When I first decided to give spontaneous sex a try, I wish Whoopi Goldberg had been there to warn me: “Krissy, you’re in danger, girl.”
I first learned about our generation’s favorite pastime while watching – surprise, surprise! – “Beverly Hills, 90210,” where the primary plot line was: Doorbell rings. Hot guy stands there. Spontaneous sex ensues. I thought, “Pffft, I could do that.” As it turns out, I really, really can’t.
I’m Type A, which means I’m completely capable of letting go in the bedroom…but only when my to-do list is complete, my apartment’s in order, and I’m waxed, armed and ready to go. But after watching lucky bitches being taken advantage of by the Brandon Walshes, Pacey Witters, and Chuck Basses week after week, my light bulb turned on (among other things) and I thought, “WTF am I doing? I’m missing out!”
I mean seriously, what Type A woman enjoys being this way? All controlling (even though you know there’s no such thing), obsessive (over every single little detail of every single little thing), and utterly unsatisfied with anything less than perfect (since… well, you know). So I did what any self-respecting woman in my situation would do: Deny, deny, deny.
I honestly thought if I pretended I wasn’t so“me” anymore, this ridiculously annoying part of myself would just go away and I’d be ready to fuck anywhere, anytime. Guess what? It didn’t. If anything, I just added more fuel to the heavily micromanaged fire. If there’s one thing a Type A woman is an expert at, it’s never giving up – which is a good thing, until it’s not.
So there I was, the new “Type B me,” at a friend’s party and enjoying a few too many drinks. This guy strikes up a conversation with me, while I’m focused on the fact that I can no longer feel my fingers. I have no idea what we talked about, but his body language was clear: This was my shot for spontaneous sex. I was like a hyper puppy who really wanted to go outside. I kept thinking, “Omg is this really happening?! I don’t even know his name… I don’t even know his name!” If I could’ve high-fived myself, I totally would have.
Because we were in the middle of nowhere, we decided to give forest sex a try. I’m not sure who’s bright idea it was, but the experience scarred me for life – literally. I didn’t realize how many things could go wrong for a woman during forest sex – had I known, I would’ve suggested a different venue.
Nope, I thought, That’s what the old me would say. Even though the new me was wounded and limping, I convinced myself that it would make a great story one day. It’s still not a great story. But if there’s one thing I learned from sleeping with Whatshisface on Lake Whateveritwas, it’s that there’s nothing enjoyable about pulling sticks and debris from your vagina.
After the first bad, spontaneous sex encounter, I decided not to give up the pursuit (the Type A in me prevailed!), but rather, to keep on trying until I got better at it. I turned into the little spontaneous sex engine that could:
There was the birthday sex with a Dirty Talker – where, you know, I had no idea what to say.
Then there was the laundry room sex a la “Varsity Blues “– where a fuse blew before he did.
After that was the back-of-the-Mustang sex – I don’t think my vagina has worked properly since.
Being able to pull off spontaneous sex became a vendetta where I eventually couldn’t figure out what I was trying to prove, or why. Was I just not creative enough? Limber enough? Drunk enough? Why was I the only one of my friends who needed an ambulance afterward? Every time I tried to let go, my mind ended up as disheveled as my hair, my clothes, and the new me I was trying to pull off.
During my last relationship, my obsession only got worse: After all, you don’t want your sex life to go stale before the bread does.
I reached my breaking point during a shower sex session with my then bf: I tried to do the whole slink-in-and-slip-off-the-bathrobe thing. The air became steamy and so did we – so much so, the entire room became a thick fog I could barely breathe in. Suddenly, my blood pressure plummeted from the heat and I passed out – he held me up like a limp noodle and carried me to safety until I regained consciousness.
As I lied on my bed, all naked and twitchy, I thought, That is it. I am done. I will never try spontaneous sex again.
Now, before I have sex I want to make sure I’m at my physical and emotional best so that I don’t end up in a splint afterward – what’s so wrong with that? I want to enjoy the experience my own way, not everybody else’s way.
Once I came to, I went back to my old ways, letting go of the preconceived notion of who I “should be” in the bedroom (or bathroom stall) – and I haven’t fractured anything or lost consciousness since. So if there are any guys out there who are into a really, really organized good time, you know, drop me a line.
Krissy Brady is a women’s health + lifestyle writer who’s so out of shape, it’s like she has the innards of an 80-year-old. Instead of learning how to crochet, she decided to turn her emotional baggage into a writing career. Follow her shenanigans on Twitter and Google+.