I’m butt-naked looking like a toaster strudel with cum on my ass as I wait for yet another mysterious — yet somehow so predictable — brown-haired college boy to get me a paper towel.
I hear his roommates shuffling around outside, one of whom was my first ever friend at this school, and the other I just so happened to hook up with all of last year and ended up blocking on various forms of social media.
Yeah, that’s me. I bet you’re wondering how I got myself into this situation.
Honestly, I wish I could explain it, too. Sex used to be something that scared me and seemed so intense and personal — I mean when it’s also known as “making love,” I assumed there had to be much more to it. While sex can be an act of love to some, it doesn’t always have to be. If it did, I’d be sporting cobwebs where the sun don’t shine and I’d have a lot less shag shirts in my dresser.
I do consider sex to be intimate, though. You get to see someone in their (literal) barest form and if you’re a weirdo like me, you can psychoanalyze them in the process, which can be fun. I’ve seen enough Kendrick Lamar posters, heard enough Spotify playlists, and listened to enough stories about “emotional unavailability” to completely understand my demographic. Sex, to this extent, is research.
Some boys keep their socks on and others take them off first. Sometimes you undress yourself while other times you grip at each other’s clothes feverishly with sweaty palms to set the mood. Some people are quiet in bed and other people sound like poorly written fan fiction dialogue. Some boys prefer missionary (what year is it, again?) while others expect me to bend it like Beckham in unnatural ways. All of this research turn into stories that I’ll hopefully think back on when I’m old, gray and celibate (but did you know old folks homes are rampant with sex — honestly…me)
Stories like the time we left the condom wrapper on a piano in a music building classroom because we thought it would be cool to mark our territory. Or there was that time on the 50 yard line of the football field. Or the times I’ve woken up with bruised hips and handprints and get to look at them each day until they fade and laugh at how I got them.
I have yet to get the formal “talk” from my parents, which cracks me up. God bless them. If only they knew. I’m still curious as to how the whole cliché “when a mommy and daddy REALLY love each other” trope ends. Like, what about the if two people are just a little buzzed and think they’re hot shit for a sec and wanna… do something? narrative. I’m here to tell you how that one ends… just fucking do it. Be safe, be consensual, and go get naked.