Why We Should Teach Girls How to Jill off

A bouncy ball, A washing machine, A plethora of bottles, A carrot, Pens, Markers, Celery, The handle of a Venus razor blade, A chair, A showerhead, A cellphone, A cucumber, A hoodie, A hairbrush, A banana, An electric toothbrush, A bunch of tampons.


This isn’t the wish list of a first-time homeowner with a healthy appetite and a heavy flow. These are the items I tried to masturbate with before I turned 18. All of them failed to bring me to orgasm except for one. Can you guess which one? I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t my fingers.

At this point, I think we’re all pretty aware that girls have it a little harder in the orgasm department than boys do, but no one ever talks about how this affects girls who don’t have access to safe solutions like vibrators and sex toys.

Basically, any girl under 18.

Ever since puberty I’ve had an outrageous sexual appetite. Problem was, I was a half-feral nerd too awkward and ugly to make any real advances toward sexual contact with another person. So, I did the only thing I could: I tried to get myself off by any means necessary.

And I mean any means.

When shoving fingers up my vag and probing my clit failed to produce anything even remotely akin to an orgasm, I started to look elsewhere. I went through the list, growing increasingly convinced that something must be wrong with me. It was supposed to be so easy. Girls on TV seemed to get gooey in the gash from a simple kiss and here I was bundling tampons together like firewood in order to get halfway to a decent dildo and still I felt nothing.

Then my dentist convinced my parents I needed an electric toothbrush and the true Kylie was born.

Like my male counterparts, I started jacking it like crazy. Small difference though, I was often hurting myself. I was young, dumb, and using an electronic dental tool not meant for gentle clitoral caresses. I used the bristle end (no, I didn’t use the same head as the one I brushed my teeth with), and would often rub myself so raw the brush would be red with blood at the end of a session.

I knew this wasn’t good, and I knew there were better ways, but I was too young to buy even a simple vibrator. You have to be 18 or older to purchase sex toys of any kind, so I was left feeling like a freak for trying to ease the incessant screeching of my teenage hormones. It wasn’t until I was sixteen when a friend went to Spencer’s and bought me a pocket rocket and my poor, abused clit finally got some relief.

In a perfect world, parents would awkwardly breech the subject of safe and effective female masturbation to avoid both injury and feelings of “being broken.”  The potential problem lies in the legality of buying sex toys for a minor as it may fall under “Contributing to the Delinquency of a Minor.”

So, instead of taking your daughter down to The Pleasure Chest, I believe misdemeanor charges and awkward conversations can be avoided with a vague note about safety and still finishing homework on time atop a box left subtly in a sock drawer. It’ll save her clit and save you a lot of missing or ruined household items.


This was written by the lovely Kylie Chi. You can find her on instagram here

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Escapism and Mad Men

This was originally posted on The New Grls Club in August.


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There’s a pretty sexist and racist show that used to be on television. It had scenes filled with men cheating on their wives, women being treated like objects, black people, Jewish people and Chinese people getting treated like less than other people, but that wasn’t all it was.

Ten years ago this past July my favorite show of all time first aired. It wasn’t incredibly popular, it wasn’t on a channel people knew about and it was literally right before the so called “golden age of television”. It aired on July 19th, 2007 on a channel that previously was associated with a movie theater chain and popular movies from the 1950’s. The channel was AMC and the show was Mad Men.

I need to say this up front before I get into this show because I know people have problems with it. I consider myself an intersectional womanist. Meaning I vouch for the rights and humanism of all types of people because I am a middle class, mixed race, dual citizen, bisexual woman. I fall at literally all the crossroads. I understand struggles of minority humans in an incredibly complex way.

But I also consider myself a writer and a storyteller and often times those identities collide.

One prime example is with my love for the TV show Mad Men.

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It’s strange that I began watching my two favorite shows the same way (the OC being the other, but that’s for another blog). I watched an early episode of the first season randomly on TV, liked it and then didn’t continue watching it. Then I started purposefully watching Mad Men when I was incredibly sick and bed ridden. It provided the perfect amount of escapism. I’m not going to lie to you, it’s a hard show to begin. There’s a ton of mostly unlikable characters, a lot of business jargon and frankly when you don’t know what’s going on the drama of the show goes over your head. Eventually, after a few episodes, I got into it and fell in love.

This isn’t a blog about the details of me watching it because that’s boring. I’m here to tell you that as a womanist writer, this show is something unique. This show understands theme in a way a lot of shows don’t. One of my favorite episodes explores the themes of old and young that seem so subtle on the first watch and so sucker-punch-to-the-face obvious on a second watch.

And that’s what I love about the show. I love that as a half black women living in 2017, it allows me to escape into a world neither my parents nor I know anything about. A world that feels so foreign yet so fantastical. You know how people dreamily talk about getting lost in a world of a fantasy novel? That’s me with Mad Men.

I know this show front and back. I know minute details you’ve probably over looked. I’ve read Mad Men Carousel while watching the show to better understand the episodes and I’ve read Philosophy and Mad Men to better understand the characters.

I’m not here to brag, I just want you to know that I know more than your average obsessive viewer of the show.

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So why do I love it so much?

Why does anyone love a show? It’s for the characters and their development. One of my friends once said the most poignant point about Mad Men and it’s that you love and hate every character while watching it. At first watch, it seems clear who to hate. Pete was obvious for me, then Betty then Jane. But with more viewings, I grew to love these characters and hate other characters I used to love: Don, Joan, Megan. It’s with hindsight that you can truly understand why they do what they do. These characters experience so fucking much through the 10 years we know them. It’s hard not to grow to love all of them. To escape through their lives.

The details in this show are flawless. Their ability to weave in real historical events into the fictional stories is incredible. And it’s not just assassination and elections, it’s the typewriters and the weather.

Because immense amounts of research have been done, it doesn’t feel clunky, it feels seamless. Like this is actually a show taking place in 1960 with an incredible writing staff and HD cameras.

Since this month is all about escapism, the idea of getting away from it all into a new and mostly foreign world, when I want to escape, there are four Mad Men episodes I go to.

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Season 1 Episode 7

Red in the Face

This is probably my favorite episode of the series. It’s one of the best examples of how a general theme is weaved into the plot of an episode in such a subtle but profound way. The theme is in everything from the relationship between Pete, his coworkers, and his wife, the Nixon ad campaign assignment and Roger’s relationship with Don.  Pay attention to the ideas of old and new or young and old.

Season 4 Episode 7

The Suitcase

This episode is a masterpiece of television in my mind. I know it’s on a lot of people’s lists of best mad men episodes and rightfully so. This episode goes so far without really leaving the office. There are monumental relationship growths and changes that happen in this episode. Also, the fact that it’s mostly contained to one location makes it feel extra dream like. If you’re at all a fan of Peggy and Don’s relationship, this is the episode.

Season 5 episode 5

Far Away Places

Roger is such an understated character. What really is his job and purpose at the company? I believe it’s to bring a sense of childlike honesty, and comic relief to those who he works with and also us. He’s one of the few characters who genuinely tells it like it is. He doesn’t sugarcoat a thing which is refreshing and helpful to have to stabilize the other characters. There are other important elements of this episode, but this is a stand out for Roger and how important honesty is for him. Additionally, this episode is a prime example of the people behind the show letting your figure out for yourself what’s happening. You’ll know when you watch it.

Season 6 Episode 12

In Care Of

This episode is a difficult one to fall into if you’ve never seen the show before, but in a way, it’s also not. The show does a precise and almost delicate job of never really telling you too much. Things are rarely admitted outright, so in a way, you could watch this and get all the backstory you’d ever need about the characters, in addition to some pretty pivotal information. If the relationship between Don and Sally has ever intrigued you, this is one of those subtle and telling delves into their relationship.

I Never Thought It’d Happen to Me(me)

Meme? Like, Mim? Or is it like Meh-Meh? Oh, I know! Me-me! Hmm, meme? Like theme? Okay sure, I’ll write an article about that.

The above was my reaction when I was asked to write about memes for a Columbia journal my sophomore year. You can look up the article if you’d like. I honestly don’t have the wherewithal and self-confidence to revisit it. I promise it’s not good. Actually, don’t look it up. I don’t want you losing faith in me.

Okay, now that you’re back from BETRAYING MY TRUST, I want to explain how my appreciation and understanding of memes has completely changed. They’re a huge part of my life, now. I only recently stopped scrolling through multiple Instagram humor accounts before bed because I have a complete lack of self-control and was starting to stay up really late because of it. I always laugh at the jokes and pass them on ad nauseam, but I never really think about the people – and hand puppets – captured in those pictures and screenshots. Were they chosen at random? Were the pictures posed for? I honestly didn’t care… until it happened to me.

So, peep this: I wake up one summer day ready to face a completely empty schedule. I know to most people this sounds like the dream. It’s summer and you have nothing at all to do! You should be rejoicing, Karen! Well – I wasn’t. I have a very obsessive personality that requires I be constantly busy or being made to feel useful. Three task-free weeks between school and work were hell for me. Let’s just say I wasn’t in a great place.

I logged into Twitter. I passed through a few memes – it all comes full circle – and landed on a tweet from @OfficialJaden – Jaden Smith:

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I GROANED. I thought about my annoyance with the proclivity of individuals – namely men – to call women “females.” I remembered in that instance how I recently schooled one of my cousins on the discrepancy. “You wouldn’t call guys ‘males.’ It reduces us to nothing more than a set of privates. I’m more than just a vagina, right, cuz?” He grimaced because I’d mentioned my vagina, but said he thought he understood. I remembered that small victory and took it upon myself to be a warrior for justice once more.

I hit reply on the tweet and typed:

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I immediately got push back. A guy asked me why I couldn’t just take the compliment. I considered ignoring the response, but I thought about some of my favorite internet savvy writers and creators. @Chescaleigh (Franchesca Ramsey) wouldn’t back down, neither would @HeavenRants (Heben Nigatu) @EveEwing or @AmandaSeales… one would assume.

I responded, using a helpful Buzzfeed article written by Heben and Tracy Clayton as my main reasoning. My internet assailant did not take kindly to my use of Buzzfeed as a source. Suffice it to say, he didn’t agree with my grievances.

 The hate started flooding in, and a few hours after my original tweet. It happened. I became a meme.

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I thought, “but I’m not… I can’t be… I’m not annoying, am I?” The whole point of a meme is to define something with an image that can’t or might not necessarily be so easily defined with just words. This unseen person – whose account has since been deleted mind you – had defined me.

The meme got TONS of likes and comments and sent a horde of people flooding over to my original tweet to say both mean and nice things – but mostly mean things. At the time of my publishing this article, my original tweet has 136,822 impressions and 52,290 engagements. Keep in mind that before this I only had 70 Twitter followers. I mostly used Twitter to say dumb things like:

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Clearly, I was speaking to the void and suddenly I had people going through my page and commenting on old stuff with:

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It’s like people were just trying to find some “gold” that would get them as many retweets and interactions as @VersaceSilk got before. It was sickening. I learned how to turn off notifications for that specific post, but that wasn’t enough. I turned off notifications for Twitter completely… but that wasn’t’ enough. I still couldn’t help logging in to see what people were saying about me. Things like:

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That last one struck fear in me and made me delete the Twitter app completely. Then it showed up on Facebook. @FuckJerry had reposted it. I thanked God my Twitter name was a silly spelling of my name and not close enough that random people could make the connection to my actual Facebook page. Then it showed up on Instagram. @BeigeCardigan, @FuckJerry’s “sister” account, posted it with a caption telling me to “sit down.” Some girl tagged me in a comment saying she’d “found me” on Instagram. “IT’S THE SAME HANDLE, GIRLFRIEND!! YOU AIN’T NO SUPERSLEUTH!” Is what I wanted to respond, but I was scared there’d be more pushback. I made my Instagram account private and curled up under my covers.

My friends seemed to find out one by one. Matt called me – “Karen, you’re famous!” He encouraged me to capitalize on this. To let this launch me into fame. He said I’d have to become a feminazi online to keep it up. “But I don’t wanna be a feminazi. I just want to express my opinion every once in a while and not be demonized for it.” My writer’s group friends from Columbia told me they’d all reported @FuckJerry for reposting it. This was way before reports of how reporting doesn’t actually work for black women, but it was no use anyway. It was everywhere. I couldn’t run from it.

The first two days were incredibly hard. I pretended to be okay and laugh it off, but I cried… a lot. By the third day, I had people defending me wholeheartedly when I just wanted it to all disappear.

The last place it showed up was Reddit. A friend with whom I went to camp in middle school called me. “Hey Karen did you know…” “Yes, Ryan. I know.” He helped me laugh about it. He told me he’d make fun of me for a while for it, but he knew that was just my brand of sarcasm. He knew it didn’t read like I’d have actually said it.

And that’s just it. I listened to a podcast recently that talked about how with text-based platforms, there emerges this certain level of intimacy that feels violated when questioned. Our words are unavoidably close to who we are and when they’re misconstrued, we’re at a huge loss to regain control of what we “meant” or “intended.”

Thankfully, the buzz subsided. In fact, exactly a week later, I was able to log in to my social media accounts and not see anything concerning the meme. It was a huge relief.

Now, every once in a while, someone online will bring it up. A new, burgeoning humor account will repost the meme in hopes of getting the same kind of acclaim. There’s nothing creative or nuanced about their approach. It’s just a cruel, uninspired rehashing. People will tag me in it thinking they’re the first to do so or hoping I’ll go off. They aren’t, and I won’t.

Initially, part of me wished I’d been more straightforward. I thought, “if only I’d been clearer about what I meant, maybe people would have been more inclined to hear me out.” I had to stop that destructive thinking. No one should have to cater their dissent to the understanding of their oppressors. I know, I know. “Dissent” and “oppressors” feel like big words for something that seems so small, but it’s not small! Calling a woman a female reduces her to nothing more than an animal or an object strictly defined by her genitalia. On the one hand, it doesn’t make sense. “Female” is an adjective. On the other hand, this is dangerous for multiple reasons. For one thing, this nomenclature completely erases transwomen and lumps gender nonconforming individuals into a basket they didn’t ask for. This kind of thinking can also inevitably lead to physical and verbal violence and the continued oppression and belittling of an entire subsection of the human race.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I still drop it low in da club to all the misogynistic bangers from the 90’s, 2000 and beyond (and before, I see you “Tootsie Roll”) but I don’t deny that the language used in these songs is reductive and incendiary. It’s a tough line to tread – being a woman who considers herself “woke” but who also wants to participate in many of the facets of daily life and pop culture. There’s a lot to juggle. Way more than I could address in one article. Nevertheless, I’ve decided I can personally choose small battles day by day.

 

I have about 100 more followers on Twitter now. I know. I’m killing it. And I know most are there waiting for me to say something else they consider dumb or “meme-able,” but that’s okay.  Not everyone is going to like you and not everyone is going to understand you. But if you’re smart, you’ll spend more time listening to the people who love you and do understand you.

Either way, the moral of the story is – if you’re gonna come for Jaden Smith, be prepared to face a little push back :).

– @Ckharyn

 

There’s No Place Like Home

By Ailish

There’s this perfect view of the bay that you can really only see on a clear summer afternoon. It’s when you’re driving on the 980 overpass just as you’ve merged from either the 24 or the 580. You’re sitting right above the West Oakland and Downtown Oakland border. The best part about this view is how temporary it is, especially if you’re the one driving. On a good day, you can see the San Francisco Skyline, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Sausalito. I love this view. I live for this view. It’s everything I love about Oakland. The idea that you’re right here in the greatest city in the world, with an unmatched view of the second greatest city in the world.

 

As I’m writing this, I’m currently on a plane, with no discernible view, flying back to Los Angeles from Oakland. I never really imagined myself living in LA, but my school and career choice brought me here. I’m not mad about it, but having grown up in Oakland it’s really hard for me to like any other city. However, the longer I live in LA, the more it starts to feel like home and that’s what’s most scary.

 

Now, I visit Oakland with my boyfriend David who, before dating me, had only visited San Francisco as a boy. Inevitably I’ll take him around these places with rich memories for me.

 

“That’s the liquor store where I got my fake ID taken away. It’s still on their wall of shame.”

 

“That’s the parking spot where I broke my headlight because I was so distracted after seeing Fruitvale Station.”

 

“That’s the donut shop where we would hang out late at night deciding what to do because we were too young to go to bars.”

 

The city is FULL of these memories, but is that all they are now? Memories?

 

I’m not there long enough to make the kind of memories you make when you live in a place long term. I’ve only lived in LA for two years, but slowly LA is becoming more of my home than Oakland and I think I need to start embracing that instead of living in this middle space where no place feels like my actual home.

 

It really hit me when I was navigating myself and David back to my parent’s house on BART. Usually, I’ll take the Fremont train to get back to the Fruitvale Station from San Francisco, but we had had a few drinks and it wasn’t on its way so I decided we would take a different train and transfer. But that train went too far and when we got off I still didn’t know where to catch the Fremont Train. It turns out, the Fremont train is now called Warm Springs and I had no idea this change had been made. I had been in town a month ago. But that solidified it for me.

 

The Bay and Oakland will always be my home, be the place I grew up and have my heart. And why shouldn’t it? My family and best friends still live there, I have memories and history there that can’t be taken away. But I live in LA and will for the foreseeable future. LA certainly has it’s benefits like the beach, old Hollywood history, incredible theaters and beautiful people to look at. I also can’t deny the fact that I’ve slowly and slightly become somewhat of an LA person. I dress a little better, I always consider my plans with the flow of traffic, I’m way more health conscious, I’m much flakier on plans. That SNL bit about The Californians, I finally understand it now. After two years of living here, I’m also kind of okay with becoming more of an LA person. If anything, LA is just shaping me into a more interesting and well-rounded person that began with Oakland.

Surviving a Live-in Break Up

By Elizabeth Stickley

One month ago my live in girlfriend broke up with me… over the phone… at 8 am… on my way to work…

 

As my world crumbled down around me, a million questions ran through my head. How could she do this to me? How did I not see this coming? What could I have done better?

 

I sat through an entire work day with these questions churning, just a zombie staring through the computer. It wasn’t until I was sitting in LA traffic on my way home that I realized…. We fucking live together.

 

Breakups are hard enough, but when you live together, it’s a whole different story. How are you supposed to recover when you have to see the person who broke your heart every single day? The answer is simple… you don’t.

 

In an ideal world, you’ll be able to afford your own place, or your friends will have endless spare rooms for rent. But for most of us, that is not the case. So, we suck it up and coexist because well… we have to.

 

Get yourself out

The best thing you can do is get out of the shared space. My ex and I worked opposite schedules, which was very helpful, but coming home to an empty apartment isn’t that great of a feeling either. So, I started saying yes to midweek invites from my friends. Maybe I needed a little extra coffee the next day, but hey, it was worth it. Being out with the people who love you can help take your mind of what is going on at home. Plus, reconnecting with friends is one of the positives of a breakup.

 

You’re not strangers, so don’t act like it

The first week of the breakup, I had no idea how to act. I felt like I was living with a stranger. I felt like I was walking on eggshells. I didn’t know how to even talk to her, but one day she stopped me in the hall and said, “You know we aren’t stranger right?” And while I didn’t want to be her buddy, I realized that we could still coexist comfortably and have normal conversations.

 

If you make a mistake, don’t beat yourself up.

The longer you’re living together, the more likely you two are going to fall into the old routine. Making dinner, watching your favorite shows, cuddling, and eventually sex… I definitely don’t recommend this, but shit happens, and you can’t go back in time to change it. No one is perfect and a live-in breakup is a new territory for almost everyone who experiences it.

 

For me, it was towards the end of the month, just before she was going to move. We thought we had it all figured out, I mean hell we made it this far! So, we decided to go out to dinner together. BIG MISTAKE. We were laughing and touching as if nothing had changed between us. Needless to say, we go home, one thing leads to another and the next thing I know I’m waking up in the morning, regret like a pit in my stomach. I felt all the feelings come flooding back to me and I was back at square one. But I knew I couldn’t go back in time, so I just kept moving forward.

 

Keep it simple

Eventually, the day will come where it’s just you and your ex stuck at home together. Of course, this wasn’t ideal, but my ex and I made the best of it. In order to avoid making the mistakes I mentioned above, we kept everything light. We chose classic reruns of comedies over our new TV shows, we kept conversation cordial and light, we smoked a joint to calm our nerves. Whether you’re the breakup-er or the breakup-ee, you need to recognize that both of you need that time at home to relax, so don’t ruin it for one another out of spite.

 

Say what you need to say… to a point

With each day you get closer and closer to that final goodbye. It’s important to let the other person know how you are feeling. If you’re having a bad day it’s okay to let them know. If you’re missing them it’s okay to let them know. It’s unhealthy to lean on one another during your individual recoveries, but it’s important to communicate during this time. It’s definitely NOT worth bringing up old problems and picking fights. You’re making your last memories with this person, so why ruin it for yourself.

 

Have an end date

Knowing when one of you or both of you are going to move out really makes the process a lot easier. It’s easier to navigate when there is a light at the end of the tunnel. My ex knew she was going to move in a month, but had nowhere to go in the meantime, so we stayed in our apartment together. I had some tough days during that time, but it was comforting to know that this was a temporary arrangement.  

 

I’m in no way condoning living with an ex, but sometimes we don’t have a choice. However, if the relationship is abusive or unhealthy in any way disregard ALL of my advice and get the fuck out of there.

 

Live-in breakups are their own breed. I scoured the internet for any advice on navigating this new situation I found myself in, but everything I found was either super negative or just bad common sense. I worked through it on my own, and I survived. And you will too.

 

 

127 Minutes

By Karen Joseph

Have you seen that movie 127 Hours? Yeah, me neither BUT I saw the trailer, so I got the gist. White man walks among the rocks. The rocks rebel against him and all he’s done to harm Mother Earth. White man cuts off arm as penance to Mother Earth.

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Like I said. I got the ~*gist*~.

 

Don’t worry, I’m not here to give you three sentence versions of blockbuster movies. I’m here to talk about my own 127 Hours… and by 127 hours, I mean what felt like 127 hours but was probably closer to 127 minutes.

 

Fade in on me standing in line at Sugarfish with a guy from Tinder I’d only just met in person. Sugarfish is what you could call a “bougie light” sushi restaurant. Its website explains it serves traditional sushi of the highest quality and its prices reflect that promise. Nevertheless, you won’t have to pay an arm and a leg for it. They’ll be fine with one leg and a finger(tip). Okay lame jokes stop now.

 

Anywho! I’m looking him over. He’s… okay. This was only my second time going out with a guy I’d met on an app. The first guy was H. O. T. hot on paper. He was literally tall, dark and handsome. He played basketball in high school and could certainly pass for a young Denzel. My mom would have been so proud (she loves Denzel). Yet… get ready for this… he pronounced the “L” in salmon. I MEAN, REALLY? We had nothing to talk about, and I basically ran out of that restaurant after. I’d gone for brawn over brains, and I suffered for it.

 

Suffice it to say, I realized I needed to go a different route if I really intended to find love and/or free food. Gorp (names have been changed to protect me from an awkward “did you write about me on the internet” text) was nice. Gorp was smart. Gorp knew everything about movies and music. Our texting before the date had been nonstop. The interesting kind of nonstop, not the “wyd?” “nothing. u?” kind of nonstop.

 

So what’s the catch? Physically, Gorp was on the heavier side. He honestly wasn’t someone who would – as Missy would say – make you do a double take. But like I said before, I was trying to do something different. Take a walk on the wild side.

 

This was my first time at Sugarfish, so he encouraged me to get one of the bigger meals for variety. Sushi always fills me up quickly, so I struggled to scarf down the Trust Me Lite (three pieces of sushi, one piece of sashimi, a hand roll and edamame). Meanwhile, Gorp threw down on the Trust Me (twice the sushi, twice the handrolls), and made sure I knew that on a good day, he could destroy the Nozawa Trust Me (add three more pieces of sushi and a “daily special” to the Trust Me). The boy could eat.

 

When the meal was almost done, he looked over at me with puppy dog eyes and asked what I wanted to do now. He could drop me home… or I could go to his place and listen to that Logic album we were talking about. Gorp promised he had really nice speakers.

 

I don’t know if it was the raw fish or the smell of salt water wafting over from the Marina, but I said, “I could listen to some Logic, right now.”

 

I texted at least four friends on the way there to send them my location (shootout to Khalid). I was super new to LA at the time, so I had no idea where I was. On the way up, the elevator got stuck for a couple minutes. I don’t listen when God sends me clear messages, so I still followed him into his apartment.

 

We sat on the couch, and the album began. I stared straight in front of me like there was some visual component that went with it. Eventually, Gorp asked if he could kiss me. Consent is sexy but like… chemistry is even sexier. To make it plain – I wasn’t feeling it.

 

So I said, “yeah… after this next song” and prayed we had a Bohemian Rhapsody-esque ballad on our hands.

 

We did not.

 

The song faded out – as songs tend to do – and he went for it. I mean, he REALLY went for it. The only way I could describe it is that I was concerned he’d lost something in my mouth and the fate of the human race itself depended on his ability to find it with his tongue. You ever shove your hand into your bag to frantically look for your keys? Yeah. It was like that.

 

The kissing was bad, so of course when he asked if I wanted to move over to the bed to “watch some Netflix” I said no, because I’m a sane adult who’s skilled at articulating what she wants and doesn’t want…

 

Nope. You have me confused for someone else. I said yes. We relocated. His wifi was conveniently acting up, so we had no choice but to go at it again – horizontal this time.

 

He lay on top of me. Now, remember when I said Gorp was on the heavier side? I’m not exaggerating when I say I could barely breathe. I took short breaths and assessed the situation. I’d found myself between a rock and a hard place (his dick). I was like James Franco’s character in 127 Hours, and it was time for me to decide which body part had to go if I intended to survive. Seeing as he was on top of me, I considered a life without a torso. My face and head are cute enough, so I had no doubt this severed version of me could survive on her own.

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I snapped out of this headless fantasy when Gorp started grabbing at my breasts. I almost felt bad for him. I was wearing a strapless bra, so he was getting more industrial strength padded fabric than boob. He kept lifting my shirt. I kept sliding it down. He kept guiding my hand toward his crotch. I kept sliding it up.

 

After what felt like 127 minutes (there’s it is) I mustered up all the strength I had left, lifted my metaphorical knife and cut the hookup short. I sat up and asked him to take me home. I was an adult about it and texted him the next day to say I didn’t think things were going to work out.

 

JK.

 

I responded less and less frequently to his texts until he got the message. (Lolz)

 

I never said I was a role model. I just said I had a funny story to tell. Wait… did I not say that either? Dang, my bad. I’ll start off more clearly next time.


Follow Karen on Instagram or Twitter for more hilarious ramblings.

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Period Sex

By Isabelle Duffy
Oh, period sex.
You have always been such a confusing subject for me. While the idea of semi swapping male and female roles in the bedroom and having a man have to endure MY bodily fluids this time round should be empowering there was something about it that always made me feel…. icky?
I’ve gotten so many different responses with partners over the years. From one ex who was disgusted with the idea and even said – while wincing and looking down at my body – “you have to promise that there isn’t a lot of blood” before trying to insert himself inside of me. Obviously, that made me feel incredibly UNsexy in that moment, like some bleeding disgusting behemoth with a “ Red Wedding” reenactment happening currently in her panties so things were shut down pretty quickly.
Then there have been a handful of men who have been down to clown, quickly grabbing a dark towel and ready to party till it’s dry. For them, the extra lubrication ( and possibly the taboo aspect of it) just added to the excitement, which definitely allows me to feel safe and sexy.
Even recently, after things were getting pretty hot and heavy I had to quickly inform a guy about the arts and crafts week at Panty Camp that was currently happening downstairs.  As I was hastily and regretfully telling him, my head was spinning full of  cool & chill ways to apologize for it:
“ I didn’t mean to lead you on, eugh this is sooo lame”
“ I know, it’s so unsexy. I’m so turned on right now too, this suuuucks.”
But before I could use one of my apologies, he just shrugged and said
“It’s all good. It’s just biology bro”
And we proceeded to do just a bunch of hand stuff. Still a good time.
While this was the first time anyone who’s ever been inside of me has called me bro, it’s not the first time I was completely unsure what kind of reaction I was going to get when bringing up the topic. Everyone has a different, usually STRONG, opinion on period sex. So I thought I’d share a few things I’ve learned in my time.

1. It’s always significantly less messy than you think

We all picture our vaginas during that time of the month looking like that iconic scene in The Shining. You know, this one.  

 

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I like to think of the twins as my ovaries.  

 

Because I’m a professional googler, I learned that the average amount of blood that’s usually released during a period is 30-40ml. Which leads to an incredibly small amount being released a minute and unless you’re into hours and hours for your bang sessions (nightmare) it’s a pretty incremental and not a huge deal.
Feel free to use these fun facts in the bedroom – nothing gets a partner more ready to storm the trenches than a page from WebMD that you printed out in your spare time.

 

2. Shower sex is everything

 

I personally hadn’t ever been a huge fan of shower sex before period sex. Someone always ends up cold and shivering while the other person is getting a persistent stream of hot water in their eyes. Unless wearing goggles in the shower suddenly becomes sexy, I usually avoid it.

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Though I got a sweet pair of these laying around so here’s hoping.

 

There’s never enough lubricant to get the job done – just some awkward fumbling, some wet make outs, followed by drying off and moving to the bed to just get it done right.
That is until I was introduced to period sex in the shower. I’ve always been someone who’s a little more self-conscious when it came to the amount of blood but the water just washes it right away while the blood provides a natural lubricant. Everybody wins! So bring your snorkeling mask and get ready to party.

 

3. 90 percent of the time it will just make your life better

 

If you’re like me, the week leading up to your period is full of tears and burritos. I’ve been told that my experience is not universal, but let’s roll with it and say it’s day of 3 of your cycle and you’ve got burrito belly. Classic.
You’re not really feeling your sexiest, you’ve got cramps, a migraine and just all around pretty bummed out. If you’ve got a partner who treats you right, period sex will usually improve most of those things. There have been a few studies about how orgasms can not only relieve cramps but also your migraines!
They cause the uterine muscle to contract and release a ton of sweet brain chemicals such as oxytocin which basically is like a natural pain reliever, bro.

 

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This guy gets the importance of mutual orgasms. The guy on the right maybe gets it a little too much.

 

Plus having a partner worship and enjoy your body even when you’re not feeling 100 percent can definitely improve your mood and make you think a little bit less about the 4 burritos you had for dinner. Classic.

 

4. It tells you a lot about the person you’re about to sleep with

 

At the end of the day, having period sex just feels significantly more intimate than run of the mill sex. Being able to trust a partner to enough to not be freaked out by blood all over their nether regions is a big deal. There are almost zero depictions of periods in the media, let alone period sex so it’s one of those rare things that you have to define on your own.  Hell, they can’t even show blood in commercials literally FOR PERIODS.

 

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What white nonsense is this?!

 

For me, it’s always been a good testing point to see if I’m going to even be able to get along with this person. Whether period sex is your thing or not, shaming someone for having a menstrual cycle is just completely unacceptable and a total dealbreaker. Communication is everything, period. Hah.
It all, of course, comes down to your comfort levels and what makes you feel best.  Like Rachel Bloom wisely states – “ Just think of it as mother nature’s juice cleanse”