Category Archives: sex

Love Life Introspective: No, I am Not a Slut

So, I’ve been really quiet again lately. That’s because I keep starting posts and not finishing them. And I keep not finishing them because things are going really well, almost too well to be able to write about it in any meaningful way.

Most importantly, The Traveling Progressive and I have been seeing quite a lot of each other. He has made me a delicious dinner, taken me out for a fancy dinner, and put me completely out of my element by taking me out on an ATV.

And he told me stories of baby TTP crashing four-wheelers.

When I recently discussed this with my parents, the differences in their reactions were startling.

Me: TTP took me to the [little, fancy, expensive restaurant in town] last night.

Dad: Oh? How was it?

Me: It was really good. . .blah blah blah.

But later, my conversation with my mom was more like this:

Me: TTP took me to the [little, fancy, expensive restaurant in town] last night.

Mom: And is he expecting any reciprocity in return?

Me: [dumbfounded look as I try to decide if she is talking about my taking TTP out sometime]

Mom: Well, you know most guys expect something in return for taking you out to a nice dinner.

Me: Or. . . not. Because that hasn’t happened.

Mom: You need to play hard to get.

Now, I don’t necessarily want to discuss my parents’ disparate reactions, or how weird it is that my mom chose to focus on whether or not I was sleeping with him while my dad just cared how dinner was. I also don’t want to talk about my mother’s passive comments like smirking at me when someone mention’s “fuck buddies” or straight up asking “who are you sleeping with now?” when I try to get my family to make plans in advance so I can plan the rest of my weekend. Continue reading

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The Consent He Did Not Get

A few years ago, I had a very regrettable night. I went out with a friend, ended up going home with a guy friend of hers, and having sex that I did not want to have.

I don’t think about it often, but every once in a while, it creeps its way back into my consciousness: I am a smart and responsible girl, so how did I get there?

I was reminded of this situation this afternoon while reading Sara Alcid’s post on Everyday Feminism, “Navigating Consent: Debunking the ‘Grey Area’ Myth.

Specifically, Alcid’s discussion of how one partner may say no and then eventually be pressured into a “yes” really resonated with me, and this early December night, in particular. Continue reading

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My Neck. . . My Back


In my conversations with The Unexpected Italian (maybe I should just call him The Italian–The Half Italian?), he basically told me that he liked when a woman knows what she wants sexually. I feel like people often know this, but they have a hard time spelling it out.

In an episode of season 2 of Girls, Adam gets hooked up with Natalie, who very clearly articulates what she does not want sex to include. Even though it doesn’t work out for them, Adam knows before they even have sex what she does and doesn’t want.

As I’ve talked about before, there are some definite things that I do not want when it comes to sex. But I also know that there are some things that make being intimate way more enjoyable. And the best way to get me into bed is through my back. Continue reading

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More on The Unexpected Italian

The sex had been so good, I was still thinking about it almost a week later.

This was not like me, at all, and if someone had told me this would happen, I wouldn’t have believed them. And yet, here I am, thinking about The Unexpected Italian, days later, perhaps with no end in sight.

Let me rewind for a second: The Unexpected Italian is not my usual type. He’s not a pompous, literature-loving douchebag, for starters. He’s also younger than me–we all know I’m not too much into that. He’s taller than me, but not by much. He’s smart but maybe that doesn’t always show because he’s also a frat boy at heart.

Now, he’s not the typical frat boy. Deep down, I’m fairly certain he’s a good guy. He cares about trust and friendship and getting to know someone, not just getting some from them (but, of course, he’s not the type to turn that down). I also really enjoyed his company: just hanging out and chatting with him, the time goes by so quickly.

But I’m not thinking about the chats, or what we watched on television, or anything like that.

I’m still thinking about the sex. Continue reading

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Shut Up and Do Me

I will not deny the fact that I’m horribly particular. I want things to be certain ways, and if they aren’t that particular way, then I’m probably going to be totally unsatisfied.

I like my mashed potatoes rich and creamy but with a few lumps. Grainy potatoes are out. I prefer Keebler Soft-Batch chocolate chip cookies to any other premade kind. I like strawberry milkshakes as long as there are no chunks of strawberry in it. I like the radio loud but the bass turned down.

I like my sex intense, passionate, and, most of all, kind of quiet.

Now, when I say quiet, I definitely do not mean silent. There’s always going to be some noise to sex, whether it’s the sound of two bodies bumping together, the intense moans and groans of pleasure, or the pillow talk between intimate partners.

But all of these can become a bit much, and if I feel that way, it takes me out of the moment and kind of ruins everything for me.

I wrote previously about how it annoys me to be called baby, but that’s not all of it. Sometimes, people just talk too much during sex, including the guy who inspired that post on being called baby. We’ll call him The Talker. Because he’s definitely a talker. Continue reading

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Enough with the B Word, Guys

What is it with guys dropping the B word?

Baby. . .babe. . .baby. . .babe. . .


We just met. I am not your baby.

At first, I thought this was just a personal quirk, but I’m starting think that maybe there’s something more to it. Why do guys say it so much? Do they think we like it?

If you can’t tell, I sure don’t.

I first encountered this a few years ago. I had just met this guy, made a few bad choices, and ended up having drunk sex with him. I swear “baby” came out of his mouth every sentence.

He was all, “you’re so sexy, baby” and “I could eat you all night, baby” and baby baby baby baby baby.

It was hard not to laugh. Seriously.

Then, about a week ago, I ended up sleeping with this guy who is a friend-of-a-friend. This ended up pretty much the same way:

“I love eating you, baby,” “oh God, baby, you’re sexy,” and baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby baby.

I think I might have actually slapped him across the face and told him not to call me baby. He did not get the hint.


Okay. So maybe it’s a drunk sex thing?

But then I went on that awful date, and if I had a penny for every time he condescendingly called me “babe” that night, I would have come home like a thousand dollars richer.

The sad thing is that I’m not even kidding.

I can’t honestly figure out why it bugs me so much, but getting called “baby,” especially in the bedroom, just drives me fucking crazy. I’m not a baby. I am not a child.

I’m an adult, making the decision to hang out with/take you inside me, and you will fucking respect that.

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