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Preparing for the Inevitable
You know you’re gonna do it, but are you physically ready?

I enjoy sex. My girlfriend enjoys it, too, and hopefully she still does after we’ve finished. That’s important to me. Always has been. I’m not too insecure about my abilities anymore, but that wasn’t always so. There was a time—right up until about last Tuesday—when it was everything I could do not to think about sex and if I’d be able to perform to the level of . . . well, I’m not sure what, but I had to be good. Real good. Mind-numbing. And I’d just freak myself right out trying to prearrange every single moment of a possible sex scenario to make sure I’d be ready.

Sure, today I could just pop a pill bringing about the 36-hour boner (the very thought of which sounds like the definition of erectile dysfunction to me). But let’s be honest, I can scratch off a list of every pill and lubricant, describe the nuances of every delay cream and cock-ring, but let’s be honest, that just wouldn’t be that fun to read about, let alone write. The good stuff, the funny stuff, took place during when we were younger—the more naïve times. When we thought we knew what worked. Sure Viagra’ll give you an ever-lasting erection, but believing that masturbating right before sex guarantees exaggerated endurance is kind of funny. That’s the equivalent of believing your uncle when he says you’ll get a surprise if you pull his finger.

I surveyed a few of my old blokes for humorous nuggets of wisdom they gleaned from locker-room discussions and big brothers. A few of which I’ll lay out for you, a la Studs Terkel. Names have been changed to protect the embarrassed.

Sitting around the counter in an upscale, 1950s diner in Guilderland last week, Kronky Schlumpo and Tito Boomba discussed their approaches to “gettin’-they-shit-right” for the ladies.

“I follow a strict workout regimen,” Boomba said, his Latin accent saucier than ever. “I’ve been following it for years, and it really has taken me a long time to achieve the desired results.”

“Which are,” Schlumpo asked, in his usual blasé attitude, not looking up from his sixth cup of coffee.

“Well, it’s an erection magnification program, really,” Boomba began to explain. “I pulled the idea from those men’s mags, I think. Really it’s just like lifting weights and you approach it as you would any floor exercise.”

“Practice this at home in your bathroom sometime,” Boomba continued, “Before you hop into the shower, work yourself into an erect state and place a T-shirt on top of your member. Now just like you’d curl a dumbbell, bring that T-shirt on up. Start with three, eight-rep sets and work your way up. It’s a simple motion that doesn’t take long to figure out and it builds incredible strength in the foreshaft region.”

Schumplo remained unimpressed.

“You can increase your resistance up, too,” Boomba said. “Start with the T-shirt. Then try a wet washcloth, a beach towel, your backpack. I’ve yet to nudge the coffee table, but I’m no quitter.”

Schlumpo’d heard enough at this point. He sat fuming silently for a few minutes before unleashing a profanity-laden screed about hygiene.

“Look [my friend] if you’d brush your [silly] teeth with a little baking-soda-and-peroxide toothpaste and follow it with an aggressive flossing,” Schlumpo trailed off, leveling his anger. “Look, you can do all the erection-enhancing muscle exercises you want, [brother], but if you’ve got diet-soda-and-tuna-salad breath, you’ll be celebrating the splendor of your monumental boner alone.”

Boomba mulled this over a bit. “Point taken,” he said.

Another friend of mine, Geoffery Luenthal, remembered his first experience preparing for the big night out with a girl he’d met at the nonalcoholic juice bar at his old college.

“To be quite honest, I’d heard too much nonsense by the time my famed “big night” was staring me down,” Luenthal admitted. “I was supposed to yank it before going in—for stamina reasons. I also heard I was supposed to shave my balls or the ladies would ignore them.”

“Initially I thought I was above all the bullshit and I’d make my own rules, but then I got to thinking,” he paused for a moment. “I thought to myself, hey, shaving the balls sounds kind of interesting. So I gave it a go as I was sure that this was going to be the night, complete with that whopper of a porno-style blowjob I’d been begging for for a good two months.

“Shaving was an adventure, me mucking about the college dorm shower with my legs propped up all over the place looking for that smooth shave,” Luenthal said. “I was so taken with shaving, I went the full monty and took it all off. After clearing the shower drain of my pubic carnage, I lotioned up, admired my work and was off.

“Long story short, I never got a blowjob, but I did stick it in. She was like hooking up with corkboard, though, stiff and unwelcoming, nervous and about as passionate as head lice,” Luenthal said. “All I got out of this gig was a quick nut-bust and two weeks of itching my shit as the pubes grew back.”

—Travis Durfee

Deal With It
Developing and nurturing a fulfilling sexual relationship requires a knowledge of your limits, a lot of sensitivity, and a willingness to haggle like a Mesopotamian merchant

Love is a give-and-take. It’s the art of the compromise. Two hearts learning to beat as one. One hand washing the other, and all that.

But let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that one hand wants the other hand to get itself gussied up in a soiled gardening glove and spell out in sign language, “I’m a naughty, naughty, dirty hand,” over and over before the washing begins. Let’s say that hand No. 1 just can’t—or won’t—enjoy the mutual washing without that little drama. What’s hand No. 2 to do if the whole thing makes it feel a little, well, creepy?

Everybody goes through growth pains in their romantic relationships—it’s no news. Learning to navigate the quirks and obstacles in the successive strata on the way to your loved one’s secret and innermost heart takes fortitude and flexibility. And the more deeply buried that quirk—the more truly private—the greater the risk that you’re really going to have to recalibrate some of your own prejudices and expectations before making any further progress. After all, this quirk wasn’t stashed down in the sub-basement of your sweetie’s psyche by accident: Your mate wanted you to be fully engaged before letting you know that they were such aficionados of the dirty, dirty garden glove—or of pony play, exhibitionism, water sports, or the idea of tying you up with a length of laundry line, stuffing you in a steamer trunk for 40 minutes, then releasing you and forcing you to pantomime along to What’s Opera, Doc? while slapping your ass with a wisk broom.

So, the question is: Where do you draw the line, sexually? When do you admit that your dear, sweet, adorable, snugglebunny is a full-on freak? And how do you define acceptable freakiness? Or, conversely, how do you decide that your current partner is a repressed, judgmental, puritanical drip who will never understand, much less accommodate, your delight in full-face latex girl masks?

In picking and retaining your life partner (or night partner, as the case may be, you wanton slut), what are your dealbreakers? The things you won’t tolerate? The things you can’t live, or love, without?

We conducted a highly scientific and rigorous survey to get the answer to that very question. All names have been changed to protect the weird, though the cocktails are true-to-life.

There were, not surprisingly, the strictly physical requirements: Interestingly, though women, generally speaking, admitted to fewer exclusionary practices based solely on appearance, they were pretty staunch about dating men taller than they.

Miss Mojito reported that she had spent one short-lived relationship entirely in flats, and was not at all interested in repeating the experience. (A quick glance at online dating services confirmed that even the most open-minded “women seeking” almost without fail requested guys several inches taller than their own listed height.) We can only assume that Shorty must have made her laugh.

Guys, we’re sorry to report, were not so accepting, and easily rattled off a grocery list of dealbreakers of Seinfeldesque specificity.

Bottled Bud says, “Ankles, man. Gotta have slender ankles. That’s feminine, sexy. I couldn’t be with anyone with thick, nasty ankles.”

Paulaner Hefeweizen likes his women small all over, “like Audrey Hepburn.” Not content to simply loom over his date, he wants to dwarf her. “I like girls who are very, very petite. All of my girlfriends have been small. I was set up with a friend of a friend once and she was almost as tall as me; it was like dating somebody on the rugby team. I like delicate women.”

Getting a little more into the spirit of the invasive, prurient questioning, Knob Creek on the Rocks barks, “Odor. Personal aroma.” With surprising candor, Knob details the demise of an otherwise promising relationship because he just never became comfortable with the smell—even the “clean and showered” smell—of his girl in arousal. (There are reports that pheromones work in humans in much the same way they do in other animals; and that we are programmed to find attractive the smell of another person whose immune system is unlike our own, thereby promising a doubled or reinforced immune system for our offspring. By the same token, we may find repellent the natural smell of someone who would provide too narrow an immunity. So, it’s possible the guy’s not just an ass.)

But, of course, these are all inherent characteristics, things that couldn’t be changed even if the potential partner were willing to do so. What about less-biologically-coded stuff? Things that could in theory be negotiated?

Bottled Bud fesses up to really liking lingerie; Miss Mojito says she feels good in lingerie herself. A love match? Not likely. Further discussion at the prompting of Lady Chablis reveals that the parties really aren’t talking about the same thing.

“I think really classy lingerie is sexy,” says Chablis, “but not, like, Frederick’s of Hollywood stuff. You know, like the stewardess in crotchless panties, or something like that—yuck.”

Miss Mojito agrees avidly, “No, no. I mean something pretty. Like a floor-length sleeping gown, or a lace baby doll.”

Bottled Bud looks a little sheepish, admitting, “No, I mean trashy lingerie. Kinda slutty. I don’t want my girlfriend to dress like a tramp all the time, but at home, you know, it’s kinda hot.”

And what about behavioral stuff? Unsurprisingly, there’s a hesitance to reveal this kind of personal info, but once the ball starts rolling . . . .

Everybody likes the oral sex; and nobody is interested in scat. Or animals.

(This article will still have to go through a thorough process of peer review, but these seem pretty solid conclusions.)

Knob Creek is adamant: “Yeah, oral sex. Reciprocal oral sex. I definitely couldn’t do without it—in either direction. I mean, I want it; and I would think that a woman who didn’t had some hang-up that was going to come out in some other way later. I’d want her to be comfortable with that.”

There is a general murmur of consent, as if that’s a given.

Bottled Bud adds, “Same with masturbation.”

Again, nods all around, though the ladies reserve comment.

OK, fine, but what about the less-common stuff, the sex-issue-headline-making stuff? There’s a deadline to think about here, after all. What about BDSM? Role playing? Group sex and/or partner swapping? Cross-dressing? Bisexual experiences? What about anal sex? What about knife play?

Miss Mojito, Bottled Bud, Paulaner Hefeweizen, Knob Creek on the Rocks and Lady Chablis all look askance at House Cabernet, quizzing them rapidly over his notebook. All the aforementioned pleasures/perversions, in fact, bring conversation to a screeching halt.

We finally manage to cajole a unanimous “no” vote on anything involving pain, poop or preconsent. And the interspecies romances are right out.

Aside from those hard limits, though, it seems there’s a whole lot of gray area out there.

For the record, we’ve already ordered our copy of Getting to Yes.

—John Rodat


Ladies, Start Your VCRs

Is feminist porn an oxymoron, or a revolution?

My first experience attempting to rent porn was a miserable failure. In the windowless backroom of a suburban fetish shop my boyfriend had brought me to, next to floor-to-ceiling racks of videotapes, I asked the diminutive 50-something proprietor if she had any feminist porn. “There’s no such thing,” she snapped. “What do you actually want?”

I didn’t manage to express it then, but what I wanted was to avoid the formula. You know the one: Ditzy, whiny blonde, with surgically enhanced breasts and ribs showing, meets OK-looking guy with really big dick, he forces himself on her and she decides she likes it. He comes on her face. Repeat with slight variations. To quote an online reviewer at bluedoor.com: “Eeewwww.”

According to a quick survey of mine, that reviewer and I are not alone. “All the porn I’ve been exposed to is focused almost solely on the pleasure and satisfaction of the men involved or men watching,” says one college-age woman. And many people said the prevalence of rape and other violence is just creepy. All too frequently, “sex for a man appears to be an act of revenge—payback for his many frustrated desires,” says one guy. “The message . . . seems to be, ‘Take that, bitch. Who’s got the power now?’ It’s ugly.”

And then there’s the bodies. “Most women want to see themselves reflected on the screen sometimes, and very few do,” says Dr. Carol Queen, staff psychologist for Good Vibrations, a women-owned, women-friendly sex-toys store. Or, as one straightforward guy puts it: “The concept that you need to have some nipple-scraping, bust-enhancing surgery to be sexy to others is disgusting.”

Marianna Beck, Ph.D., and Jack Hafferkamp, Ph.D., co-editors of Libido Magazine (www.libidomag.com), have been on the receiving end of lots of video porn. In Hefferkemp’s professional opinion, most of it is “stupid, ugly, demeaning, antisexual, full of bad information, and patriarchal, by which I mean as much as it strives to be bad, it just reinforces a bunch of stereotypes.” ’Nuf said.

But can it be anything else? For a long time, some very prominent feminists, first among them Andrea Dworkin, have said no. Dworkin maintains that pornography is necessarily a process of dehumanizing women, period. Others think trying to make porn feminist will defeat the purpose. “Feminist porn [is] diluted. You remove all the lust from it,” said Camille Paglia in a 1993 interview in Puritan. “Feminist porn’s absurd. I’m totally against it. I like regular porn.”

But there’s a growing chorus of people who identify as sex-positive and think both Dworkin and Paglia are off-base. They are demanding movies that will turn them on without turning them off, and some folks are starting to deliver.

For its first 15 years, Good Vibrations didn’t carry porn, because its founder didn’t believe women were interested in it, says Queen. But then a generation of women came to work for the store who told her women were interested, they just needed help navigating through the tons of dreck that’s out there. And so the Good Vibes video library (www.goodvibes.com) was born. “From the very beginning, women were like, ‘Thank goodness. We really want someone we trust to help show us through this,’” says Queen.

Annie Sprinkle, a former mainstream porn actress who now does sexual performance art and holds a doctorate in human sexuality (www.anniesprinkle.com), notes that “porn is new to women, so I’m not sure they know what they like exactly.”

They may not be able to name their favorite directors, but many of the people I spoke to knew at least what their ground rules would be: “women shown doing things for their own pleasure,” “greater variety in the roles women play and the body shapes shown,” “good chemistry between the characters,” “women are the subject rather than just the objects of sexual desire,” and “no heels!”

“Feminist porn would look like the sex lives of my friends (straight, gay, bi, trans, and poly!),” summarizes one woman in an e-mail message. “It would be like a real-life soap opera,” complete with occasionally short-lived erections, ripped clothing, mismatched libidos, and honest-to-god chemistry between lovers, she says.

To meet these varied goals, Good Vibes tries to pull the gems from the mainstream industry and seek out alternative and independent producers. They look for respectful portrayals of women and their sexuality, and real sexual energy. And, notes Queen, “We’re not crazy about really stupid plots.” Symbols in their catalog identify videos with: a focus on women’s pleasure; presence of people of color; good chemistry; decent plot; safe sex; unconventional acts; and even “woman penetrates man with strap-on dildo” (customers want to know how to use the other merchandise, right?).

And, oh yeah, it’s also supposed to be hot. Possible? Yes. In my random sample from the Good Vibes rental site, I lucked into Urban Friction, produced by Beck and Hafferkamp. It features a young and attractive—but not stick-thin, airbrushed or surgically altered (if you don’t count tattoos)—couple who are into fulfilling each other’s fantasies, but the woman is nervous that her boyfriend can’t handle her desire to have a three-way with another guy. Hot, explicit fantasy scenes are overlaid on lots of sex with each other as they figure out their relationship parameters. Condoms are used, but as a matter of course, with no preachy overtones. The women are smart, take initiative, and have real orgasms—ditto for the guys, for that matter. The spacious and lavish city apartments may be the only things that actually call for a suspension of disbelief. What’s not to like?

Not every attempt, even in the Good Vibes library, hits quite that standard. Ageless Desire, three scenes of real couples of over 50 getting it on, was shot like a documentary, and while it succeeds in reminding viewers that sex over 50 can still be good, it was also often stiff and full of corny, forced-sounding dirty talk. For me, Bobby Sox, which got several thumbs ups from a range of reviewers, triggered almost every complaint about mainstream porn.

“If we stuck with feminist porn, our shelves would be very sparse,” admits Queen, who defines feminist porn as that made with the specific intention to change the face of porn and deal with gender-equity issues. Good Vibes carefully notes that their “focused on women’s pleasure” rating does not necessary involve feminist content. “Any director that does a good job of depicting women’s pleasure, even accidentally, could get that rating,” says Queen.

“You can’t assume what women want,” warns Queen, noting that many women of all persuasions like gay male porn, don’t like plot, or are into extreme sexual acts. Condescending assumptions gave us a lot of wimpy women’s erotica full of “elevator music and no exchange of bodily fluids,” complains Beck.

Many of these porn pioneers prefer to think of the goal as expanding the diversity of what porn offers: from feel-good consciousness- raising work like Zen Pussy (vulva shots) to hardcore BDSM where consent and context is explicit; from educational videos on female ejaculation to fantastical romps with carefully diverse casts. “In the ’70s there was one kind of porn, like a tree trunk, and then it started branching out,” says Sprinkle. “If you don’t like the porn that’s out there, make some that you do like.”

—Miriam Axel-Lute


Too Much Time on My Hand
Easy access to vast amounts of Internet porn has some men devoting hours a day to their obsession—or is it addiction?

Brad does not fit my preconceptions about Internet sex addicts—if there is such a thing. He’s a good-looking, personable, married, well-educated, upper-middle-class professional in his mid-30s. Yet he spends several hours every day surfing the net for pornographic images and video clips, many of which he admits to compulsively compiling and categorizing on a zip drive and several disks. He is a little wary about this writer to whom he’s entrusted his anonymity (Brad is not his real name) during our short conversation—not too wary, however, to briefly demonstrate for me on his home computer in his study just how much “free shit” is out there.

He pulls up one of his favorite sites, and in less than a minute has downloaded a movie clip—not a 15-to-30-second snippet, but a three-to-four-minute segment of a porn movie. “I didn’t necessarily get Road Runner because I wanted faster access,” he says. “I was married and I wanted to watch movies.” When asked if his wife has ever caught him, he points down to the power strip-surge protector on the floor: “Hot key,” he says with military seriousness, indicating the glowing red switch inches from his foot. “But I always worry she might read in Vogue or Cosmo ‘how to find out if your man is looking at porn.’ I’m always dumping Internet files and cleaning up my history [of sites visited].”

Back in the mid-’90s, when I was in graduate school—and shortly before I became acquainted with the World Wide Web—I encountered another, more prototypical guy (let’s call him Adam) who was quite forthright about his Internet porn obsession. He spent days sequestered in his apartment in an old sweatsuit, smoking, chomping junk food and tapping out commands for porn on a grimy keyboard. (Grad school seems to abet, if not aid, this kind of lifestyle.)

But this was part of a larger sexual fixation that included piles of videotapes. On one tape, he claimed, he had carefully compiled all of the nude scenes of major Hollywood actresses. (His knowledge of such lore was impeccable, though he scoffed at the suggestion that he include Kathy Bates’ buff moments for the sake of completeness. No patsy, he had certain criteria that could not to be breached.) Adam fit the picture of the porn addict for me—he fascinated me and, more to the point, creeped me out.

Nevertheless, numerous journal and newspaper articles point to a rising pornography obsession among middle- to upper-middle-class professional men because of the Internet. Easy cyber access has eliminated the social stigma of renting a film, buying a magazine or receiving materials in the mail. Before the Internet, Brad claims he would purchase the odd Playboy, but he says he had never seen or sought out a pornographic video. He also had no idea about the range of things (fetishes, acts, images) that was out there. “Stuff that would have dropped my jaw 10 years ago is, like, nothing now.”

Whether Brad is an “addict” is a thorny issue. There has always been some resistance among academics about behavioral (i.e. nonchemical) addictions in general (gambling, computer-game playing, etc). Nevertheless, a November 2001 article in The Journal of Sexual Research points to numerous technological addictions that are emerging in cyberspace, in particular Internet sex addictions (which can range from involvement in “cybersex” to viewing online pornography). The lengthy piece argues and thoroughly supports the claim that “although the amount of empirical data is small, Internet sex addiction exists.” (It also notes a 1998 study that found sex to be the most frequently searched subject on the Net.)

Journalists—who rarely wait for empirical clearance to bang the drum on such an enticingly marketable term—have been quick to legitimize the affliction in all corners of the English-speaking world. A 2002 article in Scotland’s Sunday Mail declared Internet sex addiction “the curse of the 21st century. It is destroying the lives of seemingly respectable fathers and husbands.” (True to U.K. bombast, it also called it the “crack cocaine of the 21st century.”) Stateside, the York Sunday News in Pennsylvania detailed the firing of a county commissioner over his Internet sex addiction in a 2003 article, noting that area counselors were dealing with more and more Internet addictions. A cursory research stroll through Lexis-Nexis will rouse up a jackpot of similar themes (even “How Internet porn landed me in the hospital”).

But Brad isn’t buying into the notion that he’s an addict; he simply considers it a part of his daily schedule. “It’s gotten to be so much a part of my routine: take dog out, make coffee. . . . Everybody’s got a hobby, [like] fantasy baseball. Everybody’s a collector. I guess I’ve compartmentalized it.” Brad, who makes his own work hours, says he usually checks out porn for about an hour in the morning—often longer at night and on weekends (when the private opportunity arises). There does seem to be something vaguely obsessive-compulsive about his surfing, though: He notes that a bulk of his time is not spent masturbating, but finding the “right” image or video to suit his masturbatory fantasies. The vastness of material available and the amount of options has him constantly searching, wondering if there’s something even more stimulating around the corner.

However, he claims that Internet pornography hasn’t conflicted with his interpersonal relationships and job or become one of the most important things in his life—the hallmarks of addiction. “If I was an addict, I’d be looking at work,” he shrugs. But doesn’t the sheer time cut into his professional life? “I’m a procrastinator,” he says. “I’d probably find something else.”

—Erik Hage


Legal Spread Eagles
A primer on sexual statutes across the nation

Some people are turned on by handcuffs, but there’s something less sexy about being cuffed and booked by a cop for illegal sexual conduct. Ignorance, as they say, is no excuse, and there are plenty of laws governing what you cannot do in the bedroom or in public in a given state or municipality. So, whether you’re interested in upstanding citizenship or the arousal that comes with risk and lawlessness, it behooves you to check the laws of the land. Let us guide you through the murky legal waters of sexual conduct through our fair nation. That way, the next time you’re marooned in Vernal, Utah, and feeling randy, you’ll know what’s legal.

New York is a comparatively free state when it comes to governing sexual activities, as opposed to other states where merely living in sin or having sex with another consenting single is still technically a crime. There are some basics that cover all states: Having sex with corpses is illegal, as is incest. Of course, sexual assault is strictly punished in many varying degrees. The age of legal consent varies from state to state, but you should generally avoid going anywhere near a minor if you’re over 21. Only in Colorado, Iowa, Mississippi and South Carolina is the age of consent under 16, and even in those states, sex is still illegal if the other person exceeds a specified age limit.

Obscene public behavior is generally frowned upon, and well over half of the states have laws prohibiting indecent exposure. Most states also have laws prohibiting “crimes against nature,” a category including bestiality, and often oral and anal sex.

Fifty years ago, sodomy laws were on the books in most states, making oral or anal sex forbidden. Although many states have repealed these laws, they remain on the books in a number of states including Arizona, Idaho, Louisiana, Maryland, Mississippi, Virginia and Utah, but are largely unenforced. Some states started to use them again in the 1980s; one striking example was a man in Georgia who was sentenced to five years in prison for engaging in consensual oral sex, with his wife, in the privacy of their home. But last summer, the Supreme Court struck down Texas’ sodomy laws as unconstitutional because they prohibited only same-sex couples, not heterosexuals, from oral and anal sex. In so doing, the court set the precedent for sodomy laws nationwide to be ruled unconstitutional. So anyone interested in exercising their autonomy under our glorious constitutional rights should go to these states with a consenting partner and test those laws simply because you can.

If your journey of sexual adventure happens to be by motor vehicle, you might also want to consider the fact that many localities have laws prohibiting sexual activities related to cars. Female toll collectors on the Pennsylvania Turnpike aren’t allowed to have sex with truck drivers in their booths. If a woman has sex with a man while riding in an ambulance in Tremonton, Utah, she’ll have her name published in the local paper. And please refrain from having sex in a motorcycle’s sidecar while rolling through Norfolk, Va. Lots of municipalities have laws as goofy as these, usually because of indecent-exposure laws. So, as they say, if you’re worried about illegal exhibitionism, get a room.

If, on your trip, you happen to need some extra cash and have some time to kill, you could become a prostitute in Kansas where the penalty for being caught is no more than a month in jail. Or, for those serious careerists, prostitution in Nevada, that state of all things corrupting, remains legal and is generally regarded as safer than picking someone up on 53rd and Third.

If you thought the old puritanical Northeast is inhibited, think again. Both Alabama and Washington have gone so far as to make it illegal for a man to seduce a “chaste” woman, and in Michigan, any man known to “seduce and debauch any unmarried woman” can get up to five years in prison, though the law isn’t the same in reverse. Michigan is rather prudish on other counts too. There, masturbation, either solo or mutual, is considered an act of “gross indecency” and is punishable by up to five years in prison. New Jersey has a similar law as well.

For those less adventurous sorts, you still may be defying sex laws without even knowing it. In both Michigan and Virginia, it’s a misdemeanor for men and women to live in sin. Virginia also lives up to its name by making fornication illegal if the parties are unmarried. In Massachusetts, fornication, defined there as sex between unmarried people, is still punishable by up to three months in prison or a fine of $30.

—Ashley Hahn

Might as Well Face It...
Sex addiction: Is it for real, and are you an addict?

In his 2001 novel Choke, Chuck Palahniuk tells the fictional (I hope) story of Victor Mancini, a guy who regularly attends sex-addiction support groups. Palahniuk is famous for burrowing into his characters and apparently spent a great deal of time researching for this story. Granted, his character’s whole goal in attending sex-addict meetings was to get laid, but as I read Choke, I couldn’t help but wonder: “Really? You can actually get addicted to, uh, doing it?”

I mean, I enjoy sex. A lot. Who doesn’t? Find me someone who can honestly say they don’t and I’ll bet they’re either under 10 or over 70, really bad at it, or just plain lying liars. But where and when does one cross the line between having a healthy sex drive and being a flat-out junkie? I had to study up a little on this. The last thing I want to find out is that my sex life is clinically fucked up. And is this addiction thing for real? Like, for really real? According to my research—which, admittedly, consisted of little more than a quick trip to the library and a few Google searches, with more than one “unexpected” detour to a porn site—sex addiction is a relatively new concept that is still in need of a firm definition, but the experts (what few there are) agree that it can happen, and you had better be careful or you could get caught in the downward spiral and wind up selling your ass for . . . OK, maybe not.

In 1989, Patrick Carnes, Ph.D., widely considered to be the nation’s leading expert on sexual addiction, wrote Contrary to Love—Helping the Sexual Addict, one of what would be his many books on his pet topic, essentially introducing the term “sex addiction” into the vernacular of popular psychology. Carnes has further defined and examined the subject in his subsequent writing, providing valuable resources for professionals and educators with titles like Don’t Call It Love—Recovery From Sexual Addiction, and the oft-referenced psychology text Our Sexuality.

Strangely, despite the appearance of sex addiction in more and more psychology texts, and its increased acceptance as an honest-to-god disorder, Carnes seems to be the only person writing about the topic on a consistent basis, which leaves its validity open to debate. But, thanks to Oprah and her ilk, sex addiction has dramatically increased in popularity over the last decade or so. Still, the question remains: Is this a truly unique and valid diagnosis, or just another construction of the Dr. Phil school of psychohypochondria? These days, it’s as if there’s an “if it ain’t broke, break it” school of psychology. Screw it—I’m looking this up in the manual. If it’s not in there, I’m not buying it.

The American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM for short, does not include a specific entry for sexual addiction. There are entire categories in the DSM devoted to “psychosexual disorders” and “other sexual disorders,” but somehow, addiction does not fall into either. The term did appear for a brief time, beginning in the manual’s 1987 revision, but was removed in 1994 with the addition of the broader entry, “Sexual Disorder Not Otherwise Specified,” a blanket diagnosis that covered, among other things, the archaic concepts of “nymphomania” and “Don Juanism.” Great. I’ve settled it. I’ve got the definitive “this is a bunch of malarkey” that I was looking for. But, glutton for punishment that I am, I made one more phone call in hopes of putting the issue to bed. Instead, I just made it worse.

Psychology professor and professional psychotherapist John Ostwald considers sex addiction to be classified as an “impulse-control disorder,” placing it in the company of kleptomania and pyromania. The disorder is “characterized by sexual impulsivity,” says Ostwald. “These people are unable to control their sexual behavior and are driven to engage in frequent and indiscriminate sexual activity. [They have an] uncontrollable urge to have sex with strangers,” he continues. “They are usually preoccupied with sex, and this affects many aspects of their lives.” Wait a minute here—I’m preoccupied with sex! (That happens when you aren’t getting any.) And I want to have sex with strangers, like that girl at the end of the bar, although that’s probably just the third pint talking.* Are these danger signs? Worried for my own well-being, I turned to the Sexual Addiction Screening Test (SAST). (Take it yourself at www.sexhelp.com/sast.cfm, if you dare!)

While some of the questions on the SAST certainly did not apply—I was never abused, and I’ve never paid for sex, although sometimes I wonder if I should have—I found that I was answering “yes” a lot more than I thought I would.

Question 4, for instance: “Do you regularly purchase romance novels or sexually explicit magazines?”

Well, um, what exactly are we considering “regular”—four to six times a day? Then yes, I guess I do.

Question 8: “Do you ever feel bad about your sexual behavior?”

Definitely. I’ve had a few one-night stands that I’ve totally regretted, sometimes while I was still there. OK, more than a few (you’re welcome).

Question 11: “Have you ever worried about people finding out about your sexual activities?”

Yup. I’ve got a few ex-girlfriends who would have been pissed if they knew what I was doing. Or maybe they did know—they are ex-girlfriends after all. (This one also coincides neatly with question 16: “Do you hide some of your sexual behavior from others?”)

Question 12: “Has anyone been hurt emotionally because of your sexual behavior?”

Yes. Sorry ’bout that. We’ve all had our off nights. Sometimes it just doesn’t take very long. Sue me.

14: “Do you have times when you act out sexually followed by periods of celibacy (no sex at all)?”

Actually, I’m trying to take care of that right now. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

The SAST didn’t prove me to be a sex addict, per se, as my score aligned me with more than 83 percent nonaddicts, but according to the statistics, even 8.6 percent of the people who answered “no” to all 25 questions are addicts. Seriously. So the system is a little flawed. I went back to the source of my temporary paranoia—Palahniuk’s Choke—and checked my habits against his list of sexual deviants:

“There’s the guy who snuck into a clinic in a white coat and gave pelvic exams.”

That’s not me.

“Prostitutes and sex criminals out on a three-hour release from their minimum- security jail.”

No criminal record here, thank you very much!

“The men mounting cameras inside the lip of some women’s room toilet bowl.”

I think you can buy that stuff prerecorded these days.

“The guy rubbing his semen on the flaps of deposit envelopes at automatic tellers.”

Ewwww. No way, man.

Those people are clearly messed up. I guess I can breathe a little easier knowing that I’m part of the “normal” majority. No need for any 12-step meetings here. So what if I’m basing my conclusion on a work of fiction? If it helps me get to sleep at night, so be it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go grab another pint and talk to that girl at the end of the bar. I’ll let you know how that turns out.

—John Brodeur

* Metroland does not generally condone the practice of writing while drunk, but if it’s for the overall good of the article, we’re not going to stick our noses into other people’s business. Cheers!


Basking—or Baking—in the Afterglow

First comes lust, then comes sex, then comes . . . cuddling? Sneaking out? Making a sandwich?

Hypothetical Tom, carefully lifting his head and glancing over at his lover’s sleeping face, makes a quick decision. He ever-so-slightly lifts the woman’s body, and slowly, painstakingly, pulls his arm from under her shoulders. Mindful and meticulous about every inch his body moves, he sits up, careful not to indent the soft mattress so much as to wake her. He progresses to the edge of the bed and steadily stands up, leaving the slumbering woman none the wiser. Tiptoeing to the bedroom door, he glances back one more time to assure himself she hasn’t woken up, breathes a barely audible sigh of relief, and bolts. It doesn’t matter that he steps on the cat, knocks over knickknacks, and crashes into the door—ultimately, he makes his escape.

Sound familiar? The act of sex is much more than a physical one. It can have some serious emotional effects. For instance, having a one-night stand can render a person paranoid and impractical, as seen with Hypothetical Tom’s one-night-stand escape. We decided to acquire some information on how people deal with some of the consequences of sex, and we agreed that we’d leave the pregnancy and STD portions of this argument out of this article, since, though it’s always good to have a refresher course, this account will instead focus on some of the emotional calamities caused by sex. And, for the benefit of all, we will also avoid the unending-but-grossly-unappetizing subject of post-sex cleanup (you all know it’s there, and necessary, but we don’t need to be discussing it in this forum, OK? Go take a sex-ed. class).

Some friends and colleagues were victims of an impromptu survey about their most embarrassing, scariest, or just plain annoying post-sex experiences. One professional woman said that her most embarrassing experience was “getting caught ‘fornicating’ in the parking lot of a country club, by the cops. They thought I was a drunk whore and made me get out of the car and go through a drunk-driving test and prove that I wasn’t a prostitute.” Another woman relayed a college experience: “I had a really good athletic romp with a boyfriend one time at my house in college with the door to my room open because everyone was supposed to be gone. After we were done and laying there basking in ‘the glow,’ I realized that [someone had closed] the door . . .”

A man questioned admitted he was afraid of the reality of the intelligence possessed by his partner after the cloud of lust had passed. “I think the scariest post-coital moments are usually more subtly killing than they are laugh-out-loud funny. They’re more Neil LaBute than Farrelly Brothers: Like those situations in which immediately after sex, your partner stops talking dirty to you, starts talking clean and you realize that you’ve tricked yourself into believing that you don’t actually despise them. And they renew the monologue you endured at the bar last night about, like, how Stephen King is the greatest writer of the past 20 years, or what a sharp cookie that Julia Roberts is.”

Admittedly, we consulted many more single people than coupled people for this piece, but we will give the couples a voice. A girlfriend interviewed said that her post-sex problems usually stem from “my boyfriend’s chosen times for sex, i.e., late at night or early in the morning. Sex normally leaves me wide awake, which stinks, because if it’s morning, I’d like to go back to sleep but can’t, and at night he goes right to sleep and I’m left wide awake with no one to talk to.”

When asked her ideal next step after sex, a college-age woman answered that it depended on the person: “If it’s your calc professor and you’re trying to get an A, bolt; if it’s your lovey-dove, then sleep . . . right?” One guy’s response when asked how he escapes a one-night-stand situation or something equally as uncomfortable said, “As a resident of a fairly small community, I find it generally unwise to gracelessly bolt from one-night stands. Those kinds of hurt feelings can come back to haunt you. So, if you have no intention of it ever going further than the one night, it’s less trouble to fuck people on road trips.”

Those surveyed were asked what their idyllic post-sex picture was. Most women answered that they’d like to be able to take a shower afterwards, and that they’d like to stay in bed for a while instead of being rushed to go somewhere (i.e., work). One woman said that in addition to hanging out in bed, she’d like to “have a nice meal—regardless of the time of day.” Another woman said she likes “to share a cigarette. Yes, I know, how Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex in the City, but I swear I was doing it before the show came out.”

A guy added, “Depends on time of day, degree of intoxication, meteorological conditions and, on some occasions, extent of shame and/or likeliness of getting caught. If, however, things line up well, then going out the next morning, still rumpled and funky, for a huge diner breakfast and conversation can be great.” On the other hand, most men had a different idea of good after-sex activities: more sex.

The oft-stereotyped image of the female half of the couple wanting to cuddle, and the male half wanting to either pass out or make a sandwich, has been somewhat disproved in my research: While as many women as men would prefer to fall asleep than to do anything else, men answered that they’d like to have post-coital conversation more often than not. But, as a gal interviewed pointed out, “I do think that women tend to get attached and use sex as emotional validation more so than men. So, I guess that would make them more likely to prefer cuddling to sandwiches and sleep.” And there were a few guys who defined the stereotype, as well: When asked if men would prefer to make themselves a sandwich after some good lovin’, one participant answered, “No, of course not, most men would prefer that their partner make the sandwich for them.”

—Kathryn Lurie


You Did

Our favorite reader responses to the Metroland sex survey

Describe the circumstances of the best sex you’ve ever had.

Dead of winter, not unlike the nights we’ve been having. No heat in the apartment, so to keep warm we had to share a twin bed and all the covers we could find. Chest to chest, softest belly to belly and gentle stroking genital to genital. Small but rhythmic like waves of intense heat. Sometimes less is oh-so-much more . . .

On the beach on the south shore of Long Island as boats passed by. It was difficult to do because of the slope in the sand, but it was definitely awesome.

When I was head-over-heels in love—I was heels-over-head in bed!

The best sex I’ve ever had was with a man whom I cared deeply about, gorgeous and charming, but we had to keep it a secret from our other colleagues every day, so on the weekends when we got to be together—and alone—it made us feel so naughty.

He buttered my biscuit.

Me, myself, and I.

When people can catch you.

In a nice Chicago hotel after a fabulous meal and more than a few drinks, my wife and I had wild, three-input monkey love that included bondage, ice cubes and drizzled minibar libations. Whew!

In the pool.

In Washington Park.

When I’m high.

The best sex I ever had changes every time I have sex with my current boyfriend.

Describe one fulfilled sexual fantasy.

I convinced my girlfriend to lie naked across the seat of my pickup truck, head in my lap, and play with herself for the enjoyment of the truckers I passed on the Northway.

Sex with my tall black boots on and a skirt.

Girlfriend who enjoyed oral “all the way,” if you know what I mean.

He put a banana in my pussy.

Sex with a married woman.

Boyfriend wearing women’s clothing and makeup. A la Iggy Lizard. A man dressed as a woman with a huge erection equals one long night. Yum!

In the pool.

On a pool table.

Sex in water—it was in a hot tub, and the fact that it was spur-of-the-moment was so hot.

Driving my car.

Threesome.

Orgy.

Describe one unfulfilled sexual fantasy.

Being fed Godiva chocolate and having champagne licked off of me by a certain someone . . .

Having sex with boyfriend wearing pink legwarmers.

Having sex with two women at the same time.

Sex with a famous person.

To have sex in a pool of oil.

Two words: twin brothers.

Me having sex at church.

On top of a mountain.

On the beach.

Dennis Rodman—no, just kidding. Vince Vaughn.

He came in five seconds.

I have a sex life.

Have you ever had sex with a stranger immediately after a chance meeting at any place other than a bar or party? Describe.

Sure! A nod and a wink and off we would go, to the alleys, the parks, the cemeteries, etc.

Yes, in Miami, a Latin lover—we had sex between the cars in the parking lot.

Yes, I picked up a girl hanging around outside of Latham Circle Mall. It was hot so I rolled up and asked her if she’d like to take a ride in my car to cool off. I bought her some beer, took her back to apartment, showered with her, fucked her then dropped her back off. I gave her the beer we didn’t drink.

Yes, vacation.

When I was in high school, I was at the library working one afternoon. Every time I got up to get a new book or put one away, I would see the same guy seeming to always end up where I was. Before I left the library that day, I visited the restroom. After finishing at the urinal, a stall door opened and he came out—came up to me, grabbed me very gently and motioned for me to come into the stall. Against my better judgment, I followed him.

Yes, he bought me ice cream.

I met a guy in a gas station who pulled up in the same vehicle I was driving except the hood was all screwed up. He said to me, “Hey, wanna change hoods?” and we started talking. The next night we had sex like crazy.

I’ve always wanted to find the one who says very little but can communicate well with body language. Starting with a stroke on the shoulder, the chin, the neck, hands around my waist, then we’re face to face and touch lips . . . and that’s it. Until next we see each other in public again and it goes a bit further each time.

Nope—there was always a bar involved. I hope that doesn’t mean I can only score with drunk chicks. Wait, I think it does!

What’s the worst situation sex has gotten you into?

Lost a great circle of friends because I crossed a line with a married friend.

My wife found out about my girlfriend.

Suspended from school for having sex on the property, and fired from a number of jobs.

Being caught at a train station by a police officer who ended up being cool and not arresting us but telling us to get a friggin’ room.

I work next to the guy.

I was having an affair with a county sheriff’s wife, when one night while we were out parking, a sheriff’s car pulled up with his spotlight on. She held her blouse over her head, and thankfully all he said to me was, “Are you both over 18?” When I said yes, he said, “Don’t stay here too long, and drove away. Thankfully.

Herpes.

Parents walked in.

Caught by police.

Losing a best friend.

A sore pussy.

What’s the most inappropriate sexual situation you’ve ever been in?

With a friend.

A guy I was screwing called me a guy’s name during sex.

Other people being in the room.

Sex in the bathroom.

Sex with a married woman.

Where parents or bosses could easily walk in.

Doing it at the bar.

Having relationships with sisters (behind their respective backs).

Getting a blow job in a closet at work and hearing my boss calling my name in another room over the intercom.

Having sex with someone who I didn’t want to have sex with.

I crossed a line with a married friend.

The dog licked his ass while we were having sex.

What’s the best come-on you’ve ever heard?

“You look good enough to eat.”

“I like your glasses—they make me want to be spanked by you.”

“You poke my nose one more time, I might do something.”

“You’re special—not like everyone else.”

“Let me butter your biscuit.”

“I like guys with big thighs.” Now come on, do you really think that got me into bed?

What’s the strangest?

“I have rickets, want to screw like crickets?”

“Let me wax your carrot.”

“This is a stick-up.”

“You’re a big girl, I saw you at Barnes & Noble yesterday, what are you going to do with that knife?”

Saying “Let’s go to the library,” and then writing me a note of what he wants to do.

“What’s your sign?”

The weirdest one that worked for me was the time I looked disgustedly at a girl and told her she looked like a “motorcycle slut.” That was exactly the look she was going for, and the next thing you know she was buck naked on a bike having her picture taken.”

What the oddest thing you’ve ever thought about while having sex?

What I was going to cook for dinner—I was reading my vegan cookbook while in the act.

Prioritizing what I had to do at work the next day.

I can’t think while having sex. There’s not enough blood to reach my brain.

Movie-star hot guys.

E-mails.

My friend Chandra.

Bills.

My friend Crystal.

Cleaning.

Fox 23 anchor Greg Floyd.

Wishing it was my ex.

Fucking a rock in the woods.

My mom.

What a jerk he was.

What’s your craziest sex story that your friends still don’t believe?

They didn’t believe that I had sex with three different women in 18 hours, and they all had their “friend.”

That I was a prostitute for a week because I was so horny.

I had sex in a photo booth.

A married coworker seduced me for a period of three weeks. She gave me crazy sex, only so that I would get her pregnant. Once she was, she dumped me. She named her son after me. But no one believes me. Her husband never figured it out.

When a sofa bed folded up on us.

I did it in a treehouse.

I was stopped at a light once, and a chick walked up to my car. She told me she wanted to give me oral. The part they don’t believe is that I drove away.

They know I’m crazy with sex, so they believe everything.

Tell us your best story about getting caught in the act.

A tap on the side window of my Camaro caused me to look up into the disapproving scowl of a priest! (We were parked behind the field house at a seminary.) I thought priests went to bed early!

My father walking in on me giving my boyfriend head in the garage.

We were having sex in my ex-boyfriend’s hot tub, and his mother came out onto the deck while he was still in me. The bubbles covered it, and we had a conversation with his churchgoing mother for like 10 minutes while he was still in me.

I had sex with my first boyfriend in my mom’s bed. She came home and made me clean her comforter and sheets.

Got caught having sex in a park by a homeless man. We were engaged in anal sex under a well-overgrown tree. We heard someone ruffle the leaves, and looked around. The homeless man not only caught us, but was standing there jacking off. What can you do? You can’t just leave this horny human being to his own devices. We let him join in.

What’s the most outrageous lie you’ve ever told to

a. get sex?

I never lie.

I have three vaginas.

I won’t get attached.

I need it.

It’s been a long time.

A gay man doesn’t have to lie to get sex—he only has to show up at the bar or club and he will get some.

b. avoid sex?

Avoid sex?

I was once a man.

No protection.

My period.

Said I was a virgin.

Didn’t shave.

I’m a lesbian.

c. explain where you were last night?

In my bed with my boyfriend.

Sprawled on couch.

The only time I explained where I was last night, I said, “I had to stay over to take care of business.” Which kind of is the truth.

What have you offered someone in exchange for sex?

A good time.

Fifty bucks in Atlantic City.

For oral sex: I’ll return the favor twice.

Coke. What else?

I offered blow jobs numerous times in exchange for rides home.

A Hershey bar.

A backrub.

Nothing, but I’ve been offered trips to the Caribbean.

More sex.

What have you demanded from someone in exchange for sex?

Monogamy.

Love.

Clothing—a boy has to look good.

That I get to be on top.

A new book.

You name it.

More sex.

What’s your most embarrassing masturbation story?

A knock on the door, and mom asking, “What are you doing in there?”

Ex caught me wrapping my erect clitoris with a tiny rubber band.

A “flying cuke” casualty.

Masturbation should never be embarrassing—everybody does it.

I got my fingers caught in my pussy.

I can’t masturbate—that’s embarrassing.

Tell us about the best sexual surprise you’ve ever had.

On a first date, I discovered my date was not wearing panties.

Three AM booty call in the middle of the winter.

One up the ass.

Sex with a married woman.

My first orgasm.

Three orgasms in a row.

Whipped cream and chocolate.

A woman I was sleeping with told me she had secretly taped our last get-together and we watched it while we screwed.

When my man found my G-spot! Yowza!

While on a horse-drawn wagon ride in Washington Park to see the Christmas lights, my girl took out her favorite plaything. It got stiff and cold, so she went down on it to warm it up. Instead of moaning, I kept up chatter about the pretty decorations in the hope that the girls driving wouldn’t turn around. After things were over, we adjourned to the nearest bar to get her a well-deserved chaser.

Tell us about a dream come true that went bad.

An affair can seem like a dream come true, but the truth is, they almost always turn out bad.

Fulfilling just about every sexual fantasy I ever had . . . and living to regret it!

Ken the guy at work—wow, what a mistake.

When they can’t get it up, or too quick.

After mastering deep throat, she tried teeth play, but got too into it, and broke a blood vessel. An accident, but being half black-and-blue put a damper on things.

Tell us your best sex story with a housemate or coworker.

A coworker was “getting it on” with his girlfriend across the darkened motel room that we shared. When she moaned “Hit me with your best shot,” he grunted “Fire away!” I was supposed to be asleep but couldn’t keep from bursting into laughter! She screamed in embarrassment and we all laughed like fools for an hour.

I went to an arts-based high school with after-school programs that included life drawing. One afternoon after dance class I went to the restroom to change. The life-drawing model was in there undressing. He was 6 feet tall, broad, and built. We engaged in some hot quick sex right there in the bathroom. Finally the drawing teacher came looking for his model and discovered us. That was a quick end to his modeling career.

I had sex in our president’s office with the door open.

In the storage room after hours.

Fucking a coworker behind the counter while the store was still open for business and wearing nothing but my workshirt, tie, and Kinko’s apron during a late-night shift.

First I harrassed him until he hung out with me outside of work. Then I got him drunk and we drew on each other with lipstick and we stayed in bed for 24 hours and I had my first orgasm. Then he never talked to me again.

I worked in a nursing home that was always quiet and empty on weekends. So one Saturday a coworker I had been flirting with told me during lunch that if I took her baggie of grapes and came on them before the end of the day she would sleep with me after work. I took them into the men’s room later, did my thing (fueled by fantasies of later) and then gave them back to her. She ate every one of those grapes in front of me! Man, what a night that followed!

What sexual discovery has changed your life?

Internet porn.

Vibrator.

That I can find better.

Being too comfortable with your sexuality tends to make people uncomfortable.

Using people for sex diminishes sexual pleasure, and not the opposite; sex based on the partner-as-person-as-end increases it.

That G-spot.

That I know how to orgasm. So my guy better be able to do it. It’s easy.

The dildo.

Realizing that we’re all basically the same, we all share some of the same or variants of wild fantasies, desires, adulterous affairs/cheating, “quirky” sex, etc. It has taught me not to feed into or accept any preconceived notions about types of people.

I’m not too fat to be loved.

What is your favorite sexual fetish?

Tying him up.

Women who chew their fingernails, because I just imagine their pent-up oral fixations and dream of satisfying them.

When he plays with my ass.

Men who enjoy (not just in a sexual way) wearing women’s clothing. I think I’m a gay man wrapped in a hetero male, trapped in a hetero female’s body.

Using food.

Being photographed.

Getting eaten out.

A well-dressed man in a nice suit.

Licking of the ear.

Oven mitts! Oooh, I can hardly write the words without coming. Why? Who doesn’t get turned on by oven mitts? Oooh, I said it again!

What’s your most embarrassing inhibition?

Being too fat.

I am comfortable with my few inhibitions and not embarrassed by them at all.

Eye contact. I feel I am too transparent and anyone can read my thoughts as long as they look long enough into my eyes.

My big fat belly.

I can’t masturbate.

I mumble.

My ass.

What’s your best public-sex story?

While picnicking at a local nature preserve my girlfriend got up to “heed the call” supposedly and came back “all natural.” It was quick but it was the middle of the day in the middle of the trail and it was excellent!

Sex in the Lexus.

Sex on a dry rock in the middle of a waterfall, with people down below, who I’m sure got a free show.

The pedestrian walkway over route 787 to the river is a very public spot is also largely deserted. At one end you can do it for all of Rensselaer to see, and at the other, there’s a cozy elevator for fun and games. Thanks Mayor Jennings!

In the library.

Washing the windows in the nude.

What’s your best story about watching or being watched?

While sharing a motel room with a coworker, girlfriend and I did our best to be discreet. Apparently we weren’t too good at that since as soon as we were done we got a standing ovation from my coworker who congratulated us on our stamina and imagination.

In a drive-in movie theater. A little boy opened the door to see!

There is an adult store in Arizona that had movie viewing booths in which the shading on the windows between connecting booths disappears when a movie has been paid for in both booths—so you could watch people jack off without their knowledge—nothing hotter than watching someone please themselves, unabashed and in their own world.

Where do you go to get lucky? Why?

My boyfriend’s.

Not around here.

Upstairs. And after what I’ve put my wife through I’m lucky to have an upstairs—let alone her to go with it.

Weddings, parties . . . People are happy, they feel good about themselves, and it’s easy to get out of it if it isn’t worthwhile.

Jude’s.

Sneaky Pete’s!

What would improve your sex life?

Getting off.

Finding a man.

Knock 10 years off my age.

For starters . . . if my boyfriend would wear pink legwarmers tonight.

Romance and a bigger member.

Anal sex.

More sex, more sex, and more sex.

A wife who could separate herself from the rigors of everyday life just long enough to become the spontaneous passionate woman that I married 10 years ago.

What risks do you consider before having sex? Why?

You have to have the opportunity for sex before you can consider its risks.

Safety in every form. Always have a condom and always act on your gut feeling about someone’s intentions.

How many people they have been with before.

Disease.

The human body is a breeding ground for various diseases and parasites.

Condoms.

No more risky sex for me! I’m a one-woman man.

STDs and pregnancy.

The clean-up.

What would your utopian sexual society look like?

Sexual responsibility, tolerance, and respect would be instinctive. Sexual activities would be uninhibited and joyous but still somewhat discreet and with a touch of romance.

Just like the ideal society. No stereotypes, biases, or petty competition. Honesty and imagination abounds.

Clean shaven vulvas with tits.

Sex-demeaning religions would be shamed out of existence replaced by religions promoting sexual pleasure; bourgeois human relations are history.

All naked men.

Girl on girl on guy action, tropical weather, limited clothing, no such thing as STDs, and plenty of vibrators.

Beautiful, intelligent people everywhere.

Chicago.

Penises and vulvas, with legs.

My utopian society would be a place where sex was understood to be a mutual fulfillment of desires. People would be open-minded about what their partner needs to make them feel their best and vice versa. People wouldn’t judge certain acts as dirty, but understand that someone else does enjoy them and that person should be allowed to indulge in their fantasy without worry of judgment.


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