Fellow sex fiends, it’s been awhile since I have graced audiences with my crudity. It is with my biggest displeasure to announce that my column in Goucher College's newspaper, "The Quindecim" is banned after my last article on small penises (below) caused quite the stir. My apologies were not enough to prevent more attempted suicides from Goucher's male population, so the newspaper staff had to let me go. I do, however, get this awesome online column instead. Great, my audience will consist of me, myself and I, and my occasional stalkers.
Although I should have kept my opinion of the petty things in life within the knitting circle, Goucher's reaction to the column in general didn’t create the hard-on effect I had anticipated. That leads me to believe that a) we're just a bunch of prudes or b) I really pissed some people off.
I recently found out that that both of my assumptions are correct after receiving an angry letter from some parent, who was more than “shocked” to read such “pornography.” The person continued saying “I do realize that students engage in sexual activity; however, it need not be encouraged! In this day and age, when Baltimore city has the second highest rate of HIV/AIDs in the United States…it is appalling to read such an endorsement of promiscuity.” That’s right Mom, I’m sure the needle littered streets of downtown Baltimore scattered with cracked out heroine addicts have nothing to do with that statistic. Strapping on chastity belts will only lead to a nation agonized by blue balls and increased dildo use. Hope for the sex toy industry!
I haven’t even gotten to my favorite part of the letter: “The person who so proudly penned this article should have their name and picture next to it. I’m sure their parents would be very proud!” Actually, my parents are “very proud” although they would have preferred not to find out about my column by reading it on my travel blog, where I mistakenly posted it (that’s a whole other story…).
“Just please take it down before your grandparents see it,” my dad said.
My mom wasn’t so concerned. “You know, speaking of penises,” she said, “I once had a problem with the guy’s being too big!” she said laughing hysterically over the phone. I haven’t quite decided if this is an over-share or if I want to know more about my mother’s sexual past. It’s not like my family sits around the dinner table discussing the Karma Sutra, but sex and dating has never been discouraged.
“Congratulations!” my mom had said hugging me when I told her I lost my virginity a couple years ago. “How was it? Did you use condoms?”
My intent for writing about sex is not to encourage unsafe or careless promiscuity. The writer of the letter wrote that he/she was not interested in reading about “the sexual activities of a confused and misguided individual.” However, all of us who are “sexually active” (whatever that means) are ‘confused’ and ‘misguided’; that’s why we think of sex like seven times an hour or laugh whenever we hear the word “blow” “suck” or “eating out,” even when it’s not in context of a porn movie. If we ever figure out the mysteries and phenomena that go along with sex, than what else will occupy our minds?
Therefore, the purpose of this column is not to piss people off, it’s to provide a forum for all the other ‘confused’ and ‘misguided’ individuals out there who like to read and talk about sex. So I went a little too far last time, so I’ll tone things down a bit from triple-X level to R-rated. For those that still think that sex is about skipping in poppy fields with birds and bees, this column is not for you.
Friday, February 15, 2008
"It's not you, it's my penis complex."
I discriminate against small penises. My hands are up and I confess: I am a discriminatory sexpot. I hold a strict “no entry” policy for the entire race of Junior Johnsons. You know what I’m talking about – Gherkin-sized genitalia. Shrimpy shafts. Mini willies. Puny Peters.
However, about a week ago I did something I’ve never done before: I disobeyed my own rules.
It all started when I was out one night, having one of those lustful encounters with a guy at the bar. It was obvious from the first sexy eye-contact thing that there was going to be bedroom-after-bar action.
At the one-on-one after party in my bedroom, Bar Guy and I were totally immersed in a racy, aerobatic spit-swapping and frisky foreplay. We were, you know, doing the whole body-part-groping thing, the ripping-off-of-clothes, the hair-pulling, and the neck-biting. It was almost too hot for me to handle. Until, that is, my hand grazed his…. little rosebud.
ZAP!
That’s what it sounds like to me when the horny flame abandons my libido.
ZAP! is what happens when I see small penises.
ZAP!
Like being electrocuted, then going numb. Totally turned off. I was thinking, don’t put your pinky sized prick in my pussy.
As I was being zapped after my disappointing discovery and starting to consider putting out, I had a change in heart. If I was so attracted to Bar Guy initially, than why put such an irresistible attraction and a handsome man to waste? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It’s all about quality, not quantity. Right?
Wrong.
By the time we started going at it, I was completely zapped. My mind had wandered far from sex. I couldn’t even revive the tingling feeling in my stomach I felt during foreplay. Instead, I was thinking about how I had forgotten about my laundry in the dryer, how I should have vacuumed the carpet that afternoon, and how nice my room would look with a cream colored linen curtains.
It wasn’t like Bar Guy was bad or anything. He was doing all the right moves, all the things of “good sex.” He was all rough-and-tumble: lifting me up on my dresser, pinning me against the wall, rolling me around on my (un-vacuumed) carpet, busting out Karma Sutra moves. The guy had skills, and I’ll give him credit for that.
I was disappointed with myself. I had liked Bar Guy. I wanted to still be attracted to him. It was too late, though. My zing was zapped.
That’s when I realized: maybe I just have a Penis Complex, a crippling psychosexual disorder that’s incapacitated me from reaching my full sexual potential. I can’t help it. There’s just something about a stunted shaft that leads me to the compelling desire to avoid it. I can handle hairy asses, beer-bellies, and goatees, but small penises just plain turn me off. Sometimes they make me feel like a pervert, like I’m about to screw a five year old or something.
I’ve tried to overcome my problem, but I just can’t do it. So I’m back to my original policy. No bulge, no boning.
I’ll just have to live with having a limited sex life and in constant pursuit of 8’’ dicks.
I apologize in advance to all males with small penises I will encounter. If I put out, it’s not you. It’s my Penis Complex.
However, about a week ago I did something I’ve never done before: I disobeyed my own rules.
It all started when I was out one night, having one of those lustful encounters with a guy at the bar. It was obvious from the first sexy eye-contact thing that there was going to be bedroom-after-bar action.
At the one-on-one after party in my bedroom, Bar Guy and I were totally immersed in a racy, aerobatic spit-swapping and frisky foreplay. We were, you know, doing the whole body-part-groping thing, the ripping-off-of-clothes, the hair-pulling, and the neck-biting. It was almost too hot for me to handle. Until, that is, my hand grazed his…. little rosebud.
ZAP!
That’s what it sounds like to me when the horny flame abandons my libido.
ZAP! is what happens when I see small penises.
ZAP!
Like being electrocuted, then going numb. Totally turned off. I was thinking, don’t put your pinky sized prick in my pussy.
As I was being zapped after my disappointing discovery and starting to consider putting out, I had a change in heart. If I was so attracted to Bar Guy initially, than why put such an irresistible attraction and a handsome man to waste? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt. It’s all about quality, not quantity. Right?
Wrong.
By the time we started going at it, I was completely zapped. My mind had wandered far from sex. I couldn’t even revive the tingling feeling in my stomach I felt during foreplay. Instead, I was thinking about how I had forgotten about my laundry in the dryer, how I should have vacuumed the carpet that afternoon, and how nice my room would look with a cream colored linen curtains.
It wasn’t like Bar Guy was bad or anything. He was doing all the right moves, all the things of “good sex.” He was all rough-and-tumble: lifting me up on my dresser, pinning me against the wall, rolling me around on my (un-vacuumed) carpet, busting out Karma Sutra moves. The guy had skills, and I’ll give him credit for that.
I was disappointed with myself. I had liked Bar Guy. I wanted to still be attracted to him. It was too late, though. My zing was zapped.
That’s when I realized: maybe I just have a Penis Complex, a crippling psychosexual disorder that’s incapacitated me from reaching my full sexual potential. I can’t help it. There’s just something about a stunted shaft that leads me to the compelling desire to avoid it. I can handle hairy asses, beer-bellies, and goatees, but small penises just plain turn me off. Sometimes they make me feel like a pervert, like I’m about to screw a five year old or something.
I’ve tried to overcome my problem, but I just can’t do it. So I’m back to my original policy. No bulge, no boning.
I’ll just have to live with having a limited sex life and in constant pursuit of 8’’ dicks.
I apologize in advance to all males with small penises I will encounter. If I put out, it’s not you. It’s my Penis Complex.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Pussy Power
I’ve been thinking a lot about sluts lately. It all started when, out of my love for creative procrastination I decided to click on one of those distracting popup dating ads.
As I searched around the personal page, mocking the hilarity of people’s profiles, I noticed that the site had a link to personality tests. Since they’re the best way to waste your time and learn a lot of false stuff about yourself, of course I checked it out. There were quite a lot of self-enhancing identity tests, such as the Tits, Ass and Cuteness Test, the Would You Like My Boobs Test, the Legit Can You Give Good Head Test…and such titles that were so repulsively pathetic that even the motivation to procrastinate wasn’t enough to get me to fill out their questionnaire. As I was about to return to the glories of my textbooks and unromantic readings, I noticed the How Much of a Slut Are You Test? Fine, I thought, I’ll do one stupid test. Let’s see if my promiscuous nature is enough to qualify me a “slut.”
According to the “test,” I’m a 76% slut. My results read: “you are normalized against the average, so don’t even TRY to disagree with us. Science is certain, you are absolutely 76% Slutty.” Even though I know how brainless and empty these personality tests are, I couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed with being called an over-the-average slut. What did 76% slut mean? What are they saying, that my hypersexuality and sexually adventurous nature makes me a whore?
So that’s how it all started, how my mind has been preoccupied with slut-mania – the slut, sluts, slutting. I couldn’t stop wondering, why did I feel so offended for ‘scoring’ so high as a “slut”? If a slut means someone who is promiscuous, then why does that have to be a negative thing? And is there a difference between a slut and a sexually adventurous promiscuous woman?
The answer is yes, there is a difference, and it’s all about what I like to call a woman’s inner “Pussy Power.” A girl with pussy power, embodies the identity of modern sexuality. She is the “New Age” sex symbol. She embarks on promiscuous adventures to bolster her sexual empowerment and for the mere sensation, passion and enjoyment of the act of sex. She does not turn to sex for self-definition. Rather, she turns to the wonders of carnal bliss as a way to explore herself. Her pussy power is part of her self-confidence and thus she simply wants sex, loves it and embraces it. Her pussy power drives her desire for sheer lust.
A slut does not have pussy power – her acts of sex are not to empower herself, but rather to fulfill an empty ego void. She spreads her legs in a selfless attempt to boost her esteem. Her sexual acts are rather destructive on a personal and social level, and undermine the enjoyable intentions of sex.
However, maybe being a slut is just a stage in our natural lives of defining our identities. We all have a little slut in our history. It’s those that never move beyond that stage whom we should empathize with rather than insult. I’ll admit to being a slut before, engaging in sex for revenge, using my libido not to fulfill lust, but rather an inner loss. What I felt was not pleasure, but rather personal pain.
It takes time to find your pussy power, and I believe I’ve embraced mine. So maybe my test results meant that I had 76% pussy power. That changes the picture. So how much do you have? Go on. Test yourself.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The Annals of Anal: Cutting the Crap
There’s a popular saying among guys that women try anal sex twice: once to see how it is and twice to see if it was really that bad. That’s not quite true, at least not from my experience. The first time my boyfriend tried to bust some moves on my booty, I was caught completely off-guard, yelped in pain and shock and the next day felt like someone had shoved a giant flag pole up my ass and forgotten to take it out. Before that experience the only anal sex encounter I had was from reading a How-To feature in a Cosmopolitan magazine when I was fourteen. I was so disgusted I vowed to always keep my rear end celibate. Yet, after several more (gentle) attempts by my boyfriend to coax me into butt play, claiming it was one of his fantasies, I finally succumbed. I had told him once that I loved him so much I would do anything for him. So I was just keeping my word and being a good girlfriend.
However, later in our relationship when he started finger-fucking my rectum and ended up handling my shit hands on, the anal romance was over, at least for me. He claimed he didn’t care what was up my ass. Well I did, and I started to wonder – what is this obsession with anal sex?
“It’s so tight in there, it’s like fucking a virgin,” said my boyfriend, “and it’s so warm!” Ya, well last time I checked my pussy hole was pretty cozy too.
“It’s just another hole,” said one of my guy friends.
We’re so spoiled these days, since when is one not enough?
I decided to do a little investigative research into this booty play mystery and found that there is a lot of sex literature and advice out there defending fanny fornication and encouraging readers to try out this new “fad”. Apparently the trend is catching on for girls as well – at least one in four women have tried it. Babeland even makes a huge profit with their expansive “Butt Toys” collection from butt plugs to butt beads.
Anal sex started out tempting because it was something almost “forbidden,” and “naughty,” and gives people an overwhelming sense of domination. These incentives aren’t quite surprising – power, curiousity and breaking the rules are core themes of our sexual culture.
However, I found that a lot of the literature on anal sex was trying to glamorize it as if it’s the next best thing since the Rabbit. I say cut the crap - try it first and then tell it how it really is. I mean I’ve never met any girl who voluntarily has spread her butt cheeks and begged, "fuck my asshole!"So that’s what I’m here to tell you – the shitty truth of booty play. No pun intended, of course.
No more “myths”: Some truth in the taboos:
Myth #1:The anus is dirty.
Why this is a “myth” I have no idea. Of course it’s dirty. The only time an ass will ever look appealing is in tight jeans or a lacy thong. Let’s be honest here, there’s nothing sexy about what’s beyond it’s exterior.
Myth #2: Anal sex is painful.
It’s like waxing your legs. The first time it hurts like hell, then after you’ve done it for a year, it’s bearable, but uncomfortable. Or, I could just be unfortunate and other girls may have naturally loose and flexible rectums.
Myth #3: It’s messy.
Of course it’s messy - no matter how clean you can scrub your ass, there’s always some trace of leftovers.
What “experts” are saying makes anal sex comfortable and enjoyable, followed by my own commentary from experience:
1. “Relaxation, lubrication, communication".
This does work, but only if your guy is a saint. Let’s face it, men can’t communicate during sex, they think with their dicks. No matter how many times I repeated “take it slow,” his dick heard “fuck harder.”
2. Clean up. Experts and educators say that if you’re worried about it getting messy, go to the bathroom to clear out your bowels or wear a latex glove with lube on it during anal play.
This advice is so not sexy. Who in their right mind would say in the middle of a hot and heavy session, right when their erect partner is impatiently throbbing to enter, “hold on honey, I need to drop a log and give my ass an extra wipe… “
3. Get to know your butt. Start by feeling around the outside of the hole…
I love my butt, I really do. It’s firm, perky and I have a freckle on my right cheek. But I don’t love it that much.
So there you have it, the naked truth of fanny fucking. However, maybe I'm being a little harsh on anal sex. My eventual succumbing to doing it came from the lust to pleasure my man - but not just any man - someone I truly loved. When it comes to sex and love, pleasure is taken to a whole new level. Sometimes going beyond your comfort level is unbelievably gratifying and orgasmic when you know that you are pleasing someone you genuinely care for.
However, later in our relationship when he started finger-fucking my rectum and ended up handling my shit hands on, the anal romance was over, at least for me. He claimed he didn’t care what was up my ass. Well I did, and I started to wonder – what is this obsession with anal sex?
“It’s so tight in there, it’s like fucking a virgin,” said my boyfriend, “and it’s so warm!” Ya, well last time I checked my pussy hole was pretty cozy too.
“It’s just another hole,” said one of my guy friends.
We’re so spoiled these days, since when is one not enough?
I decided to do a little investigative research into this booty play mystery and found that there is a lot of sex literature and advice out there defending fanny fornication and encouraging readers to try out this new “fad”. Apparently the trend is catching on for girls as well – at least one in four women have tried it. Babeland even makes a huge profit with their expansive “Butt Toys” collection from butt plugs to butt beads.
Anal sex started out tempting because it was something almost “forbidden,” and “naughty,” and gives people an overwhelming sense of domination. These incentives aren’t quite surprising – power, curiousity and breaking the rules are core themes of our sexual culture.
However, I found that a lot of the literature on anal sex was trying to glamorize it as if it’s the next best thing since the Rabbit. I say cut the crap - try it first and then tell it how it really is. I mean I’ve never met any girl who voluntarily has spread her butt cheeks and begged, "fuck my asshole!"So that’s what I’m here to tell you – the shitty truth of booty play. No pun intended, of course.
No more “myths”: Some truth in the taboos:
Myth #1:The anus is dirty.
Why this is a “myth” I have no idea. Of course it’s dirty. The only time an ass will ever look appealing is in tight jeans or a lacy thong. Let’s be honest here, there’s nothing sexy about what’s beyond it’s exterior.
Myth #2: Anal sex is painful.
It’s like waxing your legs. The first time it hurts like hell, then after you’ve done it for a year, it’s bearable, but uncomfortable. Or, I could just be unfortunate and other girls may have naturally loose and flexible rectums.
Myth #3: It’s messy.
Of course it’s messy - no matter how clean you can scrub your ass, there’s always some trace of leftovers.
What “experts” are saying makes anal sex comfortable and enjoyable, followed by my own commentary from experience:
1. “Relaxation, lubrication, communication".
This does work, but only if your guy is a saint. Let’s face it, men can’t communicate during sex, they think with their dicks. No matter how many times I repeated “take it slow,” his dick heard “fuck harder.”
2. Clean up. Experts and educators say that if you’re worried about it getting messy, go to the bathroom to clear out your bowels or wear a latex glove with lube on it during anal play.
This advice is so not sexy. Who in their right mind would say in the middle of a hot and heavy session, right when their erect partner is impatiently throbbing to enter, “hold on honey, I need to drop a log and give my ass an extra wipe… “
3. Get to know your butt. Start by feeling around the outside of the hole…
I love my butt, I really do. It’s firm, perky and I have a freckle on my right cheek. But I don’t love it that much.
So there you have it, the naked truth of fanny fucking. However, maybe I'm being a little harsh on anal sex. My eventual succumbing to doing it came from the lust to pleasure my man - but not just any man - someone I truly loved. When it comes to sex and love, pleasure is taken to a whole new level. Sometimes going beyond your comfort level is unbelievably gratifying and orgasmic when you know that you are pleasing someone you genuinely care for.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Foreign Affairs: Sexed up and Overseas
Like many college juniors I studied abroad my second semester. I couldn’t wait to leave the Goucher College bubble and it’s lack of thrill for the beaches and volatile political scene of Israel. The timing was perfect to escape a relationship starting to sour and a life that was beginning to feel too routine for comfort.
I had expectations: I anticipated filling my time with traveling, touring, taking interesting and stimulating classes, exploring the culture scene and hopefully finding a handsome Israeli soldier to wed. I definitely met most of these goals, except tying down a hubby. The attention I got for being an outsider, especially an American, made me scrap any idea of monogamy. In light of my sexual escapades with Middle Eastern testosterone, my experience in the “Holy Land” was far from holy.
I was fortunate enough to have like-minded, sexually honest and horny roommates. Our “foreign affairs” were always the main topic, nothing was ever held back – we talked about everything from penis size of the men we were hooking up with, to position specifics, recreating our fornications using cutlery to demonstrate details (we were a quirky creative bunch).
Although I had been to Israel several times before, I never was there long enough to scope out the Sabra sex scene in depth. The only sexual encounter with an Israeli I had before this semester experience was a one-night stand in Eilat, a city at the southern most tip of the country. It was 6 am and a hundred degrees – the AC was broken, he was humping hard and showering me with sweat and I was too sun burnt to enjoy what I had always expected to be an “exotic” experience.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised with the sexual feats I had this time around – maybe because I was screwing city guys rather than desert hillbillies. Whatever it was, being the exotic flower amidst a land of foreign dicks spoiled me. Attracting men abroad was so easy, and with so many choices and ease my motto became, “first come, first serve.”
I wasn’t even two months into my semester and I already had several random hook ups in clubs/bars/alleyways, was eaten out in a car parking lot and had my first threesome with two hot soldiers. By the third month I had upgraded to an orgy in a yacht party on the Mediterranean, and by the fourth month I was fucking in a five-star club bathroom. By the last month I voluntarily committed to temporary celibacy – being a player in demand was exhausting.
However, towards the end of my intense sexed-up semester, being the foreign chick didn’t feel so glamorous anymore. In fact I started to feel more like a piece of meat rather than honey to bees. The catcalls and feeling like a magnet attracting unwanted attention because of my obvious “outsider” appearance turned me bitter and resentful. I would lash out with a bitchy attitude to any guy who would innocently approach me and say in an accent I used to find sexy, “Vere are you vrom?”
“Not from here and I don’t speak English,” I would harshly respond, in English of course.
Don’t get me wrong – getting a taste of men and sex beyond borders is fun, at first and especially if you find someone you really click with – like several of my friends were lucky to find.
Going abroad changed me and opened my eyes in several ways. One thing I learned is how to appreciate and make the most out of love, lust and relationships on domestic grounds; sex and romance can be just as exotic and romantic at home, sweet home.
I had expectations: I anticipated filling my time with traveling, touring, taking interesting and stimulating classes, exploring the culture scene and hopefully finding a handsome Israeli soldier to wed. I definitely met most of these goals, except tying down a hubby. The attention I got for being an outsider, especially an American, made me scrap any idea of monogamy. In light of my sexual escapades with Middle Eastern testosterone, my experience in the “Holy Land” was far from holy.
I was fortunate enough to have like-minded, sexually honest and horny roommates. Our “foreign affairs” were always the main topic, nothing was ever held back – we talked about everything from penis size of the men we were hooking up with, to position specifics, recreating our fornications using cutlery to demonstrate details (we were a quirky creative bunch).
Although I had been to Israel several times before, I never was there long enough to scope out the Sabra sex scene in depth. The only sexual encounter with an Israeli I had before this semester experience was a one-night stand in Eilat, a city at the southern most tip of the country. It was 6 am and a hundred degrees – the AC was broken, he was humping hard and showering me with sweat and I was too sun burnt to enjoy what I had always expected to be an “exotic” experience.
Yet I was pleasantly surprised with the sexual feats I had this time around – maybe because I was screwing city guys rather than desert hillbillies. Whatever it was, being the exotic flower amidst a land of foreign dicks spoiled me. Attracting men abroad was so easy, and with so many choices and ease my motto became, “first come, first serve.”
I wasn’t even two months into my semester and I already had several random hook ups in clubs/bars/alleyways, was eaten out in a car parking lot and had my first threesome with two hot soldiers. By the third month I had upgraded to an orgy in a yacht party on the Mediterranean, and by the fourth month I was fucking in a five-star club bathroom. By the last month I voluntarily committed to temporary celibacy – being a player in demand was exhausting.
However, towards the end of my intense sexed-up semester, being the foreign chick didn’t feel so glamorous anymore. In fact I started to feel more like a piece of meat rather than honey to bees. The catcalls and feeling like a magnet attracting unwanted attention because of my obvious “outsider” appearance turned me bitter and resentful. I would lash out with a bitchy attitude to any guy who would innocently approach me and say in an accent I used to find sexy, “Vere are you vrom?”
“Not from here and I don’t speak English,” I would harshly respond, in English of course.
Don’t get me wrong – getting a taste of men and sex beyond borders is fun, at first and especially if you find someone you really click with – like several of my friends were lucky to find.
Going abroad changed me and opened my eyes in several ways. One thing I learned is how to appreciate and make the most out of love, lust and relationships on domestic grounds; sex and romance can be just as exotic and romantic at home, sweet home.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Because you don't think about Picasso seven times an hour...
There is nothing like a great morning sack session to put you in the mood to go and see the Museum of Sex. What else is there to do with your post-orgasm high on a hot summer’s day in the city? Hidden behind construction and POST NO BILL boards on Park Avenue in New York City, the Museum of Sex is a genius three-story building entirely devoted to sex, with all its crudeness, glory and dark secrets - and I lived to tell the story.
The moment I walked in and was greeted by a life size cardboard dominatrix woman grasping a black strapped-on penis and holding up a sign that read, “please do not stroke, lick or mount the exhibits,” I knew I was in for a sexy treat.
And indeed I was. I decided to go solo, although I realized that was a big mistake. Here’s a tip for future sex museum-goers: its better foreplay than wine, candle light and Barry White (just kidding, who does that anymore?). Yet seriously, it will no doubt put anyone in the mood. I hadn’t expected the experience to be so orgasmic, which is probably why I was the only non-coupled up person there (even the Chinese tourists were coupled off!)
As I perused from exhibit to exhibit – first learning about the most outrageous and disturbing kinks and fetishes (like coming from helium balloons), to watching an hour or so of porn from the ‘20s to present and learning some raunchy Tantric sex positions (like the Pressed Flower Petal), I was so unbelievably horny by the time I got out, I could have screwed anyone.
On a more serious note, the museum experience did a lot more than sexually stimulate me; seeing sex presented in a museum environment illuminated its depth and beauty of its nature. The experience made me think of sex beyond its pleasurable side. My mind was racing with unfathomable questions - why is it that sex is something we naturally crave, want, desire and yet still sometimes feel it is something to feel embarrassed about, something to hide? Why is sex, in all its forms, all its fetishes, kinks, and associations considered perverted, crude and shunned in some cultures?
Sex is everywhere, and even after spending a good couple of hours intrigued and fascinated by the displayed exhibitions at the museum, I am even more convinced that sex is more than ‘everywhere’. It is undeniably at the core of our daily lives, at the heart of our characters; our sexual desires and fantasies explain our personalities, our behaviors and actions; it is exciting, fun, sensual, yet revealing in so many ways.
The moment I walked in and was greeted by a life size cardboard dominatrix woman grasping a black strapped-on penis and holding up a sign that read, “please do not stroke, lick or mount the exhibits,” I knew I was in for a sexy treat.
And indeed I was. I decided to go solo, although I realized that was a big mistake. Here’s a tip for future sex museum-goers: its better foreplay than wine, candle light and Barry White (just kidding, who does that anymore?). Yet seriously, it will no doubt put anyone in the mood. I hadn’t expected the experience to be so orgasmic, which is probably why I was the only non-coupled up person there (even the Chinese tourists were coupled off!)
As I perused from exhibit to exhibit – first learning about the most outrageous and disturbing kinks and fetishes (like coming from helium balloons), to watching an hour or so of porn from the ‘20s to present and learning some raunchy Tantric sex positions (like the Pressed Flower Petal), I was so unbelievably horny by the time I got out, I could have screwed anyone.
On a more serious note, the museum experience did a lot more than sexually stimulate me; seeing sex presented in a museum environment illuminated its depth and beauty of its nature. The experience made me think of sex beyond its pleasurable side. My mind was racing with unfathomable questions - why is it that sex is something we naturally crave, want, desire and yet still sometimes feel it is something to feel embarrassed about, something to hide? Why is sex, in all its forms, all its fetishes, kinks, and associations considered perverted, crude and shunned in some cultures?
Sex is everywhere, and even after spending a good couple of hours intrigued and fascinated by the displayed exhibitions at the museum, I am even more convinced that sex is more than ‘everywhere’. It is undeniably at the core of our daily lives, at the heart of our characters; our sexual desires and fantasies explain our personalities, our behaviors and actions; it is exciting, fun, sensual, yet revealing in so many ways.
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