Carnal Embrace

A friend informed me of the following dilemma. I would have answered it in private and went on with my merry way, but I’m not about to look a gift question in the mouth. I’ve heard this story way too many times, and I’m taking preventative action against it coming up again:

I’ve been having sex for the last five months with my boyfriend, and I’ve only had how many orgasms … let me count … Oh yeah—zero!

I mean I love him, etc., etc., but I’d like to have an orgasm at some stage. When we’re having sex I get aroused but it seems that the level of arousal is constant and it never increases during sex.

And oral sex is … no comment. I mean I give him an “A” for effort, but he seems really overeager to please, and you can tell in his performance he just sort of dives right in and kind of goes way too fast.

- Zilch Earth-Rockin’ Orgasms
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It really does say “go fuck yourself” with oomph … or should I say buzz? $39.99 will buy you the “No Thanks! - Middle Finger Vibe.” I don’t know if anyone would take up the offer, but you could just wave it around menacingly and then turn on the vibe for the extra angry effect. Or not.

Middle Finger Vibe [Sex Toy Party]

Playboy is an American staple, a God-given right in some respects. It’s the pinnacle of glossy porn, of sweaty palms and sticky pages. And I could not find a single copy on the south side of Berkeley.

Normally, I don’t peruse the publication, even for the articles, but over the summer I participated in a college sex roundtable discussion for the rag. In a somewhat inappropriately themed back-to-school issue, college sex columnists and writers (including myself) jabber about the state of sex on the nation’s campuses. I thought nothing of my experience until Playboy’s most dedicated subscribers tore open their October copies.

I’ve received an unusual amount of friend requests on Facebook lately. Some future friends were willing to own up to their Hugh Hefner devotion. One man enjoyed “your story in Playboy,” another said I was “funny” and a third eagerly reported reading, again, “your article.” Needless to say, I myself have not seen the damn piece.
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Either my e-mail’s not working, or the Berkeley crowd is incredibly shy. Instead, my homies exposed their very curious and dirty minds:

When the young Christina Aguilera sings “my body is saying let’s go, but my heart is saying no,” what does that mean exactly? I don’t think that’s the first time I’ve heard that one.

­—Genie in a Bottle

Hmm, how do I put this? If the heart don’t fit, you must acquit. Genie, if you’re with a woman who says she’s not into going all the way—despite how aroused her body may seem—then anything you proceed to do with her can be classified as sexual assault.
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When I used to round the party circuit, I’d get people recognizing me from my grainy Daily Cal mug shot. They’d approach me, introduce themselves and then promptly engage me in a discussion of the proper blow job technique. The thing is, at parties I’m probably not in the state of mind to answer all of your sexual queries. Instead, the next time you’re liquored up and curious, shoot me an e-mail and I’ll read between the drunkese and feed your lust for knowledge. Observe:

Do you think Senator Larry Craig is actually gay?

- Restroom Hopeful

No, I believe he just likes to have sex with men.
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