Sex in the Cam: Week 4
This week our sex columnist hands out some easy to digest hints. Sexy hints.
Dear beloved fans (who at this point seem to be just Anne Summers Cambridge and the person who’s not sure if it’s all bollocks but is riveted anyway) and haters,
I’m sorry that my column is either too prudish it’s boring or too racy to possibly be true. The thing is I’m really not trying to please; I’m offering my experience of sex in Cambridge. You might find this insightful; you might just find it mildly entertaining. But I can assure you that it’s all true (though some names and locations have been changed to protect the identities of the innocent) and to those who think it’s shit, you’re the ones who’ve been reading it for three weeks!
If only you were as good at shagging as you are at complaining, eh? For a change this week I’m offering some little bite-sized suggestion-nuggets. Easy to digest, easy to regurgitate.
Porn Star Foreplay. Don’t do it.
One variety of the classic problem of thinking you know what you’re doing but actually being horribly misinformed. In the majority of porn, the woman is always ready. She’s wet, she’s gagging for cock – the only thing left to do is to shove it right on in. In real life, girls are not Porn-Star-Ready. I once took an acquaintance home and he went straight for the get-her-pants-off-and-get-some-fingers-up-that-vagina move. No heavy petting, no kissing my body, no clit tickle. Needless to say this ‘Leeerroooooyy Jenkiiiiiinnnnsssss’ approach didn’t do it for me, or anybody ever. If I was better at life, I’d have just told him I didn’t want to have sex. But because I am a diabolical human being – as I’m sure you all know by now – I said to him, “I think I’m gonna be sick”. I ran to the toilet, on the way making the strategic phone-grabbing manoeuvre of putting on my coat ‘to cover myself’. After wasting a few minutes in the toilet playing games I returned to extinguished intentions and a semi-dressed man. He asks if I’m alright and I tell him he should probably go. He goes. Pretty sharpish. Sometimes my own lows amaze me.
If I’m not getting wet, it’s probably time for a change of tack.
Don’t just do the thing you’ve been doing harder or faster, particularly if there’s been a conspicuous lack of sounds of enjoyment. It might not be you that’s the problem – sometimes my vagina just gets too drunk to function – but either way just gritting your teeth and cracking on is not going to produce much more than friction and frustration for both parties. Try something else, or – and I know this is pretty out there – say something (Don’t say: “mate, your vag is as dry as a Weetabix toasty.” Do say: “Not tonight?” or “Do you want me to do this harder or softer?” )
Try and act normal in the morning.
However large the pit of regret and self-hate in your stomach, leaving the minute you wake up is not going to make all the bad things go away. It just reveals exactly what you are: somebody who spent last night pretending to be a normal, confident, sexy human but in the harsh, hungover light of the morning is realising that, without the aid of half a bottle of vodka, they are actually just a sub-normal, socially awkward and chronically unsexy barely-human. Keep it up just a little longer. However strong your beer goggles were the previous night, nothing is going to change the fact you had sex with them. Stick around for a few minutes. Maybe even ask their name.
But don’t outstay your welcome.
Once, the minute I woke up, I just knew the that the guy in my bed was going to be a dawdler. I made a point of getting up straight away and getting fully dressed. Then I took my time making him a cup of tea so that he’d have to get dressed while he ponders the bizarre possibility that I’ve done a runner from my own house. Then he took the tea and got back into bed with it. Into my bed. This is not an okay thing to do. I had a full day of work and self-loathing to be getting on with.
Quite often during these occasions my brain spends a large amount of time screaming to my partner “THE CLIT, THE CLIT, DEAR LORD DON’T FORGET THE CLIT.” So it’s pretty embarrassing to have forgotten about it myself. Last week, in emphasising a point about not wanting to have sex on my period, I referred to the vagina as the only female sex organ, leaving out poor little Ms. Clitoris. Well I’m sorry. Hands up, you got me. To make up for clit-gate, I’ve written a haiku:
The clit, oh the clit
More sensitive than the cock
Please look after it