Tag Archives: sex

The Politics Of Wetness – By F. N.

So, the last time I was having sex I realized I wasn’t as wet as I usually am. I was concerned. I’m usually wet, very wet, and everything is silky and moist. So even though I tend to be kinda tight in the cooch region, the snug fit is secondary to the smooth ride. When I’m having sex dude slides right in and, according to my ex, “feels like he’s bathing his junk in a cocoon of warm, silky lotion.” I think he was being kinda extra. I, personally, only employ such hyperbole when I’m talking about how fine Idris Elba is.

My ex claimed being inside me was better than coming because if he was inside me then the sensation never ended but once he came it was over, and, until he got it back up to start round two, his junk was lonely and lotionless. I used to take it for granted that I was a wet wet wet girl. So wet it would be all over my thighs and dripping on the bed. So wet that any time someone went down on me I could taste myself all over their face when we kissed.

Everyone I slept with loved it. It made them feel desired; like they were doing all the right things; like every move they made was blowing my mind. I loved it too, because it made sex amazing for me. But I didn’t realize until recently how much of my sexual psyche was wrapped up in the things my coochie did. I used my wetness as a barometer to measure my level of interest in someone. I used my wetness as a tease to turn the dude on before we hooked up. I used my wetness to judge how good a sexual experience was.

I’m pretty uninhibited, and I care about my partner’s pleasure, and I’m down for pretty much anything that doesn’t involve pain or degradation, so I never really gave much thought to it when people I slept with said I was amazing in bed. I always thought my attributes: the flexibility, the freakiness, the fun-ness, the focus, were the major part of why I was a hit between the sheets. Until I lost my wetness I didn’t realize how much it factored into my partner’s opinion of the sex, and my opinion of myself.

Lots of women suffer from vaginal dryness. There are many reasons for this, from anxiety, to medication side effects, to hormonal changes, to irritants in the fabric of your underwear, or the laundry detergent you use on your delicates. Two-thirds of women over sixty struggle with the condition. Vaginal dryness makes sex painful because the lubrication is limited, and so things don’t slide in and out without abrasion. Insufficient arousal is one of the biggest causes of vaginal dryness because most men don’t realize that for women, as my friend likes to say, “foreplay is the main play.”

In my case, I think what was happening was that I didn’t enjoy sex with this person— a former boo turned fuck buddy— as much as I used to. He was the previously-mentioned chronic masturbator who had lost sensation in his junk and compensated for it by grinding into me like a pestle pounding fufu. Sex used to be amazing with him and this new situation left me sad and frustrated. I started anticipating the pain before we even started, so my coochie wasn’t as eager for the D as it used to be. I’m also in my thirties, and, though this is supposed to be a woman’s sexual prime, there’s definitely a chance that I’m going through some hormonal changes.

But surprisingly, instead of thinking about all these very logical things, every time my body didn’t make it rain I felt a faint sense of shame. Every time we had sex, in addition to nursing my sore coochie, I wondered if the sex wasn’t up to snuff for him. If his memories of me as this sexual goddess were being tainted. If he would no longer remember me as the all-star-rock-my-world-put-it-on-you-and-pick-it-back-up chick who he would compare every woman after to. I felt as if I was letting him and myself down.

Now, you might be thinking “Girlfriend, have you ever heard of lube?” And I had. I actually had some, the best kind: “Pjur Concentrated Silicone Lubricant” — a physical manifestation of Danish ingenuity that I would take off my earrings and beat a trick down for if she dared to challenge its ability to bring about world peace. But I always bought it to give hand jobs with (it elevates your hand job game to a truly distinguished level). I never put it inside my coochie! My coochie didn’t need lube! My coochie was naturally perfect!

But one day we were having sex, and halfway through I dried up and every thrust felt like sandpaper. I paused the action to get the lube, and as I was squirting it up there I felt like crying. For the rest of our hook-up period I had to use the lube almost every time. And though it made the sex more bearable I convinced myself it was a poor replica of the juice my body made naturally.

Somehow, in my mind, though I thought I was way too progressive for that kind of thinking, I had internalized the message that insufficient arousal was somehow uncool. Society always finds a way to make women feel like shit. And though it’s not always spoken about, I think there is an implicit belief that insufficient arousal (particularly if there has been some foreplay) is the woman’s fault. If you’re not wet enough for the sex to be comfortable some guys don’t realize it’s because they are falling short of the mark. They attribute it to you not being sexually liberated enough.

Intellectually, I was in firm support of lube. I understood it made things better. I even understood that everyone has a different level of natural lubrication, so not everyone who uses lube suffers from vaginal dryness (some people could be at peak wetness and still use lube as the sprinkles on top of the sundae). I believed lube was a wonderful thing. I knew I would vote for lube if it ran in the 2018 mid-term elections. But somehow I had equated my vaginal lubrication to my sexual worth. And it took a lot of unpacking to realize that my idea of sexual worth itself was pure-grade, grass-fed bullshit. What does being good in bed really mean? And why is this an accolade I was so attached to receiving?

As women we’re socialized to want a gold star for everything. We’ve been taught that approval is necessary to our self-acceptance. And you know what? It’s not. If there is communication and mutual respect during the horizontal mambo, and the person makes me happy and vice versa, then that should be enough. And every tool, ANY TOOL, we have to use to achieve maximum satisfaction for both parties is a blessing from Comisnusina: the god of orgasms; not something to be salty about or ashamed of.

There is a plethora of fixes for vaginal dryness, regardless of the cause. There are lubricants which run the gamut from water-based, to silicone-based, to more natural options like coconut oil. There are over-the-counter vaginal moisturizers which help introduce water back into the tissues of the vagina. There are estrogen replacement medications (particularly for women going through menopause). There are vaginal estrogen inserts, which can be a ring, a pellet or a cream. There are estrogen patches, which you stick on your skin. And any of these options should be used with pride that you are taking charge of your sexual wellbeing, and not shame or inadequacy that your coochie can’t make it rain like it’s supposed to.

There are also sex toys, which can sometimes help get you revved up for the penetration part, or can enter the game if midway through it you need an extra boost. There is porn, which can provide visual stimulus that just your partner touching you doesn’t provide; there is erotic literature; there are special condoms with all kinds of bells and whistles designed to hit specific spots. All these are great options if your vaginal dryness is caused by insufficient arousal. Most importantly there is your voice, providing explicit instructions to homeboy on just what you need to reach the promised land.

There is no such thing as sexual worth. There is no empirical ranking system for being good, bad or average in bed. No such thing as being too wet, or not being wet enough. There’s just you and how your body functions, and the journey you take to your most satisfied self.

F.N. is a thirty something Ghanaian free-lance writer who alternates between living in Accra and Washington, DC.




What Makes Great Sex Possible?

What makes great sex possible?

I ran across this age-old question while going through my yahoo inbox. Luckily, YourTango.com has a ton of relationship experts to help me (and you) answer this question. According to marriage and couples counselors Carista Luminaire, PhD and  Lion Goodman, to have great sex, you need to feel safe and secure. This applies more to women but to men as well.

This makes sense, right? During our 20’s we’re lusty and randy. Often we don’t make great decisions regarding life partners and relationships. Sex can be random and focused on fulfilling physical needs. But, as we mature into our 30’s, 40’s and older, physical and emotional security become more important factors in our sexuality. The article asserts that most women can’t share their minds or bodies with someone they don’t trust. But, we ooze and drip with passion once the trust and safety factors kick in. These are good points to keep in mind.

I also ran across an interesting article on the Discovery Channel about how cats adore and manipulate women. I think the two articles are related,don’t you? We’ve all heard how women can become unnaturally attached to their cats. Single women over 37.5 years old with a cat or two are quickly dubbed “Cat Ladies.” What woman can resist all that purring and adoration?

I guess if you open up your heart and let down your guard, some “cat” will walk in.

Whant wah…

Filipina_Gal: “My penis broke.”

My Penis Broke

If he wanted the most awkward post first date conversation topic, this would’ve been it.

Backtrack to when I arrived in France. I couldn’t wait to have my elegant, smoldering hunk of a Parisian man sweep me off my feet and ride off with me in to the sunset, where he and I would make passionate, mind-blowing sex on the beach.

You know, those standard, conventional fantasies that plague women’s thoughts about French men and their sexy ways. However, my experience was quite the contrary.

I met two cute, hot Parisians a few months into my study abroad program. Though they were similarly attractive, I was more taken with one of them. He is a computer programmer, he likes TED talks, he’s into Frank Herbert’s Dune – the works. It made me think he’s boyfriend material. We’d been texting nonstop. Then the morning before our first date after he greets me and a few text volleys later, he talks about how he’ll be wearing a tux later that night. I responded jokingly that I’ll be wearing a swimsuit then, since I didn’t want him to outshine me. He responded with a, “now I’m hard because I’m picturing you on the dunes in your swim wear.”

Now, I consider myself fairly open-minded about flirting, but after a few days of just straight-up cutesie stuff, this very sexual comment put a different spin on my outlook for the evening. I was mostly appalled and apprehensive. But I decided, hey, I’ll give it a chance. So, we went for dinner at this Japanese restaurant, and then caught a movie. He was nice and sweet the whole time, but during the movie, his hands were definitely creeping places I was not comfortable with and he kissed me repeatedly. In terms of trying to win me over, his whole style was sloppy.

Still, I weighed the positives and negatives and decided that the whole evening wasn’t a complete waste. But, when he once again sent me a message two days later, telling me that he has the house to himself (hint hint), so why don’t I recommend a good anime or movie to watch? I felt like there was a disconnect in our respective expectations at this point, but I decided to play the fool and gave him a title anyway.

That night, I thought about what relationships and sex meant in Paris for people my age. Everywhere – in the metros, the parks, the streets, even offices – young people are not averse to openly tonguing each other. Not to say that there’s anything wrong with this and I am obviously no expert on the matter, but it seems as if there’s less or practically no taboo against having sex, which extends to milder (or…harder?) forms of it expressed in public. I have had no conversations about this with the few French friends I made in Paris, but from what I gathered, sex is a more acceptable aspect of social life. Couples are unashamed to show their attraction and affection for each other. Even films manifest this – most of them have extensive, artistic, or funny sex scenes. Once, I spent a good 20 to 30 minutes watching a hot sexual scene with my 65 year-old host mother. Needless to say, it was an uncomfortable situation for me but natural for her.

Given these ideas, I was willing to give my comp guy another chance – cross-cultural understanding and all. However, when he called me the next day and we’d gotten the small talk out of the way, he told me he was not feeling well our date night because during the day “my penis broke.”

Shocked and morbidly fascinated, I listened to him describe in both French and English and in intricate, great detail how such a condition could occur. Here’s the condensed version: a vein pops, usually during sex “which also,” he confided, “first happened to me a month ago when I was having sex with my ex-girlfriend.” My relatively limited experience in the dating and sex department aside, I think any female would be a little freaked out by this point. At the end of his lecture (during which I strove hard to forget every word before he’d said his next), he stated, “so basically, I’ll be useless to you for the next month. Do you still want to go out?”

Despite my embarrassment during this debacle, my bizarre encounter showed me that there’s a level of openness concerning this topic that I hadn’t encountered before in male-female relations. To a certain extent, it speaks to the social and cultural landscape of Paris. However, when I spoke with some people about it, they informed me that it’s not the usual case. Sex education and the pervasiveness of safe sex campaigns, materials, etc. is quite far-reaching – for example, condoms and other sex materials are fairly prominent merchandise in many groceries, pharmacies, and stores. According to some, however, there is still a lack of communication, especially on the female’s part, in expressing their concerns and ideas. I believe I also demonstrated that quite clearly. This experience was most informative, and I’m still processing it months later. It almost seems stranger than if I’d had a one-night stand and never seen him again – because, at least, this can be expected.

What If He’s Just TOO Big?

Too big

Over the years, I’ve had friends complain about men who were not well-endowed enough to satisfy them.  Many women don’t mind telling you they need a big dick (or a BD, as I like to say) to get it on.  I mean who hasn’t participated in a lively female group discussion about the problems with small male genitalia and how he just can’t bust you out with his little worm?

But, what about the woman who finds that her man’s BD is simply TOO big? Often, she’ll whisper this problem in a serious tone and hushed voice, afraid of being judged. Few women are comfortable telling you they can’t seem to take all of their man inside them. They may feel this makes them less of a woman or that they should be enjoying what every woman supposedly dreams of.  So, as a result, there aren’t many exciting articles on the topic, offering good tips.

Lucky for us, today’s EmandLo,  a popular website run by two lady sexperts, provides good pointers on how to deal with a man who may just bust you out with his super sperm. Of course “lube it up” is the first tip. But, click here to get more info on how to turn your painful love session into a pleasurable one.



Do Nice Men Who Talk Nasty Get Girls Into Bed?

Passion in bed

I met a guy the other day when I was exhibiting for a high school fair. He looked like the principal of a school. Handsome. Clean-cut.  He even had on a nice jacket and tie while the other exhibitors lounged around in polo shirts. “Nice…” I thought to myself, as I approached him to tell him about my school and ask if he was job hunting because our school was recruiting.

Mr. Nice accepted my invitation to ice cream as way of getting to know more about the school and …well me.  In between licks, he shared with me his views on education and how Black males fared in the system. He also impressed me with his knowledge of art and his curiosity about the latest African-American painters.

I was mesmerized.  I gazed into his eyes enjoying his talk when he went for the kill, “So, what are you doing Friday? Can I take you out for a drink?”

“Sure,” I said. Delighted to find such a nice man.

So, I showed up at the bar, ready for more Mr. Nice.  But, our date conversation quickly turned into a nasty session about him asking me right off the bat about my sex habits and the positions I liked. I was stunned.  I didn’t know how to respond.  I tried turning it around and confronted him with a few ridiculously direct questions of my own.

“What a way to get to know someone. Why are you so interested in sex?  What do you like so much about it?!”  I pronounced point blankly, pleased that I had come up with a strategy on how to handle the situation.

Well that was a mistake.

Mr. Nice-Turned-Nasty looked at me, as if he had been waiting the entire time for me to ask him such a question. He raised his voice so everyone in the bar could hear him and put his hand up in the air and announced at the top of his voice, “What do I like about sex?! Well, look at my hand. This is your pussy when I’m having sex with you. And, this is your pussy when you come,” he said excitedly as his hand went from an open circle to a closed tight one that writhed in excitement.

I looked at him in complete disbelief. Who in the world was this man?  Did he really succeed with the ladies talking and behaving this way?  How many girls did he get into bed with this act: Nasty-talking Nice Man?

Any thoughts?