous to human nature. But we need to know we’re able to handle it, and so few of us ever really try to learn if we can.
We sometimes fail to see how much society conditions us to need the approval of others – from report cards as kids, job reviews as adults, and every fucking time we use our debit cards, it’s all about getting approval. When you’re single and alone, who’s there to give it to you? Who’s there to tell you in the night that everything’s going to be all right?
You. Just you. Me. We’re self-contained, but everything about our society tells us we’re not. It’s a struggle. It’s hard. Never underestimate the difficulty of going it alone, but also, never ever underestimate the wonder of making it work. There is nothing more rewarding than that night when you realize there’s no one in the world that could make you feel better than you feel right then, right there.
Loneliness will always find you, though, but it will always leave you, too. It’s like a tide. It ebbs, it flows, and you just need to find the rhythm.

Stuck In Single: The Weekend Blues?

I’m a sucker for makeover shows. I’m addicted to TLC’s What Not To Wear. In fact, I’d say it’s played a major part in why I’ve lost 30 lbs, and why I will continue to take another 35 or so off. It’s why I wear makeup religiously again, something I got out of the habit of when life turned to shit at age 25. It’s why I’ve gotten hip and cute and usually find myself winking or smiling at myself when I pass a mirror (a conscious thing).
Self-esteem was something I just never had. I never really liked myself and always considered myself an ugly duckling and uncool. I played the role of cool chick with cool attitude when I was out of high school and in early college, and always hung with the older, cooler crowd, but deep down inside, I felt I was a poseur.
There are days, still, when I’m left feeling like a poseur. I’m genuinely shocked when I get emails and comments from people praising my writing, for example. I can’t fathom what folks see in it – some days. And other days, I feel like I’m really all that. It’s a constant struggle, loving oneself, but it’s a fight worth fighting.
I get asked from time to time how one copes with being single. I’ll tell you, I’ve got experience in that. When my life went to hell in a handbasket at age 25, with the demise of a longtime relationship, the death of my mother, and other fun events, the last thing I was interested in was my image. The next last thing I cared about was a relationship. I knew myself well enough to know that getting into a relationship would be a death knell for me. It would, inevitably, go bad. (I mean, let’s face it – the average relationship is 90% likely to die within four years, and we all know relationships seldom go gently into thy good night.) And when it went bad, I would blame myself, hate myself, and go into a blind rage at He Who Caused It – and I knew it’d all be displaced anger I felt over all the other shit that was going on, and I knew it’d mean I wasn’t dealing with what needed to be dealt with.
So, I stayed single. For five years. I won’t even tell you what happened with sex – the occasional fling, which didn’t do much to help the self-esteem issue and instead left me hating myself even more. I learned that having sex for fun is one thing, but having sex to fill emotional needs that aren’t really being met, that’s just destructive. So I stopped getting laid, too, and got my shit together first.
I had a serious car accident and was lucky – the insurance company paid for me to have a personal trainer. Her name was Christine and wherever she is now, she played a major role in teaching me to learn to love myself and appreciate my health. I was fat, I was depressed, I was angry, and I had little to be thankful for, I thought, but I pushed myself despite the world of physical pain I was living in. She was incredible, she encouraged me so much and told me I was kicking ASS on her healthy, normal clients. And I remembered something about myself – I was a determined, strong person. I can do this, I thought.
And I did. I lost about 50 lbs over the next year or so, and have sort of stagnated for awhile, but never really gained anything back. Now, I’m losing weight again and plan to drop more – without depriving myself of those things I love, like red wine and chocolate and all those delectable good things that add richness to my life. I’d rather bust my ass physically than lose the good things, y’know? (Remember, I’m a big proponent of the all-sex diet. I’m not adverse to a good workout, and hey… I’m determined. 😉
But it wasn’t just the working out that helped me change. It was realizing that I would eventually spend the rest of my life with someone, but here, now, I was alone, and the more I talked to those who were “spending their life” with the person they loved, the more I heard “I wish I could be single again, just for awhile. I’d do it differently…”
And I vowed to live my single life better. I could dine out alone with a good book and love the experience. I’d occasionally hop on my bike, kill myself for a hardcore ride around the city, stop at a seaside café, and enjoy the moment. On Saturday nights stuck home alone, I’d have a long, lingering, oily bath and some nice red wine and make myself an incredible grilled steak meal with all the fixings. I’d enjoy the silence. And sometimes I’d write about myself and all the things from my past and present that limited my enjoyment of life until then, and the dreams I had for my future.
Slowly, surely – and this process is ongoing, so don’t kid yourself about it being an overnight process because it takes years – I have come to love myself. Most of the time. Like I say, there are times I don’t feel right. Times I feel like a poseur with writing. Times I feel out of my league. But I plow through. I try to find something positive to hang onto on those days and that’s all I know I can do.
In the last couple years, I’ve had one “sort of” relationship that detonated because the guy had more baggage than a Samsonite shop, but I’ve been on an endless parade of dates with an endless assortment of men. And none of them have been worth my time beyond that first date. No matter what I’ve learned about what I want from love, I know I love myself too much to bother getting involved with someone who’s not going to be all the things I need him to be.
I’m having a rare, rare second date tomorrow night, and I’m optimistic, but I’ll keep my mouth shut about that beyond saying this, he’s a nice guy and he’s different from most of the guys I’ve been seeing ‘cos there’s an intellectual connection that just works. (So, possibly proof here that nice guys don’t always finish last. Take note.)
But if it doesn’t work out, you know what? Not the end of the world. That’s just the way life goes. In the end, I’ve got myself, and that’s a pretty good consolation prize.
So, here’s the deal. If you’re stuck at home alone, sans relationship, with that “Why can’t I find anyone?” woe-is-me mindset this weekend, stop it. Have a quality drink, a nice meal, wear whatever the hell you want, close the blinds, and have some nice time alone. Take a latenight walk with your iPOD, have a long hot bath, call someone you’ve not spoken to in ages, write a bit in your journal. But stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Being single is the freedom to be who you want to be, any time you want. And don’t forget it. Relationships, when they’re good, they’re great. When they’re not, well, honey, you don’t need that shit. You got you. Enjoy it.

The Cunt Gets a Megaphone

Hi, I’m Steff, and I’m the proud owner of a soapbox.
I’m a smart gal, but it’s a big world and a lot of happenings escape my notice. If you see something that gets under your skin, that just ain’t right, and you want me to comment, send that bad-boy link to me, and if it gets my panties in a bunch, I’ll take it on.
There’s no fewer than a half-dozen stories from today alone that have me really, really pissed off. I want to speak to the issues, and I need your help. Send me links. Send me excerpts. My email’s on the sidebar, and my box is open to you – always. I may not get back to you quickly, but if it pisses me off, there’ll be a rant posted same day.
I’ve always been a very political person, but over the last five years I’ve become increasingly silent on issues because I’m so depressed about the state of neighbouring America and the turmoil around the world, but I’m sick and tired of keeping my mouth shut when it seems so damned few people are saying anything of consequence. It’s time I put my money where my mouth is and speak my mind. It’s time I lead by example – it’s time we all did, and I don’t mean those sanctimonious religious fuckers who are trying to legislate morality.
I have sex as often as I’m able, within the constraints of my own sense of morality. I’ve given blow jobs. I’ve taken it backwards and forwards. I’ve used birth control of more than one variety. I’ve had sex in public places. I own sex toys. I’ve watched porn. I’ve tried to become better and better at sex every time I have it. I own bondage gear.
And I am not yet on a first-name basis with Satan. Shocking, I know, but true. I, in fact, (gasp) have gone to church in the last six months. I donate to charity. I do not have a criminal record. I do housework. I pay my taxes – honestly. I don’t lie on my resume. I call my parents regularly. I’m always punctual. I’m a model employee. I treat people with respect. I ride a cute scooter and obey the laws of the road.
Nonetheless, right now, I’d like to be getting shagged silly, and if that makes me amoral, then sign me up, baby.
Religious Right, fuck right off.

Rights and Freedoms

Money, they say, is the root of all evil. Arguable, at the best of times.
Today, though, a coalition of 18 companies are telling us that they’re gonna put a stop to that tree of evil when it comes to child pornography. While child porn is, in my opinion, one of the worst things a human can be a part of, it’s also a multi-billion dollar industry. Where there is money, there is a way.
That coalition — including the likes of Visa, Mastercard, PayPal, Wells Fargo, e-gold, Microsoft, and more — has vowed to stamp out the commercial viability of child pornography. Payments to such sites will be halted. Cease and desist orders shall be issued.
I suppose I should stand up and cheer. Hurrah for the good guys! Instead, I’m sitting here thinking “What the fuck took you so long?”

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In OTHER news… more reasons to love living under the Maple Leaf. I was chatting yesterday with a new arrival here in Vancouver, an internet sex-industry business guy who’s moved to Canada to get out from under the repressive sexual climate that the United States is becoming.
He illustrated his point with this story. The gist is this. You can’t buy a sex toy in Mississippi.
A double-barrel shotgun? Sure! A high-power vibrator? Fuck you, you sick fuck! You’re gonna do WHAT with that thing? Up the ASS? Holy shit, you sodomizing sick son of a bitch! Henry, get me my rifle!
I just can’t even begin to understand how a country –that’s clearly smoking crack– can purport to be “the land of the free” and you can’t even buy a fucking toy to use on yourself in the privacy of your own goddamned home.
And where the fuck are the people? There are those who are out there saying what needs to be said. There are those trying to fight for freedoms for all of you, and maybe you don’t think the Right to Vibe is up there with the rest of your freedoms, but how can a line be drawn? You are free, or you are not. But where in the FUCK are the REST of you? Where are YOUR voices?
America is sometimes the greatest illusion in the world. There’s the dream of America, and there’s the reality of America, and sometimes some of us just wish y’all would open your fucking eyes and see which is which.
Demand your freedom. Demand that your government not just try to pose as the land of the free, but that it seeks to define laws that are inspired by the spirit of what your constitution claims that it is.
If there’s anything more heart-breaking than the APATHY of America today, I wish someone would tell me what it is. As a Canadian, it breaks my fucking heart to see the changing of your nation from across the 49th parallel.
Rise up and stab ’em with your plastic forks, people, ‘cos it ain’t getting any better any time soon. You have voices. Fucking use them.

Filler: It Is What It Is, Baby

Ever have those days where you just love being you? Something about being you just feels even more fun than normal.

This is that day for me. Nothing special, oddly. I can’t write to save my life. Total block. I’ve started six pieces today, and none have finished. I have a headache, still a bit sick, the weather’s still crap and cold and grey, I’m still broke, but shit, man, I’m really just digging being me — roadblocks and all.

So, considering how futile writing is today, I think you’re stuck with nothing to brag about for postings. But here’s a cute little snippet I wrote a long time ago for elsewhere:

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One of my bestest friends, GayBoy, (aka Mr.Tits.Pervert in comments here) works at a Starbucks. Nay, did I say work? Indeed not. GayBoy assistant manages the lowly proletariats who man the cesspool of coffee.

Actually, he enjoys his work most of the time and likes the company. As do I. I think I get hundreds of dollars of coffee free per annum by way of the all-joed-out GayBoy.

What he’s not too crazy about, though, is the hood in which he slings caffeine. Let’s call it the corner of “Crack and Whore.”

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Enter Volume One of the Crack and Whorescapades.

My friend tells me all manner of stories from his work. Some cause a chuckle, but most are pretty tragic. I joke around a lot about dope, but when it comes to drugs, if some dude didn’t grow it while listening to The Grateful Dead and chanting passages of The Bhagavid Gita, then I don’t go there.

A lot of these streetworkers trip out on crack and meth. Whenever they’re tweaking, they need sugar fixes. Maybe there’s a reason my friend’s shop exceeds retail goals every month.

He tells me that when he’s pouring a caramel macchiato behind the bar, the hookers will drape themselves over the bar as he squirts his syrup in their cups, and cry out, “More please! More please!”

When they’ve ordered a pastry, they’ll call out, “The big one! The big one! That one, there!”

They’re professionals, you know. So you know what this means, don’t you? The vote is in: Size officially does matter.

I Hear My Monthly Train A-Comin'

Something’s snapped in me this afternoon. I awoke with a spasm in my neck from having slept wrong after my before-the-crack-of-dawn inhalations of an illicit nature, and my mood has steadily declined since.
I won’t bore you with my shit. Suffice to say my day is a heady stew of money woes, persistent battles with the flu, a turn to shit for the weather, and being overwhelmed by several things that loom ominously before me, like rent. My inability to do a single productive thing today has resulted in a blackening of my previously “just dark” mood, and now the forecast for my evening has me thinking I should’ve started this fucking thing with, “It was a dark and stormy psychic evening when our protagonist…”
And it clicks. Coupled with my stresses and the full-fucking-moon rising somewhere on the horizon is the dreaded bitch of PMS.
There is a reason, my friends, that PMS has previously been used as a “diminished responsibility” defense for murder: Sometimes, you go right fucking nuts.
And the funny thing is, most of us, we know it’s coming. Every single month you get that day or two where nothing’s going to work. Your mood’s gonna get worse and worse no matter what’s going on, and all you can do is just cope – that is, you would cope, if you actually realized it was just biology fucking with your head again.
Trouble is, it’s usually not until you’re half-way through the ever-increasing darkening that you remember: It’s that fucking time of the month again. It’s your early warning system for the red tide, and the villagers better get the fuck out of the way.
Women despise PMS. Women loathe the emotional charges that come from being victims of estrogen. We wish for days of smoother sailing, when everything would be a little less turbulent. Some days there’s just nothing a gal can do but wait to ride out the storm.
You guys think it sucks? Try riding the wave from inside the barrel sometimes, boys. You ain’t fucking woman enough to deal with half the head games brought on by that fickle bitch named Estrogen.
Personally, when moods like this fell me, I stay out of everyone’s way when I can. I keep the conversations short and sweet, I keep to myself, I keep my mouth shut, and I keep out of trouble.
‘Cos god knows I just don’t have the patience for a court trial, diminished responsibility or no. Just be happy I’ve got cheap, dull kitchen knives tonight is all I’m saying, man.
If I had any Midol kickin’ ‘round tonight, I’d grind those bad boys into powder, let ‘em swim in vodka and cranberry, and I’d call it the Red Tide Rising martini. At least then I could be a bitch in style.

A Game For New (And Old) Lovers

Part of the fun of a new relationship is that of getting to know each other. We get to make a mental checklist. You learn their mannerisms, routine comments, favourite phrases, what their contemplative expressions are, how they look in that moment where they’re truly relaxed, and so forth. In the bedroom, it’s no different.
(But let’s be honest. The beauty of a great relationship is that you continue learning about your lover over the long term. Hell, we never stop learning about ourselves, so how could we ever stop learning about them?)
We forget, sometimes, how truly expansive the land of lovemaking is. It covers vast territory, and the amount of activities at our disposal is legion. Sometimes, it might be nice to have a map at our disposal.
Enter this little game I’ve thought of. Let’s call it “School Me, Baby.” It’s a lusty little literary exercise, the kinda thing that turns a geek like me on.
You and your lover go to the bookstore and you each pick out a book on sexuality that best appeals to you. Now, it’s not rocket science, this book-selecting thing. Most of them will cover all the basics, but the question is whether or not it covers the best for you. I mean, self-help books are like underwear; almost any will technically do the job, but which best fits you is a highly subjective matter. In this matter, you want to ensure that the book covers everything from foreplay to positioning. If you’ve got kinks, you may have to buy a second book to reflect that, too, so go right ahead.* Take the time to scan through books. If you’re not really pro at deciding what books work for you, simply pick one subject to look up in each; say, oral. Read. Whichever passage evokes the experience best for you, that’s the book that best fits you.
So, you pick a lazy Sunday morning, head into the bookstore together, and spend an hour or two just browsing through sex books in the corner together. Decide which one each of you wants to take home, buy them, and head back to the pad.
Now you get to either head home to read in different parts of the house, or you can separate for the day and read in different areas. The only thing is, you’re going to decide how much you’ll be reading, and if you want to, what sections you’ll be covering. (Foreplay? Oral? Anal? Kinky? Old-fashioned lovemaking? Something rougher? Waterplay?)
You’ll make arrangements to meet again soon – that night, the next – for dinner.
Between now and then, your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to read the required readings with a highlighter in hand. Anything that turns you on, gets you revving, or has you touching yourself, you highlight.
You can make an evening of reading the passages together, if you like, or you can trade books and get together again the next night, after you’ve done your homework. I think it’d be kind of sexy and hot to get a bunch of candles going, toss a blanket on the floor, scatter pillows about, and open up to, say, the highlighted section on oral. Naked, sprawled on the floor, the receiver reads the passage out to the soon-to-be-giver, and when the giver’s suitably inspired, they get down to work – possibly even while still being read to.
I have this image of the guy going down, hearing about, oh, say clitoral sucking techniques, and after he gives it a valiant try, looking up, and saying “Like that?” This is one of those times you can have a dialogue while you’re doing it. Have fun, exchange feedback, make it a game where you try slight variations of each technique, and see what one provokes the best reaction. Call it the “compare and contrast” segment of the evening.
Any which way, the point is that you learn from your lover’s perspective, in clear and certain terms, what it is that they find works for them, or what it is they’d like to experience.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no two bodies are the same. There is no one surefire just-add-water instant-orgasm trick. Everyone has different needs, and for many people, it’s really hard to express exactly what it is we’re desiring. This is one of those little tricks designed to take care of those differences between us all.
VARIATIONS:
Not only can you highlight what turns you on as far as having done to you, but you can also highlight, in another colour, the things you’d love to do to your partner.
You can buy the book for your lover, highlight all the things you’d like to have done to you, and put Post-It notes opposite those sections with little suggestive notes, such as, “And in return, I would pin you down, and then perform – turn to page 94.” On page 94, you’d highlight raunchier parts the passage of what it is you’d do. Use page tabs to mark sections.
When reading your lovers’ book’s highlighted passage, if anything smacks of something you’d like to experience that wasn’t covered in your own book, underline it and mark the page for your lover.
As mentioned above, there are kinks in the world. Kinks are made, not born, and if you’re entering a new phase with your lover where kinks are something you’re wanting to explore together, starting that phase with an exercise like this, except using books focusing on BDSM and other alternative lifestyles, might ensure you’re both on the same page when you’re starting out, or give you an overview of the possibilities the new lifestyle you’re considering might offer to you as a couple.

Advice for Young Lovers

The sun was rising by 6a.m. this morning, and spring seems to be all around. A comment was left by an 18-year-old male, and I thought about when I was 18, the first time I made love, and how disappointed I was. I thought about the things I wish I’d been told back then. These are them.
Everyone tells you not to rush things. As a female, this is doubly true. Men can begin having sex younger and have positive results sooner, provided they know what they’re doing, but for women, more than 30% will not orgasm until well past their 20th birthday.
The best advice anyone can ever tell you about sex is this, it’s not about the orgasm.
Sex is about cartography and geography. Sex is literally the lay of the land. It’s about discovering your partner’s body – all of it. It’s about knowing how he or she reacts when you kiss the back of their knees, what favourite odd spots on their bodies you can suck and bite and have them shudder senselessly.
It’s about being in the moment, reacting to every little thing your lover does, either vocally or physically. It’s forgetting about end results and expectations. It’s here, now, and nothing more, regardless of what you might wish to make of it.
Sex is a language, and like any language, it takes time to learn the subtleties that distinguish an amateur from a master. Like any language, one can spend their entire lives improving their abilities and exploring ways to use the words. Writers become greater as their lives extend, orators become more powerful every speech they deliver. So too do lovers command skill as time passes.
Women take longer to identify with their sexual selves. As a young male lover, you need to be brave enough to talk to your woman before you have sex. You have to make a pact to tell each other when something feels comfortable or not, you need to express your fears and apprehensions, and if you have boundaries, you must state them, and they must be respected. You need to never take it personally when something’s not working. It’s biology, not you.
Women also take longer to be aroused. If she isn’t wet, she’s likely not aroused*. You could use lubricant, but then you would be jumping the gun. If she ain’t feeling it, honey, it ain’t happening. The more aroused you make her, the more you’ll realize how awesome it feels to take someone to that place. Take the time to really make a journey of it.
As a young female lover, you must lower your expectations. At first, things might hurt, but then they begin to feel incredible, if your lover has skill. Think of it as getting your ears pierced. Sex, like wine and blue cheese, can sometimes be an acquired taste for a young woman, but you need to get past the fear and apprehension. If you don’t feel like you can trust your lover, then you have no business sleeping with him.
In no place in our lives is trust more important than between us and our lovers.
You have to trust that if you said, You can do anything you’d like to me, that they would know where to stop.
You have to be patient. You have to know that the best sex of your life will not come until after the age of 25, if not after the age of 30. You have to know that sex is the physical manifestation of emotion. It’s spontanaeity, need, desire, passion, love, lust, curiousity, creativity, and eagerness balled up into one experience. It can be overwhelming when it’s great, and for new lovers, that can be intimidating and shut you down. Do not be afraid of the feelings, let go. Embrace it.
Making love is the physical act of making yourself vulnerable. When it comes to day to day life, we tend to try to avoid vulnerability. We do everything we can to not reveal our fears and failures to others. When making love, there’s nothing you can hide. It’s all there. You might as well give in to the moment and embrace the exposure vulnerability brings with it.
As you grow up, you realize the old cliché is true. If it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. The more you’re able to make yourself vulnerable in everyday life, the richer your relationships of all kinds shall be, the deeper your experiences with others will be. Perhaps you’ll be hurt easier more often, but the depths and richness of other relationships will far exceed the pale of a cautiously lived life. So too with sexual experiences. The more you trust each other and open up, the greater the sexual reward.
I’m old-fashioned and I don’t believe people should have sex until they’re 18 or so. I’m a pragmatic person, though. Whenever I do something new, I educate myself about it. I read everything I can, I learn what I need to learn, and I do what I need to do, and I do it well. The only time that didn’t happen was with sex, as I first slept with a lover at 17. As time went on, I educated myself and learned more. It changed everything for me.
The best thing you can do is head to your local independent bookstore that focuses on psychology and sexuality and scour the sexuality section for a book that speaks in a language that you relate to. Then, learn about the biology of the human form, not just what the bits and pieces are called, but how they will respond to your touch. I think it’s better to do this in a bookstore because there’s so much misinformation and opportunism on the web. Just my two cents.
But don’t take the authors’ word for what makes great sex & great loving. Take your lovers’ word. Every person’s body responds differently to touch, and you absolutely must know from your lover what is or is not working for them. You cannot just assume what you’re doing is working, since that twitch or shudder may be from discomfort. Ask. Let them tell you what they feel about what you’re doing, and again, do not take it personally.
It’s not about you. It’s about them. Never forget that.
If you cannot speak about sex with your partner, then your communication on everything else will be shit as well. You must be able to express what you want and need, because these are the things that are true to your core. If you cannot express these things, then what of any consequence, I ask, can you ever express?
And when you learn to be patient, to communicate, to react to each other, to trust each other, then you will be on the road to reaching sexual satisfaction together.
Don’t forget, it’s nice to feel pleasure yourself, but it’s incredible to know you’re providing it for another. Learn to enjoy the experience of giving, since that’s what separates the good lovers from the great: Generosity.

*There are SOME women with lubrication difficulties who sometimes never really emit the same signs of arousal as another woman might, so again, communicate and follow the signs. Does she look like she wants more of you? Does she look ready to take it a notch further? Use your powers of deduction, Sherlock. Better yet? Ask.

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