There are certain glitzy environmental that appear repeatedly on the headlines and in campaigns. Whether clean energy, strip mining, or industrial pollution, these issues all receive press and face time. I am not about to say that they do not deserve the attention they garner. In our own state of Illinois we hear endless speeches about the virtues of clean coal, a contradiction that allows candidates to masquerade as environmental activists. The issue of obsolete dams lacks the flair of larger issues but it is the type of environmental issue that can be fixed quickly and inexpensively. The benefits to ecosystems are innumerable, not to mention in the long run it is fiscally responsible thing to do considering the one time cost of dam removal is significantly less than dam maintenance will be over the long term. This may not be the issue to get you reelected but it is an easy fix that the government can implement that will have long reaching environmental impact. Thank you for your time.

While you’re contemplating that, you can listen to this week’s broadcast of tunes. Also, I just realized I messed up the mike. Oops.

Keep slurpin’ suckas!

Playlist:

1. Friday, I’ll Be Over You- Allison Iraheta
2. I Don’t Wanna Dance- Hey Monday
3. I’m Just Here for the Music- Paula Abdul
4. Masquerade- Ashley Tisdale
5. Rehab- Amy Winehouse
6. Beautiful- Akon
7. Break Anotha- Blake Lewis
8. Run- Benton Paul
9. A Thousand Miles- Vanessa Carlton
10. Breaking Pavements- Adele
11. Orinoco Flow- Celtic Women

Playlist:

1. Rude Boy- Rihanna
2. Put Your Records On- Corinne Bailey Rae
3. Stacey’s Mom- Fountains of Wayne
4. All the Above- Maino
5. Fix You- Coldplay
6. Red High Heels- Kellie Pickler
7. Do it Well- J Lo
8. Geek in the Pink- Jason Mraz
9. Whatever it Takes- Lifehouse
10. Banana Pancakes- Jack Johnson
11. Hold On- KT Tunstall

Keep Slurpin’ Suckas!

Keep slurpin’ suckas!

Playlist:

1. I’m Only Me When I’m With You
2. Jump then Fall
3. Mine
4. Sparks Fly
5. Untouchable
6. Hey Stephen
7. Speak Now
8. Super Star
9. Mean
10. The Other Side of the Door
11. You Belong With Me
12. The Story of Us

RSVP on the event page here: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=291217544237542

1. Make the library into your bedroom and have sex in the stacks.

I find it interesting that fucking in the library comes before spending a summer in Ithaca (#31) and taking Intro to Wines at the Hotel School (#7). I imagine the concept for this item emerged after one of the list’s creators spent a long night in the library with his girlfriend, fruitlessly studying for an impossible chemistry, science or non-communication related test (Because, let’s be honest, how much time do comm-majors really spend in the library?). Surrounded by books, notes, highlighters, and a stack of flash cards five inches tall, they may have decided to call it a night somewhere around 4 or 5 a.m. As they packed up their things, he probably noticed that they were the only ones left in the library. Suddenly, sleepless delirium implanted a genius idea in his head: let’s have sex. Three pumps and a few fallen stacks later, this guy officially fornicated in a library. CHECK.

Imagining this scenario made me realize that there are hundreds of wonderfully unconventional places on a college campus where two people could potentially have wild, exhibitionistic sex. In honor of Cornell’s list, I’ve developed my own X-rated version of the checklist, chronicling the top places on campus I think every college student should bump uglies before donning cap and gown. Make a mental check mark next to all the places you’ve done it already (bet you can’t guess how many I’ve got under my belt!).

1. In a fraternity or sorority house (ATO, ZBT, and FIJI don’t count on principle) ☐

2. In a dorm room—try and cover dorms on both North and West (extra points for doing it in Schuyler) ☐

3. On Schoellkopf field (props if you do it before a big game) ☐

4. On the basketball court in Noyes ☐

5. In the Johnson Museum of Art ☐

6. In an auditorium ☐

7. In the Teagle lap pool ☐

8. Somewhere in Gannett, specifically so that you can be asked if you’re pregnant immediately afterwards ☐

9. At the Oxley Equestrian center next to the horses ☐

10.  On the floor of Fuertes observatory on a clear, starry night☐

11.  In a gym locker room ☐

12.  In a science lab (be sure to wear protective eyewear) ☐

13.  In a library…during the day! ☐

14.  On the “sod sofa” in the Ag quad☐

15.  On the Arts quad…after streaking across it (See #8 on Big Red Ambition list) ☐

16.  In one of the dining halls (preferably within close proximity to Oakenshield’s Happy Dave!) ☐

17.  In a secluded study room ☐

18.  On the musical steps next to Olin ☐

19.  On Ho Plaza (purposely ruin a chalking or two) ☐

20.  At the top of McGraw-Tower (if you still have the energy after climbing the 161 steps! ☐

21.  While riding the blue-light bus ☐

22.  In your professor’s office when they’re not around ☐

23.  In a building on campus with historical significance ☐

24.  In Uris where the Wilder brain collection resides (if you’re freaky like that) ☐

25.  Behind the stage…on Slope Day….while “Hot In Here” is being performed ☐

26.  Behind the stage…right before graduation (ask Giuliani if he wants to join too) ☐

Please keep in mind, however, that the consequences for getting caught having sex in, on, and around any of these locations could result in suspension, expulsion or, at the very least, extreme embarrassment. That being said, happy fucking!

]]> http://www.slopemedia.org/genres/news/oh-the-places-youll-go/feed/ 0 http://www.slopemedia.org/genres/news/hot-for-teacher/ http://www.slopemedia.org/genres/news/hot-for-teacher/#comments Tue, 26 Apr 2011 01:04:08 +0000 Samantha M. http://www.slopemedia.org/?p=16912 For my “Desire” class this semester we’re reading The Symposium: Plato’s infamous play about the complex, sexual nature of learning. In the play, the leading philosophers of the time (Socrates, Aristophanes, Alcibiades, etc.) gather to praise Eros and discuss the true meaning of love. As each man delivers his speech, it becomes clear that the Greek method of learning was much different than our methods today. In Plato’s time, it was commonplace for older male philosophers to offer their knowledge to young males in exchange for sexual gratification. Thus, learning became inextricably linked to love and sexual desire. This dynamic obviously would not work well today, since most sexual relationships between students and teachers end badly for both parties (think Mary Kay Letourneau). The strict guidelines of our sexual harassment clauses, the gray areas of each state’s statutory rape laws, and the taboo nature of such relationships means that there will be no quickies during office hours for your U.S. History teacher (however, most history teachers are about as ancient as the subject they teach, so I don’t imagine they get much action from anybody, really).

The fact remains, though, that some damn fine teachers exist in the world. I’m sure many of you can think of at least two professors you’ve pictured naked. Therefore, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to bed some of my favorite professors after reading The Symposium, despite the forbidden nature of having a steamy pedagogical relationship (Fun Fact: “pedagogy” is rooted in the Greek word “pederasty,” which means sexual activity between a man and a boy). For example, my journalism professor at Ithaca College was so incredibly sexy that I often found myself fantasizing about him mid-lecture. I would stare up at him dreamily, biting my lower lip, keeping my legs firmly crossed for fear that he might somehow sense I was thinking naughty things about him. The epitome of a silver fox, he wore faded Wrangler jeans, held up by pure-leather belts with intricate, vintage buckles. He often stood at the front of the class with one leg posted up on a chair, making his crotch the focal point of his presentation. He had a boyish way of playing with his full head of white-gray hair (think Anderson Cooper, but less tidy), and often messed it up in a purposeful way so that it looked like he had just gotten out of bed. When he got excited about a particular subject, I could barely contain myself. He would speak so passionately that I would lose myself in his words; my classmates would dissolve from the room, as if he was reading me, and only me, a love poem. On several occasions I debated lingering back after class to ask a pointless question in the hopes that it might end with the papers being thrown off his desk in a fit of passion. Needless to say, I did horribly in his course since I spent most of my time considering the most efficient way to remove his belt buckle with my teeth.

When I look back now, I realize it was not only my prof’s good looks that had me hot for teacher. His worldliness, extensive knowledge of journalism, and beautiful writing skills transcended mere sexual desire and connected with my dreams, goals and hopes for the future. Essentially, I wanted to be him. I wanted to live his life, travel to the places he’d traveled, and know the things he knows. I felt that, if I could only spend time alone with him, inhabit his space, and pick his brain, then his experiences and ideas could become my own. For just a second, I might be able to touch and feel the version of myself I saw in him. Given the impossibility of all these desires, the only feeling I was left with was the impulse to have him inside me. That being said, I can’t blame Alcibiades whatsoever for wanting to bang Socrates. “Come and lie down beside me Socrates, so that, by contact with you, I can share the piece of wisdom that came to you on the porch”. The feeling was there in Greek times, and it obviously persists today.

So what exactly is the problem with doing the dirty with your D-SOC professor? Well, Cornell has an explicit policy when it comes to teacher-student liaisons; and that is,don’t do it. However, if we take a look at the sexual harassment discourse within the policy, there’s a few obvious loopholes:

Unwelcome sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, or other verbal or physical conduct of a sexual nature that either explicitly or implicitly are made (1) as a term or condition of an individual’s employment or academic status, or (2) as a basis for an employment or academic decision affecting that person. The following types of sexual harassment are referenced in this policy: Sexual acts that are demanded in exchange for maintaining or enhancing employment or academic benefits or status Unwelcome sexual behavior toward another employee or student that is (1) persistent, pervasive, or severe, and (2) has the purpose or effect of interfering with the work or educational environment in a way that a reasonable person would find hostile or offensive.

Thus, as long as the sex is welcome and doesn’t affect my grades, I can theoretically jump the bones of my advisor. Right? Well, the stipulation is that students are also capable of sexually harassing professors, and I imagine most of them wouldn’t be too thrilled to have you saunter into their office to try and S their D’s. That isn’t the only gray area in the policy, though. What is this nonsense about a “reasonable person” finding the sexual advances hostile or offensive? I like to think I’m a reasonable person, and I wouldn’t be offended by sexual advances from my teacher any more than I’m offended by Asians wearing anime critter hats in the winter.

Ergo, the same question remains: should we be able to fuck our teachers? I think that most of the laws and regulations regarding student-teacher relationships are meant to protect minors from sexual abuse. If you’re 10 and your science teacher is touching you inappropriately, that’s not okay. But I’m 20 years old. If I find myself sexually attracted to my professor, and we both consent to a physical relationship, then why the fuck is the school, the government, and the world trying to involve themselves in my business? I understand that problems of bias and undeserved grade inflation come into the picture, but what right does anyone have to tell another person they can’t love or desire whoever they want? Maybe if more professors got laid on the regular, they wouldn’t be so uptight about deadlines and APA format. As much as we want to deny our dirty thoughts for fear of sounding perverted (I no longer have this fear) there isdesire in learning. And there is beauty in teaching. So if desire is the attraction to beauty, then it seems that sex has a rightful place in the classroom.

Personally, I think Plato had it right. Unfortunately, there’s no way to bypass the system and destroy the social norms preventing us from running train with the entire COMM department. A girl can dream though. So the next time you see me wearing something skanky to office hours, you’ll know what’s up.

As much as I pride myself on my sexual prowess, I too have fallen victim to several awkward/embarrassing/strange/scary sexual experiences, which I like to refer to as “OoPs moments“. Although horrifying at the time, these instances have now become learning experiences and comical fodder for my everyday life. Thus, I wish to share some of the most humiliating, unusual, painful, compromising, and stomach-churning OoPs moments I’ve either heard from friends or personally faced over the years. Whether your parents walked in on you sucking your boyfriend’s weiner, or you had sex without shaving your bush for a month, know that you’re not alone. We’ve all been there…and some of us, unfortunately, have had it worse than others.

OoPs Moment #1: Penny Pinching

My ex-boyfriend used to keep a jar of spare change on a shelf above the headboard on his bed. Because his parents were always home and the walls are paper thin, we rarely had sex in his room. One day, however, his parents and siblings were out of the house and we decided to take advantage by having rough, loud sex on his bed. As my ex mercilessly pounded away at my recently de-virginized vagina, the bed inched closer and closer to the wall, until it was banging directly against it. Right as he was about to finish, the aforementioned change jar suddenly came crashing down from the shelf, hitting me hard in the face. My ex burst out laughing, and I sat there, bleeding from the nose, covered in pennies, with tears streaming down my face. After the bleeding stopped, I realized the jar had also chipped my front tooth. Try explaining THAT to your dentist.

OoPs Moment #2: Bloody Hell

When I was sixteen, I started hooking up with a twenty-two year old named Dan* who didn’t have his license (…I really knew how to pick ‘em then). As a result, we often made plans to hang-out weeks in advance, since it required going behind my parents’ backs, sneaking out of the house, and taking a 30-minute cab ride to his place. One month we scheduled a secret rendezvous on a weekend that I knew my parents would be out of town. As the date approached, however, I discovered I had severely miscalculated the timing of my period. Determined to see Dan, I decided not to cancel, but instead try to wait it out. Luckily, on the morning of our date, it appeared my period had disappeared.

A few hours later, and all according to plan, I found myself naked on Dan’s bed. After some casual foreplay, he slipped his penis inside me, and started talking dirty.

“Fuck…you’re so wet.”

As he thrusted in and out, he slipped a hand beneath me and started rubbing my clit.

“Fuck…Samantha…you’re really, really wet,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Is that what you like?” I asked in my sexy voice.

“Yeah, but, like….you’re REALLY wet. Wait a second…”

Dan reached over and turned on his beside lamp, and we immediately gasped in shock. We were both covered in period blood, as if we had just murdered a small animal with our bare hands. It was on our stomachs, fingers, and ALL over my vag and his penis. I was mortified. Attempting to make the situation less disgusting, I laughed nervously and suggested we go take a shower. Dan’s eyes, however, became wide and glossy and his skin turned ghostly pale.

“Are you ok? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear this never happens.”

“Yeah…yeah…I just…don’t like…blood,” he answered, his voice shaking.

“I know, me either. Hold on I’m gunna get us a towel.”

I walked into the bathroom and started cleaning myself up. Suddenly, I heard a loud banging on the door.

“One sec, babe, I’m washing up.”

“SAMANTHA. OPEN THE DOOR. NOW.”

“Huh?” I said, unhooking the latch.

Pushing me aside, Dan burst through the door, still covered in blood, hands over his mouth, and ran to the toilet. Rather than getting laid, I spent the rest of the night cleaning up my blood and his vomit.

OoPs Moment #3: Rocket Power

During shower sex, my ex-boyfriend asked to do me from behind. Due to the angle of my body, the frequency with which he was humping me, and the water streaming down from above, I accidentally queefed. Really loudly. When my ex was finally done laughing, he informed me that he actually witnessed water spew out of me “like a rocket” when it happened. FML.

OoPs Moment #4: THAT’S What It Looks Like?

A friend of mine told me that the first penis she ever saw was owned by the same guy who took her virginity. It was only when they broke up and she started seeing other people that she realized the first guy was actually uncircumcised.

OoPs Moment #5: My Get Lucky Undies

I used to have a pair of panties I called my “get lucky” undies. They were pink and lacy and whenever I wore them, I somehow ended up getting laid. One night, I wore them out to a bar and, surprise-surprise, ended up taking a rando home. Once back at my place, I climbed on top of him and begin sexily taking off my clothes. It soon became clear, however, that the position I was in made it quite difficult to get any clothing off past my ankles. In an effort to help me out, the rando tried scooting his body further onto the bed to make room for my knees. During this transition, however, one of my legs accidentally slipped off the bed, causing my favorite pair of underwear, which was tangled around my calves, to rip in half.

OoPs Moment #6: Did You Do Something To Your Hair?

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend came over on a school night and I ended up sucking his dick. Forgetting the cardinal rule of blow-jobbing, I forgot to pull my hair back, and it repeatedly got in the way of my technique. Not wanting to stop, however, I tried pushing it behind my ears, but a few stray strands managed to escape. Luckily, he came quickly, and I was able to fit some cuddling time in before kicking him out so I could get to bed.

The next morning, my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed, only to realize I had set my clock wrong and was running late. Frantically, I pulled on a sweatshirt, threw my hair into a messy bun, and ran to class. It was only after I stopped in the bathroom at the end of the day that I realized there was visible dried-cum in my hair.

OoPs Moment #7: Deep Throat

A friend of mine has a very sensitive gag-reflex. One time, a guy she was hooking up with asked her to deep throat his dick. In a futile attempt to defy nature and be sexy, she tried. The result: she ended up puking all over his dick.

OoPs Moment #8: She Likes It Rough

Another friend of mine really enjoys rough sex. One time, she decided it would be sexy to slap her sex partner around a bit. She got a bit carried away, however, and ended up punching him in the face, leading to a very unsexy bloody nose.

OoPs Moment #9: Basement Booty

When I was in high school, I decided to sneak a boy into my house for a booty call. The problem was, however, that my room is right next to my parents’ room, and I was afraid they would hear us. I decided my best bet was to take him into my unfinished basement, which was under construction at the time. I quickly discovered that there was actually no space for us to lay down, since all the furniture had been moved for the construction. Desperate to have sex with one another, we ended up fucking on the cold, cement floor. We kept having to stop and change positions, however, so one person wasn’t on the bottom the entire time. Despite all our efforts, we still ended up covered in cuts and bruises. The next morning at breakfast, after my conquest had successfully snuck out the back door, my mother warned me to stay out of the basement that day because the people she hired were coming to put the new carpet down.

OoPs Moment #10: Choking Hazard

A few months after I got my nipples pierced, I decided to change the original barbell to a hoop. When I tried to screw the end-pieces on, however, I found myself unable to do so because they were so tiny. After about an hour of trying, I decided to just leave the hoop in by itself and hope it didn’t fall out.

That night, however, I ended up taking a guy home from a party. After discovering my piercings, he decided to give my nipples extra attention. Unfortunately, I completely forgot about my precarious nipple ring, and he ended up accidentally swallowing it.

OoPs Moment #11: He Can’t Tell The Difference

A friend of mine used to date a guy who thought queefing was sexy. Fortunately for him, my friend knows how to queef on command. One time, he asked her to queef while he fucked her on her side. The position, however, was not conducive for queefing, and in her struggle to make it happen, she accidentally farted. Good thing he couldn’t tell the difference.

If you would like to share your own crazy/awkward OoPs moment, please feel free to comment on this post.  :)

No noises were made. No heads turned. Nobody gasped, screamed, pointed, or skipped a beat in their frantic attempt to copy intricate definitions from a dated Powerpoint. Instead, my wrinkled, balding professor continued to pontificate on the evolution of Homo sapiens, unawares that one of his students had just exploded in her pants. It was, perhaps, the most subtle orgasm to ever escape my body. But how did it happen?

Simple: Classturbation.

For those readers unfamiliar with the term, classturbation refers to the act of inconspicuously masturbating during a class, course, lesson, or seminar. Classturbators can be either male or female, and typically employ their surreptitious self-touching in creative, non-threatening ways. For example, one might place a jacket or book-bag over their lap while wearing a dress, skirt, or sweat pants in order to maintain an air of casualness. Feigning a nap is also a nice touch, since onlookers will assume slight twitching or odd facial expressions are simply the result of a particularly vivid daydream. Common classroom objects (pens, pencils, rulers, etc.) can also be utilized inventively in a pinch, but this is only recommended for more skilled classturbators. Whatever the method, these sneaky students are able to wank one out faster than you can write the word “paleoanthropology” onto your college-ruled notebook paper. In fact, I’m willing to bet that all of us have been in the presence of a classturbator at some point during our college careers and had absolutely no idea.

I realize the concept is both shocking and perhaps revolting to some people. Why would someone feel the need to beat their meat in the middle of class time? Why risk being caught when, in a few hours, said classturbator will probably be alone in the privacy of their dorm room where they can freely violate themselves without disrupting others? There are a multitude of reasons for engaging in this kind of behavior, but the most important has to do with the riskiness of the act and the nature of classroom dynamics.

You see, classturbators fall into a sub-group of sexual deviants called exhibitionists. Many of us have heard the term before when referring to people who enjoy flashing their nasty parts or having sex in public. Exhibitionism, however, is more than enjoying the act of self-exposure. It is about experiencing sexual excitement at the mere thought of being caught in a sexual, exposed, deviant, or vulnerable position. Unlike other kinds of exhibitionists, classturbators translate this “thrill of discovery” into a unique scenario: the student-teacher/classmate relationship.

Consider this: in a normal, neutral classroom scenario, the teacher/professor holds all the power and dictates all the events that transpire. Everything from speaking privileges, to one’s ability to use the bathroom are systematically managed by the teacher. We comply unquestionably with the requests of our (supposed) intellectual superiors despite what our goals, needs, or wants may be. For example, we may have no interest in the assigned subject material, but we still spend hours researching the topic in order to write an essay to be judged, eventually, by the superior who coerced us into writing it in the first place. Even after spending time reading the essays we spent days working on, our professor may still not know our names or faces. Depending on the size of the classroom, we may just be a student ID number on a class roster. Additionally, we see our classmates as being simultaneously our equals and our competition. Although we are all in the same boat, working on and learning the same things, we’re still vying for the top grade and recognition from the teacher. Thus, we have no connection to the people sitting to our left and right in an auditorium other than the threat we pose to their final grade.

That being said, it is difficult to disrupt the flow of power and the relational dynamics of a classroom, and one who does is almost always ostracized. For example, “class clowns” are often sent to the principal’s office for interrupting a teacher’s lesson with their shenanigans, but only after being publicly exposed, shamed, and reprimanded. Similarly, students who  take on the “teacher’s pet” role are socially rejected by other classmates due to the threat the “pet” poses to their class standings. Classturbators, however, have discovered the ultimate way to disrupt the monotony, restrictiveness, and social norms of the classroom without being shunned. By playing a secret game of pocket-pool, these students are not only giving a big “FUCK YOU” to their professor and fellow classmates, they’re also taking back their sense of autonomy and individuality in a setting where it usually is diminished. At the same time, they are turning their classmates, originally a source of competition, into sexual objects. Because classturbators enjoy the threat of being caught, the classmates become inadvertently involved in the fantasy since they are the ones who can potentially do the catching. This is what classturbators get off on, and this is what motivates them to take the risk.

If you’ve never had an exhibitionist desire in your life, though, then it seems logical that you wouldn’t be motivated to classturbate any time soon. But before you rule it out completely, consider this: several studies have been done showing a positive relationship between masturbating and stress-reduction. According to sex therapist Martha Cornog, author of The Big Book of Masturbation, the act of jacking/jilling off ”…is all about ‘you time,’ and taking time to focus on yourself is a great way to break up the stress of a busy life. Particularly when used with sexual fantasy, masturbation can be a great escape, and a way to let off some steam…”. In other words, having a silent orgasm in the middle of class might actually help you de-stress and, subsequently, concentrate and learn more effectively. Just worth a thought.

In the end, it’s all a matter of preference. For some people, the perceived risk of being caught is so great that they could never fully enjoy a classturbation session. Thus, engaging in the behavior would be counterintuitive. For others, though, it might be the perfect way to relax, take back control in the classroom, and be a little naughty. Although yesterday was the first time I’d ever felt comfortable touching myself in public, I can see myself doing it again in the event that the urge strikes, and I encourage others to do the same. If you do nothing else with this information, at least take the time to scope out someone classturbating the next time you find yourself in a large lecture. You’re guaranteed to find someone, and you might just learn a thing or two.

1. Fuck (the classic)

2. Nail

3. Rail

4. Bang

5. Shag

6. Screw

7. Bone

8. Jump someone’s bones

9. Smoosh (a la Jersey Shore)

10. Pork

11. The ‘ole heave ho

12. Fornicate

13. Bury the bishop

14. Hide the salami

15. Bump uglies

16. Tap dat ass

17. Bonk

18. Lay pipe

19. Make whoopie

20. Knock boots

21. Make sexy-time (Borat)

22. Roll in the hay

23. Pound

24. Hump

25. Smash (as in…”Imma smash that.”)

26. Schtup

27. Get your freak on

28. Fork (common side effect of spooning)

29. Get some ass

30. Get laid

31. Get some tail

32. Score

33. Copulate

34. Boff

35. Mate

36. Have relations

37. Get it on (Marvin Gaye style)

38. Do the horizontal boogie

39. Get jiggy with it

40. Slap skin

41. Beaver bash

42. Make babies

43. Do the no-pants-dance

44. Get one’s dick wet

45. Scrump (combo of screw + hump)

46. Plow

47. Part the meat curtains

48. Poon

49. Get it in

50. Make love

51. Run train

52. Pipe out

More to come as I think of them!

My friend Brian*, whom I’ve known for many years, came over for a much-needed hangout sesh. Between going off to school, working a part-time job, and managing his psychotic ex-girlfriend, Brian had only visited me sporadically over the last few months. He is a consistently reliable friend, and often helps me to decipher the perplexing promulgations of the male species when I find myself lost and confused. In turn, I have done the same for him, or at least tried, for the women he chooses to date are usually bat-shit crazy.

Since the beginning of our friendship, we always maintained a strictly platonic relationship. Although both of us admitted (under the influence of alcohol) to finding one another attractive, that’s as far as we ever ventured into the land of sexual tension and drunken mistakes. Truth be told, I never held any desire to sleep with him, mainly because I thought of him like a brother. During the first crucial months post-acquaintanceship, wherein which a friendship has the potential to become something more, we were both in committed relationships and, therefore, relegated each other to the proverbial friend zone. He was one of the only guys I’d been able to maintain a nonphysical connection with and I intended to keep it that way.

As Brian and I planted ourselves on my couch and cracked open a few beers, he began complaining about his aforementioned lunatic ex, who had been stalking his every move since their break-up. According to him, she had blacklisted his name on the dating market by threatening any girl who showed him the slightest interest with a slow, painful death. It was a depressing tale, and I tried to assure him that her jealous rampage would eventually pass and he would be back on the dating scene in no time.

“I honestly don’t think I can make it much longer,” lamented Brian, “it’s been nearly two months since I’ve had sex.”

“Ouch,” I thought. Brian, like most men, needed regular sex in order to not rip the heads off small animals and children. I could tell by the desperation in his voice that he was nearing his breaking point.

I offered up my condolences and shared with him that, I too was suffering from a gratuitous dry spell. He didn’t respond, but merely nodded, nonverbally indicating he understood my situation all too well. We stared off into space, shaking our heads, then simultaneously took another swig of our beers. We sat in silence, granting one another a moment to lapse into reverie, fondly remembering our last great lay or perhaps just pondering the meaning of life without sex.

“Do you wanna just…fuck?”

I heard the words, but could not figure out who had just said them. Surely, Brian could not have asked such a ludicrous question. He was my friend. Like a brother to me. Fuck? That would be like incest! Oh, no, no, no! But as I stared at him, my mouth hanging open and my internal shock reflected on my face, I could tell he was completely serious.

“Um…what?” I managed, after I regained the ability to speak.

“Seriously, Sam. I mean, we’ve known each other forever. You and I both need to get laid, and since we’re both consenting, adults, why the hell not?” he said pragmatically.

“But…what about…I mean…,” I stammered.

“Listen. It will mean nothing. We’ll just do it and go right back to being friends. Just once, and I promise I’ll never mention it again,” he said.

I found myself stuck in limbo between logic and animal instinct. Here was an attractive guy, offering me his penis for a one-time-use, no pressure, straight-forward roll in the hay. At the same time, he was my friend. He’d seen me cry over heartbreak, held my hair as I puked mercilessly into the toilet after one too many tequila shots, and once told me that, from behind, I kind of resembled his Aunt Beth. Then again, I had slept with men before without feeling anything for them. However, I had never had sex with a guy that I cared about, but was not sexually attracted to. My mind was spinning trying to resolve this conundrum.

“Sam. Come on. I’m practically begging you,” said Brian, a little more forcefully.

His words reminded me of the time we were in high school and he had bought an ounce of weed with his entire paycheck, despite owing his parents and several other people a lot of money. He returned home that night to find his mom had smashed his bong and was strip-searching his room on the hunt for more drugs and paraphernalia. He frantically called me and pleaded that I come over and take the weed for safekeeping until his mom’s rampage was over. I reluctantly agreed, despite all my better judgment. And now, Brian had yet again placed me in an equally precarious position.

I looked into his eyes, now gleaming hopefully, shook my head, took a deep breath and said…

“Fine.”

Brian laughed, as if he had always expected me to agree in the end. I resented this.

He put down his beer, and cautiously put his hand under my chin and drew it towards him. As he got nearer, I realized that I had never been this close to his face before. I could see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow forming and smell the faint scent of Axe lingering on his shirt. I wondered if he was also observing things about me he had never noticed before. And then, quite perfunctory, I was full on making-out with my best guy-friend.

I was surprised at how natural it felt to be kissing him. I half expected both of us to turn away after a few seconds with disgusted looks on our faces, like we were six years old and still believed members of the opposite sex had cooties. Despite the ease with which we fell into our new, one-time role as fuck buddies, I felt absolutely nothing. I was not quite turned on, but not quite turned off by him either. I wasn’t nervous, but I wasn’t relaxed either. It reminded me of snacking out of sheer boredom. You’re not hungry, but there’s really nothing else to do, so you eat.

And so we ate. Or something like that. I had accidentally seen Brian naked a dozen times, so I was not really shocked at seeing him bare it all, but I had also never viewed his body in a sexual way before. Experiencing him as a carnal being was similar to the feeling you get upon discovering someone you mildly respect voted to re-elect Bush in the ’04 elections. Although you still like them, you can’t help but view all their subsequent actions, words, and decisions in a slightly different light. This was what it was like fucking Brian.

And then, just as I was starting to enjoy myself, it was over.

Unlike most guys, Brian didn’t apologize for not lasting longer. I wondered if it was just because it was me or if he was this shameless with all his conquests. We slowly got up and gathered our scattered items of clothing, courteously looking away as the other dressed (I always find this post-sex ritual the oddest. If two people can bump uglies, why can’t they comfortably redress in front of each other?). Once clothed, Brian extended his clenched hand for a congratulatory fist bump, complete with explosions, as if we had just won a game of beer pong. I laughed and went along with it, taking it as proof of Brian’s promise that things between us would go back to normal post-romp.

And then, rather naturally, we were right back where we started. We sat on the couch, drinking beers, talking about school, and exes, and complaining about classes starting again, until we realized it was snowing and he should probably head home before the weather got any worse. We hugged goodbye, vowing to get together again soon, and then he was gone.

I returned to the couch and watched the snow fall quietly outside. I wondered if what I had just experienced was the modern version of a unisex friendship. Like asking your friend to pick you up from the airport, or house-sit your dog, is asking for meaningless sex the new friendly favor? I suppose the consequences of our decision have yet to fully unfold, so we’ll just have to wait and see. But I think Brian and I just might be on to something…

Ladies and gentleman, I have been lucky enough to snag myself an “eager-to-pleaser”. Please hold your applause and questions until the end.

Now, when I first realized the guy I’m screwing is a member of this rare breed, I was ecstatic. Although he is already quite skilled in the bedroom, he insisted on learning exactly what I like and how I like it. At first, I enjoyed our post-sex recaps because it gave me an excuse to relive the ecstasy, give him positive feedback, and fine tune my sexting skills. Yet, as is what happens with all things purely self-indulgent, I knew we were doomed to hit a road block. A few days ago, eager-to-pleaser and I were reviewing another phenomenal roll in the hay, when he confessed he found it difficult to hold out until I came first, since it “just seemed to take so long”.

I should have seen this moment coming, but like telling a child the tooth fairy doesn’t exist, I didn’t want to break it to him so bluntly. You see, I, erm…

Well…okay, perhaps I need a bit of a disclaimer. Readers, I’m about to share some personal information, so if you still want to view me in a professional manner, I suggest you fill your time reading another blog.

Ok. Here it is. Wait….waaaaitttt….alright. Fine.

True Life: I can’t have a vaginal orgasm.

GASP! The horror! Desecration! Hide ya kids, hid ya wife, because I just said something no female is ever supposed to admit publicly.

Unfortunately, it’s the God-awful truth, but let me be clear about what I mean. I am perfectly capable of having an O-moment. I can come from vaginal and clitoral stimulation simultaneously, being eaten out, (etc.), but if a man merely relies on the girth of his member to do the job…it ain’t happenin’. Trust me, I’ve tried every position, vibrator, and dildo, but I can’t orgasm from the old-heave-ho by itself. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if the feeling is uncomfortable or painful. Quite the contrary, everything feels great, but the finale just isn’t going to end in fireworks. It’s not the way I’m built, and I’m perfectly fine with that.

The reason for my casual acceptance is simple: I know I’m not alone. In fact, I am in the majority. According to a 2009 study at Emory University, 75 percent of all women cannot orgasm from intercourse by itself, and 10-15 percent can never climax under any circumstances. It’s completely shocking, but totally true and several other studies conducted over the past decade have supported this claim. Kim Wallen, the professor who led the Emory experiment, gives a simple explanation for the results of the study. She says, “just as there are physical attributes that would prevent some people from ever becoming a concert violinist, or run the 100 meters in 10 seconds, there are attributes that make it unlikely that some women will ever experience orgasm from intercourse alone”.

If this really is the case, then why does it seem so surprising? I would argue that there are two sexual “norms” at play here, preventing women from getting what they want and men from knowing how to give it to us. The first is the expectation that sex ought to end with both partners orgasming. Perhaps this notion is a direct result of watching too much porn, or seeing sex on TV. With both mediums, there needs to be a tidy way to wrap things up, change scenes, or move forward, and the fastest way to do that is to have one of the characters blow a load. In real life, though, things don’t run so smoothly, but we still put the same performance pressure on ourselves and our partners. The point of sex might be physical pleasure, but if we focus too much on what we think should be happening to us, rather than what is happening, then the whole act is pointless. AKA It’s the journey, not the destination, man.

This leads me to the second issue; FAKING. There’s nothing I hate more than fake people, except fake people who fake orgasms. Maybe the real problem here is that women are too embarrassed to say exactly what pleases them, and as a result, men learn that banging their dicks in our vagina’s is the ultimate orgasm equation. So if you’re the kind of woman that continually pseudo-climaxes, please STOP NOW. You’re promulgating a lie that will affect the subsequent women your current man sleeps with, which isn’t fair to the rest of us. It’s the epitome of girl code. Not to mention, why would someone want to fake it for the rest of their life when, after a little explaining, they could be jizzing their pants every night? To be clear, I firmly believe that extenuating circumstances exist under which a “fauxgasm” is necessary, but if it’s happening on the reg, shit’s totally wack.

Like all men who hear my orgasmic revelation, my eager-to-pleaser insisted that he would be the one to break the cycle and thrust me, vagina first, into the land of climactic euphoria. Although I thoroughly enjoyed his enthusiasm, I had to be honest with both myself and him. Why should I try and mold myself into a stereotype about female sex that doesn’t apply to me? Why waste the time trying to fit a square-peg into a circular hole, when I know exactly where the peg does fit?  Contrary to popular believe, there isn’t “normal” way to have sex. It’s all about what’s normal and feels good for you. If your partner isn’t willing to do things your way, then it’s time to move on. Except I might be keeping mine for awhile, so all of you ladies will just have to wait your turn.

That is, unless you are a type I diabetic.

Like me.

I know, it’s shocking, especially because I’m so normal otherwise (HA). Truth is, I’ve been a diabetic for almost twenty years and, as a result, I must wear an insulin pump all day ‘err day. The pump is a small, beeper-like device that attaches to my stomach through a catheter. It keeps me alive and it looks exactly like this:

As you can see, it is completely unsexy and impossible to disguise. The device and the tubing can be removed for showering, sexing, (etc.) but the catheter (the white sticker-like patch) always remains. Thus, my one-night-stands come with a disclaimer; a nice, sit-down chat with the guy whose name I can’t remember, breaking down the basics of modern medical technology. Trust me, nothing kills the mood faster than having a chronic, incurable disease. Although being a diabetic is completely natural and normal for me, it isn’t to the randoms who suddenly find themselves buck-naked between my legs. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys casual sex, I’ve had to experiment with different ways of broaching the subject to my conquests, some of which work better than others.

For example, during my first year of college (a time when everyone’s ONS frequency undergoes a natural increase) I tried pretending my pump didn’t exist in the hopes that my sex partners would do the same. This didn’t work so well. Most men have seen enough naked female bodies to know that 12 inches of tubing protruding from someone’s belly isn’t exactly typical. Some guys have been kind enough to ignore this oddity mid-thrust and text me about it later (“Hey so what was that thing on UR stomach last night…R U sick or something?”). Others have outwardly admitted to being weirded out (“YO WTF IS THAT?”). Either way, I end up embarrassed and the guy ends up with a softy. Thus, denial or surprise as a strategy has proven to be an ineffective way of smoothly integrating my diabetes into my sex life.

Then came the second strategy; I decided the best way to avoid awkward ONS questions was to remove the catheter entirely. As I sexily slipped off my panties, I would also rip out the catheter, throw it to the side, and hope my conquest was none-the-wiser. For those of you dry heaving into your mouths right now, I assure you, there is nothing painful about this process (it’s like removing a Band-Aid). The only problem is that, post-sex, I can’t put the pump back on and, therefore, run the risk of getting sick. Thus, staying the night is completely out of the question and I’m SOL if I’m too drunk to stumble back to my dorm to insert a new catheter. After using this strategy a few times, I decided it probably wasn’t the smartest, not-to-mention a few guys found the catheter afterwards and questioned me about it. In the end, I decided the sloppy sex was not worth the possible health implications or trip to the hospital.

Eventually, I realized only one option remained: I had to be honest with myself and the other nameless humans I have fucked and will fuck. When I stumble into my room at 3 a.m., tearing off clothes and sucking face with another random, I make sure I press pause on the heated moment for just long enough to say, “I’m a diabetic. That’s what this is,” before discarding the pump and getting back to business. Usually, my ONS buddies are too drunk and horny to care. And so am I.

Here’s the whole point of my riveting tale about diabetes and drunken debauchery: I know I’m not the only person who has let an insecurity, perceived flaw, or handicap of some sort prevent them from embracing the impulsive, wild, uncontrollable nature of the ONS. Just because you have an awkward birthmark shaped like Italy on your back doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to get fucked by a rand-o any day of the week. Who gives a shit about the scar you still have on your thigh from that tricycle accident when you were three? You don’t need to lose ten pounds or get the hair on your arms lasered off to get laid. You don’t need to hide who you are or make excuses for why someone wants to sleep with you ( Ex: “He/She’s too drunk/desperate to realize I’m actually a __________”).  We are exactly as we are, and the ONS respects this. When an ONS opportunity falls into our laps, we have a right to ourselves, nature, and the rest of humanity to indulge.

So whether you’re a diabetic, a leper, a paraplegic (not funny. stop laughing.), or just insecure about how you look naked, you should know you’re entitled to have random, hot, drunk, sweaty, anonymous sex with anyone you want, whenever you want. As Lady GaGa would say, “just put your paws up. Because you were born this way, baby”.

Or as I like to say…go onward and fuck.

Now.

What am I talking about? Two words: girl code.

Back when we still brought lunch boxes to school, girl code was straightforward and unquestioned, mostly because we were too young to drink or be attracted to members of the opposite sex (or same sex, but I should forewarn readers this post is specifically targeted at boring heterosexuals). In the 21st century, however, the code has entered unchartered territory. In conjunction with new technology and increasing maturation rates for young girls (i.e.; why does that third-grader have boobs and a cell phone?) girl code has yet to affirm new laws for its devoted followers. What are we to do when our “friend” creates an “I Hate (insert your name here)” group on Facebook? Is it okay to date an ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend if you all now go to different colleges? Why does the girl who sits behind you in chemistry keep saying, “WINNING!” and are you allowed to punch her in the face? These questions, sadly, have yet to be answered.

Fortunately, I have taken the liberty of devising a college-girl’s guide to the most frequently questioned aspects of the code. Although I may not be able to answer all the aforementioned questions (yes, you can punch that Charlie Sheen-loving bitch in the face), I will do my best to decode the nuances of girl code and represent all that it stands for.

GC Rule #1: Chicks before dicks, unless….

The rules for dating and fucking men who have some connection (whether intimate or not) to one-or-more of your friends are phenomenally complicated. For this reason, I have broken up the rules according to the type of relationship held between your BFFL and the man you want to fuck.

Guys your friends have dated: It’s never okay to fuck or date a guy one of your friends once claimed to be in love with (or is still in love with, despite what she tells you). Even if the L-word was never dropped, it’s best to stand clear. No matter what your friend says to the contrary, she will get jealous, the friendship will become strained, and you will be swiftly ousted from your position as BFFL.

Guys your friends have fucked: If your bestie Rachel fucked Joe for all of freshman year, chances are he’s not up for grabs. A drunken one-night-stand with Joe, however, might make him available, but it’s best to double-check with Rachel first. A man’s degree of fuckability is all contingent upon your friend’s emotions toward the him, their history, and their (potential) future. Whatever is going on, if she doesn’t like it then back the fuck off.

Guys your friends are friends with: If the object of your desire is truly just a friend to your gal pal, then there’s no reason to ask permission. However, be careful how many details you share with her about your wild, kinky sex. Telling her how much he likes to have his balls licked might make it hard for her to have coffee with him the next day.

Guys your friends dislike: Sleeping with a man whom your friends dislike is somewhat acceptable, so long as you can handle their looks of judgment and spiteful comments for the next few weeks. Keep in mind, however, the reason for the dislike is imperative for your final decision. If the friends dislike him because he personally wronged one of them (i.e.; called them a fat, ugly, bitch) then you cannot, under any circumstances, suck, fuck, or handle that man’s penis. If alcohol has impaired your judgment and you end up doing the dirty, many apologies are in order.

**As a corollary to all above guidelines, it is also highly unacceptable to hang out with a friend’s boyfriend alone. It is only acceptable should your friend give permission, and if the hang-out sesh is in the company of two or more other people.

GC Rule #2: Exposing a secret to an unauthorized party shall result in public exile.

Girl code establishes that any personal information shared in the company of one or more girlfriends shall not leave that social circle unless specified by the secret sharer. The sharer can rightly assume that her friends shall honor this aspect of girl code without a reminder. Should one or more secret keepers break code and pass aspects of the secret onto unauthorized parties, said sharer shall be exiled from the social circle and/or ridiculed by other, more honorable, friends behind the exile’s back.

GC Rule #3: @statuschange #oooohburnnnn

Due to the accessibility of information on Facebook, nothing shall be posted that explicitly “outs” the drama between two or more girls. For example, if your friend borrowed your shirt and returned it with holes and stains, it is NOT okay to post a status saying: @bitchface: WOW u dirty whore, thx for ruining my fave shirt. I think its covered in herpes now, like your face.

However, it IS okay to say something passive aggressively bitchy such as: I really love all my wonderful friends who treat me and my property with love and respect! @awesomefriend#1 @awesomefriend#2 @awesomefriend#3 @awesomefriend#4 <33333333.

GC Rule #4: Ugly FB Pictures

Under no circumstances shall one friend tag or upload an ugly, unflattering, or fat picture of another friend on Facebook.

GC Rule #5: Insider information

Inside jokes are not to be shared with outsiders, even if they ask to be included.

GC Rule #6: It’s not you, it’s me.

When a friend is sharing a personal/funny/sad story, it is wrong to interrupt with a related story about yourself, especially if it involves use of the pronoun “I” several times in succession.

GC Rule #7: Keep your boyfriend out of it.

Friends with boyfriends have an obligation to keep their “couple talk” to a minimum around their single friends. It is impolite and tactless to begin every story with, “Me and my boyfriend….”. Also, refrain from going to your single friends for advice regarding insignificant relationship problems (Examples: you’re having too much sex, he likes you more than you like him, you can’t figure out what gift to buy him for Valentine’s Day, etc.).

Similarly, if a group of your friend’s decide to have a “Girl’s Night Out” that does not mean “Girls…plusyourboyfriend”. We really don’t care how jealous and insecure he is, he’s not coming.

GC Rule #8: Hate by association.

A non-friend (or male) who emotionally or physically harms one of your friends is, by association, now an enemy of yours. Should the hated individual “start shit” with your friend in your presence, it is your duty to defend her in any way you can.

GC Rule #9: How do I look?

If a friend asks you how she looks before going out, it is your sworn duty to be honest with her…..but not brutally honest. If her outfit is made entirely of denim (even Pauly D knows denim is out), then kindly suggest that, instead, she wear that pink halter top that makes her boobs look bangin’.

GC Rule #10: Guide her vagina.

Friends are supposed to help one another get laid. Whether that means talking your friend up in front of a group of guys, or introducing her to someone who might be her type. When both of you are working overtime to get the other some ass, there’s no way anybody can lose.

GC Rule #11: No low blows.

In no way, shape, or form shall a friend intentionally utilize personal information against another friend for the purpose of blackmail, guilt, spite, or revenge. For example, telling a friend who religiously goes tanning that she looks pale in order to make her feel insecure is just plain cruel and unnecessary.

GC Rule #12: Handle your liquor…and hers.

If you can down twelve red-headed-sluts without puking, then you’re a total champ. But if you know your friend, who gets drunk off two Smirnoff Ices, is trying to go shot-for-shot with you, kindly remind her that she’s a complete lightweight and should probably take it easy. If, for some reason, she manages to sneak a few past you and things take a turn for the toilet, it’s your job to hold her hair back as she vomits mercilessly into the Porcelain-God (no matter how cute the guy at the bar flirting with you was).

GC Rule #13: Female’s Unite (Girl Code to the Extreme)

In the event that a group of males attempts to harm, embarrass, womanize, or take-advantage of another woman, all females present must defend her regardless of whether they are friends with her or not.

GC Rule #14: He’s an asshole! But only I can say that.

When a friend comes to you bitching about how her boyfriend/sibling/parent (etc.) is being an ass-licking douchebag, your only job is to nod in agreement. Unless you know the person being bashed extremely well (or you were also hurt by that person), it is best to abstain from contributing to the discussion. To illustrate, we’ve all called our mom’s bitches, but the second a stranger calls our mom a bitch, we immediately get defensive.

GC Rule #15: I know I saw what I saw, but we won’t talk about it.

We’ve all witnessed our friends in compromising or embarrassing situations. Whether your friend drunkenly pissed herself in front of you or lost her bikini top at the beach, the kind thing to do is to ignore what you saw and never bring it up again.

There you have it. Girl code for the 21st century.

Learn it.

Love it.

Live it.

In my two years at school here, I’ve had the most abysmal experiences dating, fucking, and partying with Ivy League men. I’ve been tooted ‘n booted, harassed, stood up, called names, and played hot and cold. You name it, it has probably happened to me or someone I know. To illustrate, I was once kicked out of a frat house with my friend Steph for beating two of the brothers at beer pong (pussies…). I also once dated a guy who conveniently forgot to tell me he has a child—the truth was only discovered after some surreptitious phone snooping. As a result, I have gained an insight into the male psyche that is simultaneously enviable, disturbing, and downright depressing.

After my first semester, I developed a categorization system for the men at CU, ranging in degrees of “un-dateability”. Generally, the guys I encountered fell into one of four groups: the ugly-nice guys, the cute-socially-awkward guys, the fathead frat boys, or the cute-nice-taken guys (aka the men you WANT to date, however, they have already been claimed by the stereotypical bimbo sororstitutes). As I’ve gotten older, attended more Greek events, and learned where my fake ID is and isn’t accepted, my list has extended to include a much wider spectrum of un-dateables.

Take, for example, a group of men I like to call “undercover assholes”. Generally, UA’s are undeniably charming, sickeningly sweet, and overbearingly complimentary the first time they meet you. These are the guys that will hold the door, compliment your new hair-do, and make corny jokes that are so cliché, you can’t help but laugh. Just as you begin to wonder whether the kids will get your nose or his, he does something completely inappropriate. It’s as if he senses your guard is down, and suddenly, it’s okay to stick his hand down your shirt or ask if you’ll blow him in the bathroom. Things only get worse, though, once their sexual advances have been denied. Upon realizing they’re not getting in your pants tonight, the UA’s start cracking low-blows. Did he say he liked your hair? Actually, it kind of makes you look like Adam Lambert on crack. What? You thought he was going to buy you a drink? Lazy bitch, get your own Long Island because you just got owned by one of Cornell’s finest: the undercover asshole.

If your self-esteem is still intact, then let’s hope you don’t run into the next kind of un-dateable, appropriately called the “two-timer”. Usually, TT’s strike at crowded venues where, due to the chaos and clusters of people, their actions go relatively unnoticed. They’ll approach their victims like any other dude would, maybe asking to grab you another beer or, more likely, grinding up behind you on the dance floor without warning. After some time, heavy kissing and petting will transpire, and before you know it, you’re face down, ass up (or some variation on a 2 Live Crew song). When you wake up the next morning (the taste of dick still lingering in your mouth), you’ll inevitably notice the picture on his dresser. It’s always some version of your hook-up and a blonde with big boobs, planting a posed kiss on the same mouth you were tongue-fucking only hours ago. As you realize what you’ve done, your two-timing fling is peacefully sleeping, probably giving himself a congratulatory fist-bump in whatever chauvinistic dream he’s having. As if things could get any worse, on Monday, you’ll realize that his girlfriend is the same annoying bitch that sits beside you in psyche class, always chewing her Bubble-Yum so loudly you can hardly hear yourself think.

If you’ve somehow fallen victim to both the UA and the TT,  then perhaps it’s time you took your dating life in a new direction. For many women at CU, there comes a point when we’ve had enough of the arrogant assholes, and thus, turn to the final group of un-dateables, known colloquially as the“virginal nerds”. VN’s constitute about 80 percent of the undergrad population, and therefore are easy to find. The thing about VN’s is that, unlike other college men, they makes us feel safe. Sure, they’re dorky and spend more time in the library than we do sleeping, but they won’t try to cop-a-feel during a Jeopardy commerical break. For a week or so you’ll enjoy the VN’s company, consciously ignoring that all his pants are high-waters, and engage in PG-13 behavior that your mama would be proud of. The time will come, though, when playing Apples-to-Apples and lamenting about your homework loads won’t suffice, and you’ll begin to wonder exactly what the VN is hiding under his high-waters. Nature will soon take over and you’ll convince yourself that he must be good in bed since he can take apart and reassemble a computer hard drive in under an hour.

Unfortunately, you are wrong. Your VN can’t unhook a bra, let alone figure out where your clitoris is. His open-mouthed fish kisses leave your face dripping with saliva, and eventually, you must fake the big O in order to get him to stop humping you like a jackrabbit. As he leaves your room post-deflowering feeling like a champ, you’re thinking of the best way to have the “maybe-we-should-just-be-friends” talk. I hate to say it, but it’s not going to go well. He either won’t talk to you again or go on a sex rampage in the hopes of showing you up. Regardless, you’ll have created a monster, and yet again, become the victim of another un-dateable.

In the end, the only lesson we can glean from these experiences is that men between the ages of 18 and 21 are pure scum. Is it too much to ask that a guy be sweet, good-looking, faithful, and rockin’ between the sheets? Apparently so. The good news is that, as graduation and the threat of living a life of singledom approaches, the boundaries between the un-dateable categories dissolve, and these aforementioned assholes start to mature a little bit. Until that time comes, the best we can do is cross our fingers, and perhaps consider a life of lesbianism to pass the time. All I can say is, thank god I go both ways.

Being a newly converted sexual being, I did not object the first few times my beautiful face was jizz-raped. However, as it started happening more frequently, and I began running out of excuses to tell my mother for why my bangs (yes, I had bangs) were glued to my forehead every time I returned home from Aaron’s, I decided that perhaps it was not for me. In fact, I have yet to let another guy cum-fuck my face since him and I broke up, and I intend to keep it that way.

Just because I’m not into it, however, does not mean that I don’t understand the appeal. Turn on any hetero-porno and at some point you’ll see a woman on her knees, mouth open, begging for the man to cum all over her face. A 2006 content analysis conducted by the International Communication Association found that 96% of all scenes within best-selling hetero sex vids concluded with a man ejaculating onto the body of his female partner. The mouth, unsurprisingly, was the most common splooge zone. The obvious consequences of this frequency is that it normalizes the act and leads men to believe facials should be integrated into their own sexcapades. However, the biggest appeal and misconception of the facial for men is the idea that their partner wants their baby sauce. It’s all about feeling desired and hyper-masculinized, and what is more masculine than hot, white jizz? Additionally, it gives both parties the opportunity to feel like porn stars.

But the problem with facials, and where I take up issue, is the inherent power dynamics linked to the act. As the ones on the receiving end, us women have no control. For Aaron, and any other guys frequently dishing out facials, they hold all the power. It is the ultimate sub/dom scenario, and let’s face it, most guys get off on being in control. The question is, where is the boundary between submission and degradation?

Generally, feminists criticize the facial because it turns the woman, who would otherwise be an equal, consensual team player, into a slut—AKA someone whose only purpose is to be a sexual object. I think the perfect illustration of this concept is a story my ex-boyfriend Jack* told me: During his freshman year he met a girl whom he instantly disliked. She was loud, obnoxious and generally an unpleasant person to be around. Often times, she would intentionally embarrass or harass Jack in front of his friends, leading him to resent her even more. One night, they found themselves at the same party where this girl became drunk and overly flirtatious. Eventually, her and Jack ended up in bed together for what he describes as “revenge sex,” where he purposefully pulled out right before he came, and proceeded to jizz on her face without warning. He admitted it was the best kind of retribution, probably because he was able to simultaneously degrade, embarrass, and inferiorize her in one blow of a load. Clearly, the facial can sometimes transcend eroticism and become the equivalent of a punch to the face or flicking someone off.

On the other hand, there are plenty of women out there who are perfectly fine having their faces defaced. I’m sure that these are the same women who get off on their partners getting off; and since I’m also fairly certain most men enjoy the thought of a woman wanting them so badly that she would take a shot of baby batter to the face, then perhaps this is the optimal condition under which facials should occur. In this situation, the facial becomes less degrading since the pleasure of both the man and the woman is maintained. However, it can still lead to a sticky situation nonetheless (tee hee). Power dynamics are still at stake, and the balance of even the healthiest relationships can be tipped if one person feels they are being disrespected.

The most tell-tale sign that a facial has gone awry is generally what happens post-money shot. In my experience, I tend to go out of my comfort zone a lot more when I have a metaphorical boner. In other words, being turned on changes the way we perceive things. Sometimes I’ll have an orgasm and then immediately realize that the thing I thought was sexy two seconds ago is actually disgusting. Facials definitely fall into this category, especially because the aftermath of a Jizz and Tonic is messy and requires immediate clean up. This means that, for at least a few seconds or even minutes, a girl has to lay there with nasty semen on her face (although, there have been some studies claiming that cum makes a decent moisturizer…but that’s besides the point). This is generally when women begin to feel dirty, slutty, or repulsed by their actions, and when resentment can develop toward the bartender who made them their Cum and Coke (I’m on a roll right now with the jizzonyms).

So, in a nutshell, the politics of a facial can change depending on the context of the sexual situation and the relationship between the cummer and cummee. I would recommend that any couple interested in trying it out discuss where they stand on the issue before jumping into anything. Facials are borderline offensive in a way that is both dangerous and thrilling, so it’s no wonder that many people want to see what all the hype is about. In the end, the fact that a facial can be used in a derogatory manner or as a way to place someone in a subordinate position means that it must be deployed expertly and cautiously. That being said, happy defacing!

It’s currently 9 p.m., which means that someone, somewhere, is having their pussy licked (and it’s not me). There is a 25 percent chance that this person is about to jizz their pants. Thus, there is a 75 percent chance that the man licking said pussy is sadly misinformed about the location of the clitoris, and is likely flicking some non-pleasurable body part unrelated to female orgasm with his inexperienced tongue. I now request a moment of silence for the aforementioned female’s unreachable orgasm. May she find it one day in the hands of a more able lover.

Moving on.

Readers, I am going to appoint myself as your cunnilingus connoisseur for the next few paragraphs, in the hopes that I can help improve your misguided attempts at muff diving. Now, don’t get all offended and whatnot. I’m sure some of you constitute the 25 percent of people who know how to munch carpet properly.

According to my statistics, however, you probably don’t.

So boo hoo. Let’s pick up the pieces of your shattered egos so we can start the re-learning process. Because I’m half gay (the more amusing way of saying bisexual), I have eaten and been eaten and thus, have wisdom that trumps the average hetero. Therefore, I now present my main tips for twat tickling that will leave your partner’s thighs shaking and clits quivering.

1. That’s my pee-hole, not my clitoris, you fool.

Apparently half the male population was asleep during high school human anatomy. For those of you that conveniently skipped this class or mooched off a nerdy Asian kid for tests and assignments, let me clarify; a man might be able to cum and piss out of the same hole, but that’s not true for women. The clit, about the size of a pea, is located about two or three inches above the vaginal opening. If you find yourself remarkably close to vag-hole territory, then chances are you’re not in the right area.

2. Pleasure, not pressure.

If I wanted a vacuum to suck the life out of my vagina, I wouldn’t have booty texted you at 2 a.m. Most men don’t realize a woman’s clitoris is much more sensitive than the heads of their penises (and their normal heads too). This means that a little pressure goes a long way. Sucking on someone’s clit like you’re trying to finagle the last few sips out of a cherry Slushy is comparable to a girl continuing a blow job after a man has already cum; It feels so good it actually hurts (a lot). The best way to gauge what feels good for your partner is to start out slowly, gently, and build up the pressure until she indicates (verbally or not) that she’s enjoying herself.

3. Keep your hands occupied.

They call it oral sex for a reason, but this doesn’t mean your hands can fall idly to your sides. The best poon-jobs involve digital stimulation as well as titillating tongue action. This doesn’t mean using a woman’s thighs as support beams (aka pushing downward in an attempt to spread her legs open, but instead pushing them past their flexibility point, causing general pain and suffering). Inserting a finger or two into the vagina while licking the clit is the fastest way to have your partner screaming your name. However, be careful not to overdo it. Forceful finger banging can take away from the other sensations, and too many fingers can be unpleasant. Each woman differs in her preferences, though, so start out with one finger and work up from there.

4. Back door action: a risky maneuver.

I don’t want to rule out ass licking completely just because it’s not my cup of tea. Therefore, I believe those in the mood to toss salad whilst out to dinner should give their partner fair warning beforehand. Even sticking a finger in the back door can be risky, since some women don’t find this act pleasurable. If you don’t feel comfortable asking aloud whether your girlfriend would enjoy a rim job (in addition to the finger fucking and clit licking), you can always test the waters through some non-penetrative ass play. For example, placing your hands underneath your girl’s butt or running your fingers over the area are safe ways to non-verbally broach the subject. If she appears to like it–most women will position themselves to make it easier for you to access that area –then go for it. Otherwise, it’s best to stick to the basics.

5. Don’t do like Weezy

Lil’ Wayne may have instructed us all to “lick it like a lollipop”, but the proper procedure for oral pleasure is nowhere near the simplicity of eating candy (unless, of course, you’re eating a Tootsie Pop and find yourself struggling to reach the inner Tootsie-roll goodness). Our poontang slang may be to blame for generations of orally inept men. “Licking pussy” or “eating out” are poor indications of the actual tongue techniques that are required to please your woman. For example, if your version of eating vag resembles a dog lapping water out of a toilet bowl, then you’re not doing it right. Although each man eventually develops their own oral sex style, there are three general rules to consider before spontaneously diving into any muffs.

First, keep your tongue fairly relaxed. A stiff tongue can direct too much pressure to one area of the clit and make it harder to orgasm, or worse, cause pain. Second, don’t rely solely on your tongue muscles to maintain constant stimulation. Since our tongues don’t receive regular workouts, they can become tired easily, causing our rhythm and pace to be thrown off. If you’ve ever wondered why women orgasm faster using a vibrator than when eaten out, it’s due to the constancy of the vibrations. When we’re getting close to the big O, we don’t have to worry about our coin-operated-boys slowing down or getting tired. Therefore, when you feel a tongue cramp coming on, you can use your neck to move around instead. Lastly, you can ensure you’re getting the most out of each lick by making direct contact with the clit. Pulling upward on the surrounding skin or pulling apart the lips of the vagina can ensure your lady partner feels all the effort you’re putting in to pleasing her.

So there you have it: the college students’ all inclusive guide to muff diving and much more. If some of you are still confused about the tips I’ve offered, I’ll be happy to provide some free, private practice-sessions. Space is limited.

I am all for erotic experimentation and I support anybody who is comfortable bending the sexual orientation boundaries. There’s no need for labels, judgment, or expectations, since it’s all about pure, curious fun. During his lifetime, famed “sexologist” Alfred Kinsey asserted that nobody is completely straight or gay, but rather, that sexual orientations falls on a continuum, wherein which we can slide up or down depending on the sexual situations we find ourselves in. There’s something incredibly empowering and freeing about this ideology. If you want to get drunk and make out with your girlfriends (and then blame it on the aah-aah-alcohol) you don’t have to worry about redefining your sexuality on top of nursing your hangover the next morning.

In my experience, it seems more girls than guys are interested in switching teams, especially in college. And why shouldn’t they give it a try? There are no parents to answer to, lots of alcohol to impair judgment, not to mention temporary bouts of homosexuality are much more socially acceptable for women than men. The best part is that, if you discover it’s not for you, then no harm done. Right?

Wrong. Here is where I take issue with all the so-called “bi-curious” girls traipsing around in their high heels and J-Woww tops in the middle of the winter, grinding on and making out with their “friends” whilst sipping their Smirnoff ices:

What may be a meaningless kiss to you, might mean more to the person you’re dragging into your twisted homo-experiment.

I am pretty open about being bisexual, so when I come out to other females who are “curious” about girl-on-girl action, they somehow get the impression that they can test the boundaries of their sexualities on me, and not only will I not care, but I’ll probably like it. WRONG AGAIN. I’m totally fine with some harmless flirting, but unless you’re seriously interested in me, don’t lead me on with the kissing and touching if it’s not going to end with us naked in my bed.

Don’t get me wrong. Being bisexual doesn’t mean I’m impervious to social cues or against a random hookup or two. If I get the impression that you’re only interested in sticking your tongue down my throat, and that’s all I’m interested in too, then let’s do it. Similarly, if it’s clear you’re only expressing your undying friend-love for me in the form of a harmless kiss, I won’t be offended if things don’t progress any further. But many times “bi-curious” girls assume that the momentary object of their affection is on the same page as them. And sometimes, that’s not the case.

So to all you curious girls out there, I want to offer a few tips that will hopefully help save face and friendships in the event you find yourself lip-locked with your BFF.

1. Make sure you know how your friend/potential bi-curious lover feels about girl-on-girl hook-ups. Is it all in good fun? Do you both identify as straight? Or if either of you is gay/bi/etc. would a hook-up mean more to one person than the other?

2. Be sure each person involved defines a hook-up in the same way. How far is each person willing to go before entering uncomfortable territory?

3. In the event that you were not able to answer these aforementioned questions (i.e.; you got too drunk, it wasn’t planned, etc.) don’t sweep it under the rug! Talk about it as soon as possible. I understand that this can be embarrassing, but even a joke to clear the air is better than pretending it never happened. Just remember that regardless of your hook-up’s sexual orientation, they are probably asking themselves the same questions that you are.

4. If you know somebody identifies as gay/bisexual and could potentially have feelings for you (and you do not feel the same) then find another person to experiment with. Although it’s sometimes hard to put yourself in the other person’s shoes, imagine if the roles were reversed. Even better, think about how you would feel if a man you had strong feelings for used you for sex, without any intention of the relationship going any further. It’s the same thing!

As I said, I promote all activity that pushes sexual boundaries, but the truth is that sometimes feelings and friendships can get compromised in the name of fun. But if you go into the situation with the right intentions and everyone is on the same page, then it can be a damn good time. No labels, no judgment, no expectations. Just pure, curious fun.

When I was in fifth grade, my teacher had the girls in the class draw pictures of our future husbands (we won’t get into how hetero-normative this was) and I was the only one who didn’t use the peach-colored crayon to shade the skin of my betrothed. To this day, I’ll randomly watch basketball/football games (regardless of what team is playing) simply to pinpoint cute black players, and then compulsively Google their names to discover their marital status. I also once joined an interracial dating website, but that’s a story for another time.

Anyway, a few months ago I was dating a guy named Will* who happened to be black, and also happened to be really into me. Things started out slowly, much slower than I usually take things with someone I’m attracted to. A month of movie watching and party hopping passed before our first kiss, but it was clear we had natural chemistry. He was surprisingly respectful, and let me decide how far things would go between us. Since I actually liked him, I held out. It’s interesting how we women can fuck a guy on a first date if we think he’s hot, but if we like his looks and personality we suddenly play hard to get. Thus, I abstained. After nearly two months of waiting, though, I cracked and finally let Will take things to the next level.

Now, before I tell you what happened, I want to make it clear that I am totally against perpetuating racial stereotypes. All Asians don’t have to be good at math and not all Jews are cheap. Will, however, fit the stereotype of black men to a tee, and it quickly became apparent we had a big, black problem.

Will was too (ahem) big for me.

We tried different positions, slowing things down, me on top, him on top, but all to no avail. After about five minutes, the pleasure would turn to pain and I’d have to ask him to stop. As a woman who prides herself on her dick-taking abilities (Superbad, anyone?), this was a huge blow to my ego. I imagine the feeling would be similar to a guy who can’t keep his dick hard. After several weeks of trying, we settled into a strange pattern where he would come over, we would try having sex, it wouldn’t work, and then he’d eat me out and leave. Not a bad situation overall, but I was becoming increasingly insecure with my inability to please him.

Then, one fateful Friday night, I drunkenly returned home from the bars and decided I needed Will in my bed ASAP. Perhaps I believed the alcohol would somehow make him smaller or easier to handle. To my dismay, we soon found ourselves in the same predicament. Will kindly stopped per my request, but instead of moving forward, I did the worst thing a girl can do mid-coitus: I started to cry.

In my defense, I am not a crier; I usually prefer to suffer in silence. In this drunken stupor, however, all reasoned action went out the window. Will tried to comfort me, but it was no use. As my mascara ran down my face, I felt somehow less than a woman. What’s the point of dating a guy with a huge penis if you can’t fuck him?!

Unsurprisingly, Will and I ended things shortly after this incident (although it was not entirely related to our problems in the bedroom). The whole situation got me wondering how many other women have experienced similar problems, and if anything can be done to fix it. After doing some extensive research on the subject (read: Googling), I found some interesting information on the topic that may have saved me some frustration and self-esteem loss had I discovered it sooner.

Here’s what I learned: Apparently, only the first five-to-seven inches of a woman’s vagina contains feel-good nerve receptors. If a guy’s penis moves beyond this point, it starts entering cervix territory, which does not contain these pleasure axons. Thus, men that are in the “eight-inch-plus” category might be banging your literal baby maker (which is painful, to say the least). Positions that make these non-pleasurable regions more accessible, like doggy-style, which angles the pelvis downward, might be out of the question for well-endowed partners. Even more interestingly, seeing a man with a large penis pre-fuck might make women’s vaginas less likely to be, for lack of a better term, compliant. According to an article in Cosmopolitan, anticipating discomfort causes our muscles to tense up. In other words, women may clench their kegels after seeing an exceptionally large penis because they expect that it’s going to hurt them, and as a result, it does. If we assume that this is true, then the pain is just a self-fulfilling prophecy and perhaps we can “think” our way toward good sex.

Given the large number of websites, advice columns, and chat rooms devoted to discussing the topic of men who are too big, it’s clear that this is an issue many women grapple with. Fortunately, there are a variety of ways to deal with a guy whose dick makes you want to crawl up into the fetal position and never have sex again. The general rules I picked up from surveying these websites are, briefly, lots of lube, shallow positions, and foreplay. To elaborate, if a woman is not wet enough, sex with anybody is going to increase friction and potentially cause pain. Next, and as I mentioned before, positions that allow a man to penetrate deeply are probably going to be the most painful for a woman. So sticking with girl-on-top, or missionary with the woman’s legs down can help reduce the likelihood of passing the pleasure point. Finally, foreplay can not only help make things nice and wet, it can keep a man’s member at bay. If he’s ready to burst before he penetrates, the woman is going to get the full brunt of his manhood. Thus, if the man comes once before the sex begins, things might not be so bad (although, I should mention this info is coming from Cosmo, which has a tendency to over-emphasize women’s duty to please men, despite its feminist agenda, but the advice sounds good in theory).

I suppose I could have handled my situation with Will much differently, but alas, I am too stubborn (and dramatic) for my own good. For the rest of you out there, I wouldn’t dismiss a guy simply because his dick is too big. The idea that “bigger is better” permeates every aspect of our society (i.e.; McDonald’s Supersize meals), but it obviously doesn’t apply to everything, especially sex. Bigger can be made better, though, if you’re willing to try other alternatives. Keep in mind, however, that sex is all about feeling good, so if things are still not working out after several attempts, you might have to throw in the towel. The good news is, you can still do like I do and fantasize about Kobe Bryant to pass the time.

For those of you unawares, Dino’s is a club/bar located in Ithaca’s Collegetown where, past midnight, bros and hoes can anonymously dry hump each other on the dark, sweaty dance floor, trying earnestly to get laid. Prior to midnight, the place is generally deserted, besides the random group of frat boys at the bar downing Jägerbombs and high-fiving one another. But, when the lights go down and the juice head DJ starts playing his Lady GaGa techno mixes, that’s when the real party starts. As closing time approaches, the club becomes a frenzy of desperate guys and gals shaking their thangs, hoping to attract a decent one-night stand-or, at the very least, someone to make out with to “Stereo Love” in an unlit corner.

Dino’s has inadvertently become my go-to place on Friday nights, mainly because they (usually) play decent music and (usually) accept my fake ID. However, Dino’s and I have a rather unhealthy love/hate relationship, mostly related to the fact that, if Dino’s were a real person, he/she would be bipolar.

Let me explain. Sometimes I can saunter into Dino’s wearing my sluttiest sweat-proof outfit and five-inch-kill-me-now heels (looking and feeling like one of Charlie Sheen’s hookers) and I will proceed to have one of those perfect I’m-young-and-in-college nights. You know, the ones where you (and your liver) feel unstoppable, so much so that you must pray to the alcohol Gods that you’ll remember everything in the morning. This type of night entails being hit on and/or danced with by a minimum of two male humans, followed by ample rounds of free drinks, and possibly getting to second base on the dance floor. In order for the night to be absolutely perfect, I must also know the lyrics to at least 80 percent of the songs played by the DJ and engage in sporadic fist pumping with strangers. Finally, if I’m extremely lucky, my eyeliner will still be relatively close to my eyelids, and not entering cheek territory by the end of the night. These are the kinds of nights where Dino’s and I love one another. If I were dating Dino’s, this would be a night where he would take me out for a romantic dinner and then make sweet, passionate love to me in a bed with satin sheets covered in rose pedals.

And then, like a rabid female squirrel on its period, Dino’s will turn on me. This switch can either go one of two ways. First scenario: I walk in and I’m actually able to see the dance floor from the doorway, as there are no people standing around the bar. The DJ will be playing songs that were popular in 1995, and the dozen or so other Dino’s lovers will be awkwardly huddled in a booth, with only the glow of a lone candle illuminating their disappointed faces. The bartenders will shrug at me and give me a look that says, “Hey, whattayagunnado?”. This would be the equivalent of Dino’s standing me up on our romantic date.

The second scenario, however, is much worse. Imagine, again, my description of the perfect night, with the music bumping and the place packed wall-to-wall. Except this time, I am invisible. Not one guy tries to grab my ass or surreptitiously slide in between me and the wall for an impromptu booty dance. No winks from strangers at the bar, not even a creepy, companionless townie tries to say “Waddup?”. As I do my best bend-and-snap on the dance floor, it appears that not a soul is watching and/or wanting me. I become more wild and desperate in my attempts to get noticed, and consequently more intoxicated, even deciding I would settle for the townie so long as he doesn’t have herpes. And then, before I can make any irreversible mistakes, the lights go on and I am sent home alone, feeling unattractive, with my eyeliner streaked across my face. This would be like walking in on Dino’s fucking some other chick in my bed of satin and roses.

I know it’s silly. When I’m not plastered, I generally have a stable self-esteem and can take it in stride when someone doesn’t find me the most attractive girl in the room. But there’s something about Dino’s that builds up my expectations to a point where I can never truly be satisfied. Maybe it’s the plethora of concupiscent college-aged men packed into tight quarters with the obvious intention of hooking up, or perhaps the welcoming couches in the corners, perfect for a quickie if you’re feeling daring. Maybe it’s an unfortunate side-effect of those few perfect nights that I’ve had there, the ones that leave me feeling like I could walk into any decent establishment, demand someone have sex with me, and every guy would be jumping out of their seats in compliance. In essence, Dino’s is my drug. I continue to abuse it, in the hopes that one day I’ll get that perfect high again, and in the meantime I suffer through the withdrawals and bad trips.

And so is the life of a drug addict.

My first experience in the world of online dating came when I was thirteen. I was watching some Disney-esque teenybopper TV show (i.e.; Lizzie McGuire) when a commercial for E-Harmony, the online dating website, came on the screen. According to the ad, my future husband was waiting for me somewhere. All it would take is a few simple clicks of a mouse, and we would live happily ever after. Pictures of attractive couples kissing flashed across my television as the narrator described how people all over America had found eternal love and satisfaction simply by creating a dating profile. As soon as the commercial was over, I ran upstairs to the family computer to sign myself up.

When I logged on, it appeared that the dating service was free. Being so young, I had no idea how these websites worked, so I simply clicked around until I found the “edit profile” page. I uploaded a “sexy” picture of myself (a kissy-face, overly exposed self-snapped photograph indicated by my visibly outstretched arm), and wrote a quick bio (“Hi! My name is Samantha!! You can call me Sammie. I’m here to meet my husband like the commercial said. I like swimming and reading and school kinda sucks, so yeah. People say I’m kinda mature for my age so if U R older and stuff I’m sure we’ll get along! Okay ttyl xoxo!”). Satisfied, I clicked enter and hoped for the best.

A few days later, my mom picked me up after school and informed me that I would be grounded for the next month.

“WHAT?! WHY?! I didn’t do anything!” I screamed, completely flabbergasted.

I had learned over the years that the best thing to do when my mother accused me of misconduct was to feign innocence, since if I guessed wrong at my infraction I would risk punishment for two offenses instead of just one.

As my mind raced through my list of misdeeds, I suddenly realized I could be in trouble for any number of things. I had stolen that Chapstick from the dollar store the other day. There was also the sleepover I told her I was having at Shannon’s house when I was really at Jason’s party. Oh, and then there was the incident with shaving the dog, but I had successfully blamed that one on my little brother. What could it be?

“You’re grounded for logging into my E-harmony account and changing all my information,” she said, cool as a clam. (Note: My mother never yells, which makes being punished ten times worse. I always wished she was a yeller and finger-pointer so I wouldn’t look like such a fool bursting into tears and causing a scene every time I was grounded.)

Unbeknownst to me, my divorcee mother had already created a profile on E-Harmony a few months earlier. When I entered the website address, her saved login information was automatically brought up, which is why I believed the site to be free. Therefore, instead of creating my own page, I was actually replacing all her questionnaire information, pictures, and bio with my own. The next time she logged-in, she found messages from creepy old men interested in the blue-eyed blonde girl in her profile picture, rather than the brown-haired Jewish mother of four.

Needless to say, mama wasn’t happy. I was given an hour-long lecture about online predators and was unceremoniously stripped of my cell phone, computer, and sleepover privileges. After this incident, I avoided all online dating websites and, consequently, learned how to delete our web browser history.

Questioning Morals…

Many years passed before the idea of online dating appealed to me again. That is, until I met Sarah* my sophomore year of college. Like me, she was quite the wild-child who left a path of destruction in her wake every time she partied. She drank vodka sans chaser straight from the bottle, had a penchant for dancing on tables, and once dated a drug dealer. I instantly loved her.

One day, Sarah told me she had created a profile on this website where they match rich old men with young women, usually in their 20s, looking for financial support. It was called a sugar daddy/ sugar baby relationship. I had never heard of this type of arrangement before, but my curiosity was overwhelming. Sarah explained that many of these sugar daddies simply wanted the company of a beautiful young woman, and would pay their “babies” hundreds of dollars to accompany them on coffee dates, trips to the movies, or nice dinners. Some even indicated they would be willing to pay for rent, college tuition, or exotic vacations.

The concept raised serious ethical questions in my mind, but at the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to have a sugar daddy of my own. What if I found a sexy billionaire to whisk me away on weekend trips to Paris and Milan, only to drop me back off at Cornell in his Mercedes with a pocket full of cash, a kiss on the cheek, and no further expectations? I imagined going to his mansion during school breaks, eating meals prepared by his personal chef and taking extravagant shopping trips to NYC. I decided it couldn’t hurt to give it a try, so I asked Sarah to send me the link to the website.

When I logged on, I was shocked to find how frank most of the men were about what they were looking for. On each sugar daddy’s profile was a meter indicating how much monthly compensation they were willing to provide for their sugar baby. It was like an allowance, except with more zeroes. Some men expected sexual favors, others merely wanted a conversationalist or travel buddy. In addition to their allowance limit, the daddies also included their occupation, yearly income, and estimated net worth. It was like reading a resume. However, many did not include pictures of themselves and those that did were mostly balding or gray-haired. Every once in awhile I would stumble across someone decent with their hair intact, but their information seemed unrealistic. How could a 25 year-old covered in tattoos and piercings be worth over $10 million? Despite my apprehension, I found myself questioning my standards. For the right amount of money, would I seriously consider dating one of these old coots?

I decided to make a profile just to see what would happen. I had to answer questions about what I would be willing to offer a potential daddy (there were actually options like “sexual favors,” or “smart conversation” that you could check mark), how much financial compensation I was looking for (under $500 a month? $1000-$3000 a month? Amount negotiable?) and my age limit. I decided it was best to keep an open mind, so I chose options that would yield the most results. However, I made my age cutoff 45 since I knew no matter how much money I was offered I couldn’t stomach the thought of getting it on with someone older than my parents.

Within a few hours, I had already received over a dozen responses from eager daddies telling me how attractive and intelligent I seemed and asking how soon we could discuss the logistics of our arrangement. I felt like I was auctioning myself off or accepting job applications. The strangest thing of all was how many men assumed I was unquestioningly interested in them. The fact that money-exchange was involved seemed to make all normal dating rules invalid. It didn’t matter if there was physical attraction, mutual interests, or if I was married, taken, or single. It was assumed that if you had a profile on this website that your choice depended only on who offered you the best arrangement. For example, 2HOT4U from SoHo is offering a $2,000 a month allowance, free use of his summer beach house in the Hamptons, and unlimited shopping sprees in return for sex whenever he requests. On the other hand, richCEO5445 from New Jersey is offering to pay your car insurance, take you on spa trips and vacations, and send you a weekly check in the mail if you accompany him to all his work benefits, galas, and related functions. Who do you choose?

Eventually, I decided I could never actually meet any of these men face-to-face. No matter what they offered, I was too afraid that they would turn out to be axe-murderers (not to mention these so-called “arrangements” bordered on prostitution) so I deleted my profile after only a few weeks.

Making Contact…

Interestingly, my foray into the world of online dating did not end there. The following summer I landed an internship in NYC where I had free roam of my family’s Manhattan-based apartment. My good friend Jessica* lived just outside the city, so I had a partner in crime, my own crib, not to mention I was making BANK at my internship. This unbeatable combination meant that Jessica and I could engage in debauchery and shenanigans without worrying about parents, rules, or judgment. In an enormous city where no one knew our names, the possibilities for troublemaking were endless. Fake IDs in hand, we set forth to make mistakes and everlasting memories.

Our first weekend out, Jessica and I found ourselves without a game plan. We were unfamiliar with the NYC hot spots, so like all lost souls, we turned to the Internet. We decided to Google the locations of the top lesbian bars in Manhattan and we quickly stumbled upon a Craigslist ad for a gay bar in the West Village. The ad was under the category “W4W” or “women-seeking-women”. This was the first time I discovered the hidden gold mine that is the Craigslist personal ads. Although Jessica and I didn’t end up going to the bar listed in the ad, I made a mental note to peruse these online personals when I had some spare time.

A few weeks later, I did exactly as I had planned. I started in the “M4W” or “men-seeking-women” section and spent hours reading the most perverted, vile, and obscene requests I had ever heard of. There were men interested in golden showers, date rape fantasies, sex with animals, sex with trannies, anal sex, rim jobs, and titty-fucking. One ad requested a dominatrix to tie him up and take a dump on his chest. Another sought sex with only women over 300 lbs. The freaks, geeks, queers, queens, and nymphos had all found a safe haven in Craigslist to express their deepest desires to the world. I couldn’t help but wonder who these people were in real life. Was the guy searching for a “cougar to teach him new things in the bedroom” really just a nerdy, acne-covered, seventeen year-old boy? Was the man glorifying golden showers going to serve me my next hotdog on the street? (God, I hoped not). In addition to the weirdos, however, there were also semi-normal requests. Some men were seeking a real relationship with a “down-to-Earth” gal, some interested in mere friendship, others coveting a wife. It was quite the interesting selection.

From M4W I moved on to the W4W section, which surprisingly, was equally as perverse. I quickly learned that the acronym BBW stood for “big beautiful woman,” and apparently, there are a lot of those in Manhattan searching for someone to eat their BBP’s (I’ll let you figure that made-up acronym out on your own). Surprisingly, there were also many teenaged girls searching for their first lesbian experience. Besides being amusing, my journey into the world of Craigslist made for a compelling anthropological experiment. Would the anonymity that the Internet afforded really help me find someone with the same emotional and sexual interests as me? “Well,” I thought…”only one way to find out”.

I posted an ad in both the W4W and W4M sections, tried to keep my wording neutral and requests simple, and then waited. After 24 hours I had received over fifty response e-mails. In fact, I couldn’t pick up my Blackberry without a new notification, so when I returned home from my internship that night, I spent hours on the couch reading every single response. There were strange responses with odd or intriguing subject-lines meant to grab my attention, (unsurprisingly) a handful of naked pictures, and a few long-winded personal essays about past heartbreak and dating cynicism. My potential mates ranged greatly in age, gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and location. It was actually quite fun reading through all the e-mails (many of which were delightfully full of flattering comments) trying to understand who the person was behind the words. It made me feel like I was on a 70s-style dating show, with my mystery date hidden somewhere behind door number three.

I meticulously chose a half dozen or so prospects to respond to (both men and women). Consequently, some were only interested in cybersex or exchanging naughty pictures, others simply bored me. After a few days I had weeded out the bunch to only one man and one woman. Eventually, I exchanged cell phone numbers with the woman and we began texting on a regularly basis. She was from the Bronx and told me she had never had a lesbian experience before, but was interested in giving it a shot (in the business, we like to call this “fresh meat” *wink*). She was of Spanish heritage, very good-looking from the pictures she shared with me, and wanted to take things slowly. We texted on and off for a few weeks until we decided to make plans to meet up. Unfortunately, these plans never worked out. I believe we were both slightly nervous and scared of meeting face-to-face and, in the process of waiting for the other to take the initiative, we gradually gave up and lost contact.

As for the man, he seemed much more interested in an eventual rendezvous. He was a recent college graduate trying to get his foot in the door at a financial accounting firm in the city and struck me as being intelligent with a healthy sense of humor.  Again, I gave my phone number to him after a few back-and-forth E-mails and multiple photo verifications until, ultimately, we began to discuss going out on a date.  Although my new friend intrigued me, I was still skeptical about making my online tryst a reality. There was still a chance he could be deceiving me in some way, whether with his age, occupation, and my greatest fear, his intentions.

It wasn’t until Jessica agreed to accompany me on my first date with him that I felt comfortable going through with it. We figured that if we came as a package deal and met him in a public area, my chances of getting raped and killed were significantly lowered. I arranged to meet him at a bar in the West Village near Henrietta Hudsons (an infamous gay bar) so that, in the event things didn’t quite work out (read: he was ugly, had an unforeseen speech impediment, was missing teeth, was five inches shorter than he let on, etc.) we could always ditch him and pick up some cute lesbians instead.

Giggling nervously like two teenagers playing seven-minutes-in-heaven, Jessica and I entered the chosen bar and began looking for Mr. Craigslist. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of punishment this affair would warrant if I was still living under my mother’s roof. Once inside, I immediately recognized him from his photos, standing awkwardly near an old jukebox wearing a blue-and-white plaid shirt I would have tried to talk him out of had we known each other better. We exchanged a stiff hug (initiated by him), uncomfortable introductions, and I quickly decided I needed to get drunk. Admirably, my date bought both Jessica and me our first round of drinks. As the alcohol made its way into our systems, the conversation became more fluid and, before I knew it, I decided he was coming home with me that night.

After a night of dancing, free drinks, and decent sex, I couldn’t complain about my meaningless Craigslist affair. All in all things turned out exactly as I had expected. Him and I never spoke again after that one night (despite numerous attempts on his part), but I suppose we’ll always have the fond memories.

The Moral of the Story…

The world of online dating is unparalleled when it comes to finding exactly what and who you want. There’s no need to waste time and energy on blind dates when you can post an ad on Craigslist letting the world know that all you really want is blow job. The anonymity of the Internet allows reputable, average Joe individuals to post their deepest, darkest desires without fear of judgment. It truly is a revolution in dating, fucking, and human connectivity.

However, the stark reality of this seemingly wonderful innovation is that we can never be 100% sure we’re getting the real deal. It’s quite easy to create a dating profile or personal ad filled with misleading or completely false information. Online predators, the same ones my mother warned me about nearly seven years ago, can easily target unsuspecting users who are not privy to the warning signs. AKA if you’re not smart, things can get ugly.

Despite having made several dating profiles on different websites, I always try and be conscious of the type of information I release. I try not to post too many pictures of myself, or give out information related to my address, phone number, or full name. It’s easy to forget that anybody can access your profile unless you specify certain privacy settings, so the best thing to do is exercise caution wherever possible. Finally, as I did, if you ever plan on meeting face-to-face with someone you met online, try and bring a friend along or meet in a public place the first time around. Better safe than sorry.

Overall, I’m not sure online dating is really the best bet for someone my age for finding a significant other, but it has its obvious perks. Perhaps I’ll forever be traumatized by my thirteen-year-old grounding experience, but either way I think I’ve closed the door on my E-dating escapades for now.

This Tuesday evening, an unsuspecting Natasha Saidikowski was watching Glee in the basement of Sheldon Court, when I  interviewed her for the first ever Needle in a Haystack article. This sophomore is a Biometry and Statistics major, from Marble Falls, Texas. Why is she a statistics major, while so many students dread taking a statistics class? After taking an AP stats class in high school, she fell in love with the subject. Natasha has always enjoyed math because the answer is always either right or wrong—there’s no in between, and statistics is a type of math that is applicable—which is why she chose it.

On campus, Natasha plans to get involved in Ink Magazine, a literary magazine that comes out twice a year. Since this would be her first semester with Ink Magazine, she’s not exactly sure what she will be doing. Before coming to Cornell, she was interested in equestrian, riding for 13 years with her horse, Duke. Natasha took an equestrian PE class here, but the Oxley Equestrian Center is too far away. Ever been to Oxley? She’s not joking. It’s crazy far.

Natasha applied to Cornell early decision. She searched for schools with equestrian teams and looked into Cornell because of its abundance of opportunities and, well, because it’s an Ivy. Between her parents, they hold an astonishing six degrees!  Very impressive.

Doesn’t Natasha sound interesting? Well, she can be found at her favorite place to study on campus: Mann Library! It’s a far walk from Sheldon, but she doesn’t care. Natasha can also be spotted at her favorite dining facility: Martha’s. Martha’s is also quite the walk from Collegetown, but she just can’t resist those delicious spinners.

Her favorite class at Cornell so far has been her creative writing seminar. We’ve all been in the situation of sitting in a lecture, bored, counting down the minutes until we can leave, drifting off into sleep, but Natasha’s seminar is the opposite. She loves the experiences she has had with workshopping and reading her classmate’s stories. Unlike in a lecture setting, where you are surrounded by as many as 200 other students, seminars give you the opportunity to get to know everyone in your class.

Natasha hails from Texas, so it’s not too shocking that her least favorite part of Cornell is the cold and the snow. She dislikes trudging to class, the day after a snowfall, through some of the paths that aren’t frequently shoveled. Her other less-than-favorite thing about Cornell is second semester, when there is that clump of time when you are so wrapped up in school work with no breaks to look forward to besides spring break, and its just prelim after prelim.

Last spring break, Natasha participated in an Alternative Spring Break program at a shelter for battered women in West Virginia. She really enjoyed the experience, however she plans to spend this spring break here in Ithaca. She will be staying here over the summer as well to take organic chemistry. Natasha currently works in a molecular biology lab as a research assistant, dealing with DNA and tissue cultures.

Since Natasha had been watching an episode of Glee, I ended our interview with a Glee related question, “Who is your favorite character?” She chose the lovable, yet clueless, Brittany S. Pierce. Although she didn’t like Brittany at first, as the series progressed, Natasha starting liking the character’s personality and funny quips, finding her very endearing.