Essays from new book offer a peek beneath the शीट्स
 | In real life, sex is mind-blowing, hilarious and erotic in the most unexpected ways. |
Getty Images stock |
Editor's note: In real life, sex is mind-blowing, hilarious and erotic in the most unexpected ways. “Behind the Bedroom Door,” a new essay collection edited by SELF’s very own articles director, Paula Derrow, gives us an all-access tour of the inner sanctum of everyday (and every-way) sex. Whether you’re a spicy seductress or a plain-vanilla kind of gal, this peek between the covers of the season’s hottest book will leave you laughing, sighing and begging for more!
Woody Allen once said sex and humor don’t mix. Apologies to Mr. Allen, but sex and comedy most definitely do go together. It’s damn near impossible to wrench them apart. For starters, just look at the penis. The shiny bald head, the squat shape, the way it jerks around like a puppet on a string. How did the first sentient chimp-woman hybrid keep from snickering at the sight of it? When my 8-year-old daughter saw a penis for the first time (Graham Chapman’s in Monty Python’s “Life of Brian”), she turned to my husband and me and asked, “Is that what it really looks like?” We told her it was. And then she burst into a great guffaw of little girl laughter.
Think of the funniest sound in the world. A fart? A burp? Slurp? Squish? Plop? If you don’t make at least three of those noises during sex, you’re not doing it right. How about the silliest positions you could get yourself into? Ankles around your ears? One leg sticking straight up like a cat? On your palms and rear in the air like a camel? Now you see my point: Sex is universally the stuff of comedy.
Like everyone else, I started out with fairy tale notions of what sex should be: two people with clean, trim, hairless bodies (in soft focus, of course) moving with the fluidity and flexibility of Olympic gymnasts। I clung to this vision for years, inevitably feeling a crushing disappointment when sex turned out to be badly lit, sweaty, stubbly and fumbling, complete with feet caught in the sheets, wet spots, flying boobs, goose bumps, stomach flab and the humble homeliness that is pubic hair. Take the afternoon I lost my virginity. My deflowerer took me to his uncle’s house in a neighboring town; his uncle was away and we’d have privacy, he assured me. We went out back to the pool — our plan was to do it on the lawn so as not to leave evidence on the patio. We’d only just begun when the uncle, plus his wife and their two kids, arrived home unexpectedly to find us in flagrante delicto (like you didn’t see that coming). The uncle hurled accusations at us as I scurried around, clumps of grass in my hair, hunting for my shorts in a juniper bush. “I’m not a slut,” I said in my own defense. “I’m an honor student!”
Things didn’t get much better once I was out of school and living in the adult world। As long as I clung to my romantic vision of sex, I wasn’t doing much laughing. Where was the soft focus? I wondered. Where were the simultaneous orgasms? Where were my solo orgasms, for that matter?
Once, in my early 20s, I went to see a friend’s band at a New York City club that no longer exists. I met a guy there who bought me many drinks, which I greedily accepted. The band was two hours late. By the time it hit the stage, I was hammered, dancing frenetically and starting to feel green around the gills. I told the guy I needed air, which he thought was code for “a screw in the back stairwell.” We started making out there, until I warned him that I felt a teeny, tiny bit sick. He told me to relax and unbuttoned my jeans. When his hands pressed against my exposed belly, I returned every drink he had bought me in a colorful, explosive arc onto his shirt, pants and combat boots. I still remember the stuff trickling gently down the stairwell wall like drops of rain. That was the end of that.
Even my first honeymoon lacked all conventional sense of romance. My then-husband, Glenn, and I were on an Alaskan cruise, and we’d brought along some massage oil as a special treat. It was apple scented and thick. I rubbed a ton of it on him and began what I intended to be the erotic massage to end all erotic massages. About three minutes in, he asked, “Is it supposed to tingle?” I said, “I don’t know,” and continued. A minute later, he asked, “Is it supposed to burn?” and I noticed that his skin felt hot under my hands. He jumped in the tiny cabin shower, barely tall enough for him, and washed off what he could. He started to break out in hives everywhere, and we had to rush to the infirmary and wake up the ship’s doctor to get Benadryl. Glenn recovered in a day, but he was scented-oil phobic forever after. Turned out, for him, it had been the erotic massage to end all erotic massages. As for me, it is entirely possible that I was born to be sexually accident-prone.
Tidak ada komentar:
Posting Komentar