She’s online and in between sheets. Get more of The Hatchet’s sex columnist’s musings throughout the week.
Sometimes, Pink is too big. I kid you not. He is a very tall boy (6′5″) and his appendages are proportional to his size. I love pulling off his pants, watching his beautiful, bare penis bounce out of his pants like a soldier standing at very enthusiastic attention. But sometimes, it hurts. A lot. After some sessions, I feel like I’ve been horseback riding for three days straight. The worst is when I give him a blow job and I can barely chew the next day.
I know, I know, you’re all rolling your eyes. POOR EVE. Her boyfriend’s penis is TOO BIG. But the truth is, size matters. Fit matters. Pink and I have great sex, but every now and then it’s just a lot to take.
Essentially, I just want all of you men out there to know that size obviously matters, but big is not the only way to go. If you’re pinky thin, maybe then there’s a problem, but anywhere between glue stick and police baton is acceptable. In fact, there’s probably someone out there who is your perfect fit, no matter what size you are. Or, as in the case of Pink and me, someone who’s willing to spend a lot of money on lube…
Last weekend, I was supposed to have lots of sex. After a long week of papering, studying and working, I went shopping with Boobs to pick out “the dress” for Pink’s firm holiday party. I picked out a strapless little red number with a bow, so short it was actually being sold as a shirt. I shaved my legs. I went to sleep Thursday night filled with the promise of a well-deserved weekend of giving and receiving.
Friday morning came and I couldn’t lift my head off the pillow, much less thrust my hips or bring my ankles up to my ears. Worse than bad breath or visible chest hair – the flu is the ultimate cock block. All of my desires, my dreams of a mind-blowing Pinkfest, ended up on the couch, eating jell-o, watching Grey’s Anatomy on DVD, and gazing longingly at my itty-bitty red dress.
Pink stayed with me the whole time. He went out and bought me ginger ale. He rubbed my feet. He watched Grey’s Anatomy. By Monday, I was feeling better, and by Tuesday, I was almost restored. I knew I had to do something special for Pink…but what? What would truly please his manhood after a weekend filled with perhaps the girliest show ever created and a lover who pukes every time Meredith and Derek eye each other longingly?
Then I figured it out: I would give Pink the ultimate blow job. I’ve gone down on him many times, but this time would top them all. It would last for hours, shattering the world record for best-girlfriend-ever.
There are some parameters when it comes to giving the ultimate blow job. These parameters have their perks, though. To begin, pretend that his penis is a freezing cold ice cream cone. Go slowly, starting to make it melt. Increase speed as you increase surface area coverage. If he’s huge, never forget what an incredible resource your hands are. Make sure you look up at him and lock eyes. Oral sex should be a generous gift, but still an intimate act, just like giving a real gift is. People can tell when you let your secretary pick out the blow job…I mean, present.
When he’s close to finishing, speed up, but then hold it tightly and move slower as he actually finishes. And always, ALWAYS swallow. There is no reason not to, unless you are allergic to semen, in which case you need to find a new pastime anyway.
Semen is actually a healthy, high-protein substance composed of only 5 calories per tablespoon. One website I went to even suggested semen as an Atkins-friendly snack. Not to mention that the man enjoys it so much more when he feels that you’ve enjoyed it, and jumping off of him to spit out the physical representation of his pleasure is not the best way to say was it as good for you as it was for me? As Boobs put it, “I wouldn’t want a guy rushing for the Listerine after he went down on me.”
The ultimate blow job requires the ultimate commitment. Sex is raw. Sex is dirty. Sex involves fluids and noises and the occasional locked jaw. But that’s okay – because the warm, fuzzy feeling you get after giving someone an amazing orgasm is equivalent, in my book, to anonymously donating money to an orphanage or spending the day at a soup kitchen (both of which I clearly do as regularly as I give head, hence my dual-role as a sex columnist and UNICEF Ambassador).
Either way, there’s nothing like giving. So Tuesday night, I told Pink to meet me at 10pm. I made it completely dark and plugged in the Christmas lights. I put on the sexy little red dress. Then I took off the sexy little red dress, replacing it with only a pair of thigh-highs and a Santa hat. I felt like a porn star, but in a really classy, I’m-in-love-so-it’s-not-slutty kind of way. And after four days of feelings like roadkill, it felt pretty amazing.
When Pink came in, he stopped breathing for a moment, then laughed.
“So, you’re feeling better?” he said, leaning his hips in toward me as if to say hell-ooo? my pants are still on.
“Much,” I told him. I put the Santa hat on him, and gave him his early Christmas present. And Santa Claus came to town.
It’s easy to believe.
For example, when was the last time you thought that masturbation caused blindness? Have you ever checked your palms for increased hair after a vigorous session with yourself? I once believed that I should swallow semen because my oh-so-manipulative boyfriend told me it was a metabolic enhancer (give head and lose weight - who could ask for anything more?).
Sexual myths seem to be the most prevalent, and the easiest to believe. Because we receive sexual information from all different sources - religious institutions, television, our parents, schoolmates, the cashier at Wendy’s - it is difficult to separate the truth from the guy who just really, really wants you to swallow. Even in our Internet-saturated, post-Kinsey, post-RuPaul world where sex shops border Italian restaurants in swanky neighborhoods, sexual myths pervade.
Sure, we know that your average male won’t turn into Teen Wolf if he masturbates. We have as many birth control options as flavors of Orbitz gum. We also know that the female clitoris has more nerve endings than the penis and consider female circumcision to be a crime.
Why, then, is non-religious male circumcision still so common in the United States? Why do we think a man with foreskin is somehow dirtier? Why do many of my girlfriends shudder at the though of an “uncut” penis? Why did I myself, the first time I encountered foreskin, ask the lovely gentleman with whom I was naked “What’s up with that?” Needless to say, that turtle went right back into his shell.
Like a good investiga-horny journalist, I decided to do some research into this particular sexual notion to find out if the superiority of the circumcised penis to the non-circumcised penis is, in fact, a myth.
Click to read the rest of Eve’s sex column in today’s Life section
Ooooh la la. Looks like my most recent column has kicked up some dust! How dare I point out differences between the sexes! How dehumanizing to see women as different from men!
Okay, sorry, let me remove my tongue from my cheek and discuss this like a big girl. I was actually very impressed with the points made by Ms. Dorlyn Catron in her recent letter to the editor. She is articulate and clearly one of the women I describe in my article as benefitting from and being comfortable with the new hook-up culture we’ve fostered. In making her excellent points, however, Ms. Catron ignored many of mine. I feel that I was very firm in my opinion that every woman has different tastes. The problem I point out is that women who prefer a more traditional courtship are often considered old-fashioned or high-maintenance, and this is as unfair as history’s suppression of female sexuality.
There are no blanket terms or convenient definitions when it comes to the overlap between human sexuality and emotion. I love a good orgasm. I love a good lover. But I am sad, as I said in my column, to see so many girls afraid to stand up for what they want in a relationship. For Ms. Catron, that might be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am and a cigarette, for other girls it might be Coney and a kiss on the cheek. I just wish that the latter, more traditional end of the spectrum was considered as empowered and sexy as the former. And I’ve read plenty of Eve Ensler and Gail Weiss, both of whom decry our perpetually patriarchal society and the female fear of being gloriously, openly female, whatever that entails.
The sexual revolution was all about options, and often it seems that women no longer have the option to be a “textbook woman” should they choose to be. Essentially, I was trying to say that women should not be so hard on themselves. We’ve got plenty of “empowered” women like Ms. Catron to be hard enough on us!
I have, at times, wished I were a man. Certainly, I love my little wrists and long hair and the fact that someday I’ll be able to carry another life inside of me. But sometimes, dammit, it would be nice to live on the corner of Easy and Penis streets, where all the ladies know your name.
There are just so many perks. It doesn’t hurt when men lose their virginity. Men can pee anywhere they want. The world is a safer place for them. Men can eat more than women without gaining weight. Sure, women have a longer life expectancy, but to what end? Gee, dying at 90 instead of 88 sure gave me two good years of … remembering how much it hurt when I lost my virginity.
Sex and the City, arguably one of the most influential shows of our generation, is completely founded on the question, “Can women have sex like men?” Guess why? Because women have always craved the power the penis wields. Men can disconnect love and sex much more easily than women.
Anyone who’s ever been hurt in a relationship, anyone who’s ever stared at a silent phone and willed it to ring, anyone who’s ever had to bite her lip to keep from saying “I could really love you,” would kill to have that power. Because, as much as we’d like to say we can, women just cannot have casual sex the way men can.
Sure, every girl is different, and I have plenty of friends who have even enjoyed the occasional random sex. But, on the whole, my female friends (myself included) are hurt when a physical encounter does not result in at least acknowledgement of our earth-shattering beauty … or, you know, whatever…
Click to read the rest of Eve’s sex column in today’s Life section…
About a year ago this time, Boobs and I went shopping. This is not uncommon for undergraduate girls. Our destination was not, however, the inexpensive glory of H&M or the pricey prep of J. Crew. We were headed, instead, to The Pleasure Place.
It was half-joke, half-curiousity, half-homage-to-Charlotte-and-her-rabbit (three halves, I know, women are complex), but we were determined to buy vibrators.
And we did. For about $14.99, we purchased (matching!) hot pink, sparkly, reasonably-sized vibrators.
Since then, though, neither of us has used it for our own personal pleasure. Boobs and I both keep talking about these elaborate masturbatory lives we plan on living, and yet the desire never hits. Sure, we’ll drool over that guy who looks like Jeremy Sisto at the gym, but never to the point that we rush home to our vibrators.
Is this the norm? Are most girls more active masturbators? For men, masturbating seems as essential and effortless as a morning cup of coffee. As most of my readers know, I am a hot-blooded young girl with plenty of libido to spare, and yet my sex life with myself is virtually non-existent. Am I missing out?
You’ve heard them all. It’s not cheating if you just kiss. The zipcode rule. I was drunk so I didn’t mean it. We were on a break.
Not only have you heard them all, but maybe you’ve even used them. Either way, if you’re an undergraduate in the United States of America and you have spent any time in a romantic relationship, you’ve probably cheated. Or at least thought about it.
I’ve cheated. And we’re not talking about the one-night-stand-it-was-an-accident-and- only-one-kiss-and-I-swear-I’ll-never-do-it-again kind of cheating … it was the maintaining-one-boyfriend-at-GW-and-another-at-UPenn kind of cheating. At the time, I thought I was a genius.
The math seems right – double the affection, double the attention, double the roses on Valentine’s Day. Clearly, I’m not a math major, because what I didn’t anticipate was double the karma. Both men now hate me and refuse to speak to me. Whenever they look back on our relationship(s), they remember the cheating instead of the happiness.
And I will say that, despite the fact that I put three hearts in a blender and pressed liquify, I’m glad I cheated. I had to learn how it felt to say one name and mean another. I had to learn how dirty I felt after sleeping with two men in one week. I had to learn how easy it is for lies to overpower love.
If I’d never cheated, I’d never be able to see how far reality is from fantasy. So, my question for my promiscuous peers is this: can a cheater learn? Am I doomed to a life of infidelity because I did it before? Are you?
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