When I was a kid, my friends and I would trade candy underneath the jungle gym during recess. The popularity of early 1980s candy went as such: Candy necklaces were snatched up first, then Pop Rocks, then Nerds, and last but not least, Pixie Sticks. However, when it was my turn to offer up a sugary confection, I’d elicit groans from my pals when I brought forth from the pocket of my overalls a tube of plain Cherry Lifesavers. The general consensus from the crowd was those hard red circles “tasted like cough syrup.” But I loved their simplistic round design, their steadfast refusal to be bright and popular like the other candies. When I grew up and started getting naked with boys, the principle remained: I liked my sex life plain and neat, simple and missionary. Boyfriends who tried to get me interested in doggy-style or 69 came away from the experience sorely disappointed. Sure, I’d play the good sport from time to time, but I’d always hope they didn’t notice when I covered my yawns mid-coitus. I admired my more adventurous between-the-sheets friends, and encouraged them to scale new heights, to reach for the stars … or the headboard. But for me, I enjoyed missionary the best.
So when I got married, I made this fact clear to my husband. Getting hitched means that there is one person on the planet willing to love you just as you are. I could retire my pink florescent thong that never covered my behind anyway in favor of a more comfortable pair of plain white Hanes. Slipping on that ring meant I was finally free to be myself: happy as a clam upside down with my legs in the air.
It’s missionary-style 24-7 in my house, and I couldn’t be happier. My husband will often ask good-naturedly, “Are you ever going to get on top?” I’ll laugh, and say, “No. Now climb on, cowboy!” Like those architecturally sound, round, plain red Lifesavers, there’s nothing I love more than to lie on my back, legs in the air, with the smooth skin of my husband’s back under my hands, pondering the crack shaped like a rabbit on our ceiling. Some may say that makes me boring, but I’ve learned being boring is OK if it makes you happy. So, while the women’s magazine articles come up with new and improved ways to twist and contort your limbs like Gumby, this is one woman’s appeal for missionary.
1. You Have No Risk Of Injury: I’ll never forget my freshman year of college when my roommate was having sex in the shower with her boyfriend, slipped on a bar of soap, and ended up with 12 stitches above her left eyebrow. No one ends up in the emergency room doing missionary-style.
2. You Save Money: Lying on your back doesn’t require any additional hardware. In our fledgling economy, you save money not buying whips, handcuffs, or scarves.
3. You Don’t Have To Worry About Ending Up On The Web: If Paris Hilton’s sex tape was just her lounging on a hotel bed, her skinny bod half-covered up with Rick Salomon, it never would have sold so many copies. It would have been too boring for mass distribution.
4. Junk In The Trunk? No Problem: Unlike doggy-style, when gravity is working against you, missionary-style distributes all your weight evenly, leaving no extra flab swinging in the breeze.
5. You Can Catch The End Of “The Office”: Without all that effort the other flashier positions require, including shifting, scurrying, and heavy lifting, you can have great sex and still have time leftover in your night to watch your favorite television show. Everyone wins!