Two years ago, I was at my local coffee shop when I spotted a certain gentleman, and after a series of boring events he and I wound up having sex. It was mostly uneventful, except for the fact that during the proceedings, I sprained my neck. We’d had sex and gone to bed, and the next morning I woke up and couldn’t move it.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed, and my companion groaned wordlessly in response. I rotated the entirety of my torso so as to be able to face him.
“I think I sprained my neck,” I said.
“From the blowjobs?” he asked, but nodding yes was not an option. I briskly pitched my torso back and forth.
“Oh, crap!” he laughed. “Wow. That’s really funny.” Keep reading »
My parents raised me with a certain set of values: 1) The sunny side of the street causes headaches, 2) Lateness is rude and disrespectful, 3) No one wants to see photos of another person’s vacation. Not, like, genuinely. Not, like, ever. Society pitched in and taught me a handful of others including the all-important: All men want sex all the time.
I absorbed this message and, under its guidance, I threw myself at my high school friend Bob. I was 17 when this happened and I’d had a crush on Bob for ages. We’d gone to see a movie, and when we were about to say goodbye, I said, “Hey. Bob. What if I kissed you goodnight?”
And Bob said, “Oh. Gosh. Um, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I think of us as being just, you know, like, friends.”
Now, in fairness to Bob, were you to see a photo of me in 1996, you’d understand his position. You’d be, like, “Wow. Well, I bet that you were pretty on the inside.” Regardless, the rejection was traumatic. Keep reading »
I am a woman 33 years of age who practices safe sex. But it wasn’t always that way. As a woman of 19, 20 and 21, I was in no uncertain terms an idiot where safe sex was concerned. Sometimes I forced a guy to wear a condom, sometimes I didn’t.
But that all changed when I hit 22.For it was at this stage that I that I met a man in a bar, went home with him, had sex with him. And not just any man. This man was drummed up in a dive bar. He was covered in tattoos, and I’m quite sure his continued trips to the bathroom were cocaine-related. When we got back to his place I quickly discovered that he owned a pet iguana, a leathery little thing named Juan who he allowed to roam free around his East Village bedroom. I had condom-less sex with this gentleman, and spent the whole of the next day convinced his myriad STIs were coursing through my system.
Now: I know you can’t judge a book by its cover. I know that just because a man is covered in tattoos and owns a pet iguana and has a whiff of the cocaine addict about him, that doesn’t mean that he’s got chlamydia. BUT … Keep reading »
The first thing you need to know is that I didn’t start masturbating until the age of 17. I’d gone through the ol’ puberty at 12 – I’d felt the universal stirrings down below – but it took me that extra five years to work out what I ought to do about it. Had I been interviewed at age 15 about female arousal, I would’ve said something like, “The only way to reach orgasm is through having sex.”
I believed that this feeling, whatever it was, could be … solved, let’s say, solely through use of the male penis. (As though there’s any other kind!)
But, oh: How wrong I was.
It’s hard to remember exactly what happened when finally it struck me all those years later that I could tend to things myself. I know the movie “Gas, Food, Lodgings” was involved. I’d been watching it in the basement of my family’s empty house, and there’d been some scene wherein some attractive male actor pushes Ione Skye up against a wall, and then they have very satisfying sex in an upright position in what appears to be a cave. It was terribly arousing, and the house was so terribly empty, and somehow, finally, I saw my right hand, and I knew. Keep reading »
In college, I was madly in love with a guy named Elijah who looked like Denzel Washington. We were both undergraduate acting majors, and I spent the whole of freshman year ogling his perfect face, and perfect bottom. All I wanted out of life was the chance to have a romantic make out session with him, and seeing as how Elijah actually asking me out on a date was as likely as the Second Coming of Christ, I knew I’d have to be the one to make a move.
Dreams do come true, you see. It’s just, they tend to take an awful lot of work.
A holiday soiree was coming up at my acting school and I thought it the perfect opportunity for a casual but flirtatious conversation between and Elijah and me. There’d be free drinks and dancing and I planned to wear this slinky, red acrylic number. I also planned for Elijah to be drunk enough to think Sara Barron sure looks good in that slinky, red acrylic number. I bought my college friend, Melanie, along with me so she could act as personal cheerleader. “Go! Go! Go!” she’d shout whenever she saw Elijah disengaged from other conversations. I procrastinated for hours, however, until her enthusiasm waned. Keep reading »
So here we are, approaching the end of the 2012 Summer Olympics. What a wild ride it’s been, eh? From the Queen parachuting out of a helicopter, to Jordyn Wieber’s heartbreak, to Ryan Lochte’s tacky grill, perfect bod, and one-night stands.
I have a rough time when any big sporting event rolls around, and that’s because a) I’m utterly uninterested in sports, and b) I’m utterly addicted to TV. This means that, if there is a big sporting event being aired, I feel compelled to watch for the sole purpose of having something to do. And this, in turn, means I have to come up with some way to make it interesting.
What I did for the 2012 Summer Olympics, is watch with a keen eye for the physiques and unique talents of the various athletes. And I imagined having sex with them. Wait! No. It was more specific than that, really. I imagined the before, during, and after of having sex with them, with a focus on the special gift each individual athlete would bring to the experience. Click through for a compilation of my observations. Keep reading »