If I'm on the Rag, Get Off Me

I don't like period sex.

There. I said it.

That might ruin the image I have of myself as a fairly sex-positive person, but I just can't get into it. It's not that I find menstruation gross or unnatural--in fact, most months I exhale a long sigh of relief when I see that rust-colored blood come forth as proof modern medicine has kept me from reproducing for another month. But once I see the stain, I don't want to see a dick inside me until it's over.

The reasons for this? First of all, I really don't like a mess. I've just started remembering to pull the comforter off the bed before fucking because it's easier to toss sex-sullied sheets into the wash than the whole blanket. Most months, a post-coital scene when it's that time would look like the horse head scene from The Godfather. Which, quite frankly, nobody needs to see.

But the major reason why I don't want to fuck at the height of my period is because I don't want to be touched by any one for any reason while I'm on the rag. I'm so bloated I feel I might pop like a tick on the back of a dog. My boobs hurt. I've got gas. All I want to do is indulge my food cravings and be left the hell alone until I feel like a human being again.

If you're into shagging on the rag, I salute you. But if you need me, I'll be on the sidelines until the day Aunt Flo leaves town.

If Just for One Day

I think the world would be a better place if for one day we got to experience the world as a member of the opposite gender.

I don't mean dressing like a dude or lady--I mean actually waking up one random day in your young life as a member of the opposite sex. I'd love to see a dude deal with stabbing cramps, mood swings, and making less money for the same work.

Personally, I would like to have a dick for two very specific reasons--to experience sex from the male perspective, and to pee while standing up. I would spend my day as a dude consuming massive amounts of liquids just so I could whip it out and piss anywhere. On walls. On bushes. Writing my name in the snow? Yes, please!

I also think it would help me to appreciate the little things I love so much about being a woman even more. Being able to be turned on in inconvenient places without having to hide myself below the waist. Having the option of wearing pants or skirts. And I very much enjoy having boobs.

So if whatever deity that's out there could make this happen, I'd appreciate it.

Taking Head on the Road

I don't think of myself as particularly kinky. I don't have a sex swing hanging in the doorframe of my bedroom. I've never donned a latex suit. Sure, I enjoy some fairly forceful smacks to the ass, and I own a pair of handcuffs. But when I think about it, compared to most people you read about, I actually am kinda freaky.

Take, for example, my propensity for going down on guys in very public places.

I don't mean in front of the Sbarro at the mall food court, but I like taking oral out of the house. It started, as it does with most girls, in high school, giving a guy road head as he lurched his car along the quietest roads he could find. In college, it was doling out head in the stacks in the basement of the library.

A few years ago, I was out with a bunch of friends. After a few beers, this guy I'd been digging for a long time and I stood outside with the smokers. I leaned up against him. We kissed. He conveniently "had to get something from his car." My head swimming in hormones and Pabst, I followed him to the parking lot, which was eerily dark. He took a seat on a wall with a convenient height and in a particularly isolated corner of the lot, and I gave my first very public head. Luckily, he was so turned on it didn't take very long to get him off.

In the post-AIDS world, we've got to take our sexual risks where we can. Keep the rubber on, fella, but let's run the risk of an open and gross lewdness charge.

Should've Learned to Play Guitar

If I have any regrets in life, outside of not giving Nancy S. the high hard one when she begged me to back in college (seriously, what the fuck was I thinking?), it's that I never learned to play the guitar.

Because if you can play the guitar, you're getting laid. Period.

It's the one thing that can help you overcome almost any shortcoming. Not particularly attractive? That didn't stop Motley Crue's Mick Mars -- who looks like a waxwork dummy from the Smithsonian's Neanderthal exhibit -- from landing a twenty-four year old German masseuse. Something of an asshole? Axl Rose has his pick of underwear models. Christ, Keith Richards has been officially dead for about fifteen years, but he can still have all the teenage pussy he wants. Because he's Keith Richards, goddam it. And he plays the guitar.

You don't even have to be a particularly famous rock star, either. A fifty year old guy in a corner bar trying to pick up twentysomething girls is downright pathetic. But strap a guitar on that geezer, and chances are, by night's end, there'll be at least half a dozen chicks fighting for a lift home in his Lincoln Town Car.

For further evidence of the magic of guitars, check out this clip from Elvis Costello's Spectacle talkshow. A grandfatherly singer named Jesse Winchester, whom I'd never heard of before this show, reduces every woman in the place to loose change with a very simple, guitar-strummed tune. If he was the janitor in the local high school, he wouldn't get a second glance. But look how in this segment he has my girlfriend, Neko Case, in tears!



Typically, I'm the wise-ass making sport of old people. But I have to tip my hat here. If there was any pussy to be had that evening, rest assured, Jesse Winchester was having it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have that guitar lesson at noon...

Know Your Bits

I am constantly amazed at how little men know about the intricacies of the female reproductive system and all the things associated with it. I recall sex education (back when kids got that kind of education) -- the girl bits and boy bits were discussed to a co-ed classroom. But while I was furiously labeling the vas deferens and fallopian tubes on my quizzes, they boys were clearly not paying attention after the condom and banana demonstration.

The guys I know don't understand scented versus unscented tampons. Most men don't understand why we have cramps, or the crazy variations in hormone levels women endure every month. They don't know the difference between a UTI and a yeast infection. And while that doesn't necessarily keep them from being good in bed, shouldn't men be a little curious about what goes on in our bodies, both when they're in there and when they're not?

My ex-boyfriend and I were on a road trip a few years back, and somehow I ended up jokingly reading him the packet of information that comes with every package of birth control pills. He turned down the radio as I informed him of the increased risk of blood clots I faced in my quest not to bear his children. I continued through the section about when to start the pills (if you take it on the first day of your period it's effective right off the bat; if you start on a random day, you need backup contraception for a month). When my voice started to give out, I put the book down and expected to listen to the radio again for a while.

"Why are you stopping?" He asked me. "This is fascinating. Keep reading."

Maybe we're just trying to educate the lads at the wrong age.

Songs in the Key of F&%^ing

Sex is an act that creates its own soundtrack. The gentle pat pat pat of bellies touching. The squeak of mattress springs as they yield to the bodies they support. The occasional queef, and the giggles that inevitably follow.

But sometimes, sex needs music. One time, a buddy of mine found the tie on the doorknob of his dorm room, with the sound of Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" blaring from his stereo. Hours later, his roommate emerged, nearly catatonic from hours of intense fucking.

Years ago, I was sleeping with an admitted music snob. Generally, we avoided plugging in the iPod when he plugged into me because he'd get distracted. But we once spent an entire afternoon shagging to the dulcet music of The Roots. It had a perfect rhythm, but was also great at blending into the background when we got distracted with each other. Granted, this memory is tainted now because this band is now Jimmy Fallon's house band, but a musician's got to eat.

The music you listen to while fucking should never be heard at a wedding. It shouldn't be a song that was ever popular--while booty-shaking at the club is great, you don't want to snap the guy's dick off while fuck-dancing to "Single Ladies." The songs should not involve break-ups, weddings, or Tori Amos. And for the love of God, don't turn it up too loud. You want to hear your partner turning into mush beneath you.

The Dangers of Young Love

Valentine's Day is a dangerous enough holiday for those who are in committed relationships. If you don't get flowers for your lady, you're in trouble. If the flowers aren't unique or expensive enough, you might be in trouble. Do chocolates insinuate she's fat? If you don't try out the moves you learned from Carmen Electra's OnDemand Stripper Class, is he going to think you're not into him?

But perhaps the worst-case scenario is to be in a fledgling relationship in mid-February. When you're about four dates in, have had the first fuck, and are just starting to introduce the fellow to your friends. "What are you guys doing for Valentine's Day?" They coo. You play coy. But the panic sets in.

What are we doing for Valentine's Day?!

You don't want to ask him. But you kind of have to, don't you? If you don't ask, will he think you're out with someone else? Is he out with someone else? Do you buy him a present? Do you just buy some sexy underwear for him to throw on the floor in the heat of newfound lust? Do you agree to have another date and steadfastly ignore the people popping the question all around you?

WHAT IS THE PROTOCOL?

The hell with this. I'm staying home with the two reliable men in my life--Ben and Jerry.

Out Here in No Man's Land

Attention please, I have an announcement.

Guys are horndogs.

Hardly a revelation, I know, but one of the most interesting things about the male species is how we can take a sentence as innocuous as "Would you like some apple juice?" and contort it into something racy, possibly involving rimjobs.

I used to think we were bad. Until I began working in an office full of women.

I'm the only guy in my department. There are seven others here, all women, ranging in age from 22 to 54. And, somehow, the sex talk and innuendo flies at a rate rivaled only by, I'm guessing, a construction site.

Last week, in a meeting, I attempted to adjust the video projector to enlarge the output on the screen. Unable to get it to work, I uttered the most unfortunate line: "Why can't I make this bigger?"

Without missing a beat, the 54 year old quips, "Oh, honey, bring it over here. I can make it bigger."

Not to be outdone, the pregnant 32 year old adds, "I find breathing on it can help."

Suddenly, they're off.

"Want me to sit on it?"

"Tell it how hot it's making you."

"Give it a little nibble right there [pointing to the underside of the projector]."

You get the point [these are all verbatim, by the way]. There were more interjections, but my mind couldn't process it all, what with their hysterical laughter punctuating every line. Needless to say, I sat there, red faced and nervous, fumbling with the projector until it finally worked.

Then there was the seemingly harmless birthday party for a coworker, which quickly shifted gears when my boss, of all people, informed us that her 14-year old son recently asked her what "sixty nine" meant.

This launched a half-hour discourse on -- you guessed it -- sixty-nining, so I got to stand around and listen to seven women discuss the merits of sitting on guys' faces.

Hey, I didn't just get off the boat. I've lived with women. I see them in action. I watch re-runs of Sex in the City, goddamn it.

But each and every day at the office, I find myself thinking the phrase I never thought would ever pass my lips:

"Ladies, can you please stop talking about sex."

Love and Herpes

Sometimes, I wish love was more like herpes.

No. I really do. Because unlike love, one knows herpes when one has it. There's an easily-accessible checklist of symptoms. You go to your doctor, and she confirms your worst suspicions. Then you take your medicine and cope with the diagnosis.

Love is more like an episode of Mystery Diagnosis than herpes. The symptoms vary greatly, and typically don't fit a set pattern. You may misdiagnose as lust. Perhaps you've got a case of unrequited love that would fizzle out if you got whom you wanted. You could suffer symptoms (meeting his parents, moving in together, planning a wedding) before you realize you have a really good friend, not someone you want to wake up next to in the nursing home.

I've heard so many stories from people who I believe are genuinely in love. For some, it took them years to recognize the importance of the other person in their life. Other times it was an almost immediate knowledge. Several of my happily married friends say that when they met their now-spouse, everyone else they'd ever had the opportunity of boning seemed less desirable. That's never happened for me, but I think I've been in love at least twice in my life.

I suppose love is more like the old trope about pornography--I'll know it when I see it. Or feel it. Just like I would the herp.

Crunch Time

I was visiting one of my female drinkin' buddies this past weekend and, after a couple shots, I launched into a little "horseplay" as I'm known to do once alcohol meets bloodstream: throwing her over my shoulder, biting her ass, mussing up her hair and all that.

And in the midst of this playful tussle, her knee accidentally met my sack.

Now, I know that this was an accident, because she mentioned it about 1,000 times as I laid on the floor, writhing, groaning, stripped of the energy or wherewithal to get back up on my feet. So she eventually departed to the kitchen, leaving me splayed out on all fours for about twenty minutes.

When I rejoined her later, after apologizing yet again, she asked me exactly what it feels like to get knocked in the balls. And after thinking about it for a few minutes, all I could say was... you know how a hard-on can control the male body? Pull it in all sorts of devious and potentially shameful directions? Well, the balls are the only thing in the male body that have the hard-on's override switch.

When they get hurt -- tender buggers that they are -- cancel your fucking plans, mate. With one word from the balls, the mightiest of erections crumbles to nothing in a matter of seconds. All that pumping, white-hot testosterone is replaced with shots of searing pain. Everything shuts down so that the balls can announce to the rest of the body, "We're injured, chaps. And you're all taking a break until we feel right again." And, yes, when my balls speak, it's in a silly-ass Irish accent.

You ladies have to put up with a lot of pain. There's that once-a-month thing you got going on. And childbirth, which my mother constantly reminds me was no picnic. And of course dealing with us guys is probably a special sort of hell.

But you can be thankful that you will never know what it feels like to take one to the nuts.

This Dirty Girl Is All Clean

In the ranking of Things I Enjoy Doing In Life, going to the lady-doctor comes in just above listening to nails on the world's longest chalkboard. It's not that I mind spreading my legs for the doctor--it's the whole atmosphere. It's cold in the office, so I have to keep my socks on. I'm wearing one of those heinous hospital gowns, which does me no favors. Sure, the doctor grabs my boobs (to check for cancer) before diving between my legs, but she's got all the finesse of a 15-year-old boy on prom night. Shouldn't she at least buy me a drink first?

Especially when she's running the battery of tests on me. There were a couple of nights when I forgot or neglected to forage for a condom, so I figured it was high time for me to get tested for all the various bugs one can get when getting busy. My gynecologist ran down an entire medical guide of tests she'd order for me. I rolled up my sleeve, gave the ornery technician several vials of my blood, and went on my way.

I wasn't really worried I actually had anything, but it was a great relief when I came home last week and saw a letter from my doctor in the mailbox. No STDs found in my blood or on my cervix. And my cholesterol levels are excellent.

The best part of all this, aside from not having a venereal disease? I can now wave these papers in front of the next guy I'm with. "Here's proof I'm clean, pal. If anything comes up the next time I get one of these, I'll know I have you to thank for it."