Ava Answers: Survival Of The Fittest (Bush)

Ava Answers is new a column exploring the science of sex by Ava Mainieri, a PhD student studying women’s health at Harvard University.

For those of us with vaginas, ripping, tearing and shaving our hair with pink Daisy razors has had a long history— the ancient Greeks found body hair so distasteful that artists molded their figures of women sans pubes. Trendsetter Queen Elizabeth I removed all the hair from her eyebrows to make her forehead appear larger, while Michelangelo and Manet both painted hairless vulvas. There was even a study in the 1890s that linked excessive body hair to female insanity. But according to evolutionary biologists, that curly mound that thrives beneath your underwear is probably there because it was once considered irresistibly sexy.

The main purpose of body hair on animals is to retain body heat. But around 3.3 million years ago, humans started running long distances across the savanna plains. Without central air conditioning or handy bottles of water, hair on our bodies just made us overheat. Therefore we biologically morphed from being covered in a head-to-toe carpet to a mosaic of hairy and less hairy parts.

You can’t exactly use your pubic hair to floss your teeth, but it is noticeably thicker than the hair on your legs. Estrogen, the main female sex hormone, morphs the hair follicles in that region into a large oval shape that causes the hair to grow thick and curly. This creates a nice barrier protecting your vagina from bacteria and dust floating around in the air. It also regulates moisture around your vulva which decreases the chances of yeast infection. But more importantly, biologist Robin Weiss believes that the thicker and coarser it grew millions of years ago, the more attractive you appeared because of all the foreign particles inadvertently trapped in your bush. Pubic hair acted as an attractant to grooming, a routine illustrating affection that usually leads to sex in primates.

Our great ape relatives created social bonds through long grooming sessions, picking bugs and dirt out of each other’s fur. Humans, too, habitually groom themselves and each other. Removing parasites is undeniably hygienic, but the associated rubbing in the genital area would have been pleasurable for both parties (personally, I can’t think of better foreplay). Grooming also releases endorphins, those awesome hormones that make us happy and lower our heart rates. It is not a stretch to assume that some fondling would have led to sex— obviously advantageous for the continuation of our species.

As such, pubic hair would have functioned as a sort of blinking sign indicating sexual maturity on our naked and frolicking cavewomen ancestors. Weiss postulates that when humans started walking around on two legs, the vulva became hidden from obvious view and pubic hair remained as the main indicator of completed puberty. The basics of pubic hair in both men and women suggest that it evolved as a sexy characteristic: it grows under the influence of reproductive hormones, becomes noticeable when you’re biologically able to have a baby, and acts as a visual ‘come-hither’ sign.

From the position of smell, our pubic area is full of apocrine glands, the organs that release the stank that makes us smelly seductive beasts. When your pubic hair lifts the sweat from your skin in order to keep your genital area dry and refreshed, it gathers bacteria. That musky smell comes from normal bacteria living on your skin mixing with the sweat. As long as you are someone who showers a few times a week, there is nothing dirty about body hair. Some scientists like Randy Thornhill even speculate that pheromones— the odorless molecules you release when you’re horny— get trapped in the short and curlies. Pheromones may act as a subconscious signal to potential mates that you’re ready to get it on.

Not only does having pubic hair increase your raw biological appeal, prevent germs from entering your vagina, and act as a cushion protecting thin genital skin during sex or exercise, but it could also save you a lot of money. A 2008 study concluded that an American woman who shaves will spend more than $10,000 over the course of her life removing unwanted body hair. Maybe we could take that beach vacation instead of fashioning our pubes to look like Barbie’s bits?

Before you schedule your next Brazilian bikini wax, remember that evolution wants you to be whoever you are, whether you shave, pluck, or let your carpet grow.

How To Have An Orgasm (in Five Stories)

One subject I am very familiar with is orgasm.

After all, I’m a doctor of human sexuality. However, my understanding of orgasm comes more from personal experience than anything I’ve studied. The orgasm, like many things in life, is experiential. It must be explored, felt, witnessed, and experienced in order to develop regular access to this most incredible of experiences. The orgasm is also something individual, and in the same way that no two people have the same fingerprint— no two people have the same network of nerves and fantasy that escalate their arousal to orgasm.

Everyone wants to experience orgasms, and yet many have never experienced one, or the ones they do experience are small, short, or lacking pleasure. I could lecture on orgasms from many perspectives, but since storytelling is one of the best teachers, let me share five sex stories that can lead you in the direction of, what is for many, the elusive orgasm. For those who haven’t experienced an orgasm, who find it difficult to achieve one, or who are interested in having greater variety and intensity, I think you will find some clues hidden here.

Story 1: Pure Sensation

When I was a girl, I often played sex games with two of my female friends. Our senses were heightened as we role-played all we knew about men, women, and sex. We didn’t know it at the time, but this was arousal. One time, I was straddling my friend who was lying on her back and grinding my genitals against hers “playing sex” when suddenly this uncontrollable wave of pleasure went cascading through my body. It scared her and she asked me to stop. That was my first orgasm. As an adult, I’ve found that pure sensation in the form of clitoral stimulation can regularly bring me to orgasm. Pure sensation can also come from a partner in the form of breast sucking, oral sex, and really good fingering, or by using a vibrator. If I’m relaxed and my headspace is ready to “play” with sex, I will find my way to orgasm with pure sensation.

Story 2: Pure Fantasy

Every so often I am having sex with a partner and my first orgasm refuses to make an appearance. I’m grinding and enjoying and relaxed, but I can feel that there is a long divide between where I am and where I want to be. That’s when I dial up my fantasy. What is the most taboo thing I can imagine happening at that moment? Some of my personal fantasies are imagining that it’s my “job” to make my lover come, that I’m a sex worker or concubine, that I’m younger than I am, that my lover is going to come inside of me and make a baby, or that we’re being watched by others. Focusing on really erotic thoughts or taboo aspects of my relationship, along with focusing on physical sensation like how our genitals feel together or the sensation of my chest against theirs will almost always bring me to orgasm, and quickly!

Story 3: Pure Mind

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve had orgasms in my dreams. In my dreams, I can be doing any number of sexual things with a man or a woman. Then when I start to orgasm, I wake up and either let the orgasm finish its wave on its own, or I reach for my vulva to rub and hold it to continue the orgasm for as long as possible. I’m not alone in this experience. Science has shown that we can bring ourselves to orgasms through thought alone. We also know that orgasms often happen during sleep as blood circulates and engorges the genitals in both men and women around three to four times per night. Basically, men aren’t the only ones waking up with an erection! One time I remember I was staying at my aunt’s house and sharing a bed with my mother when I woke up having an orgasm in my sleep. Luckily, I don’t think she heard me.

Story 4: Pure Intensity

The first time I experienced vaginal orgasm was after my normal clitoral orgasm on top of my boyfriend. I had come really quickly, so I got on my hands and knees afterward to feel him from behind me. He was standing and thrusting in and out of me when I started having these waves of orgasm. They were softer than my clitoral orgasms, but seemed to have no beginning and no end and they were clearly centered in my vagina. The more I breathed, relaxed, and vocalized, the more intense they became. My body and mind entered a trance-like state, and I didn’t want the sensation to end. In fact, I wanted it deeper and harder, and the longer it went on the better I felt. Now it made sense why someone would want to have penetrative sex for hours and hours! There was all this pleasure potential inside of me just waiting to be woken up.

Story 5: Pure Naughtiness

Sometimes no matter what I do, I cannot reach orgasm. Usually, it’s from fatigue or some mental distraction, or maybe my partner has ejaculated instantly and I am left to find an orgasm on my own. This is when pure naughtiness comes in. Focusing on anything forbidden is a rapid way of intensifying arousal that never fails to bring me to the pleasure I’m looking for. For me, having my partner looking at my genitals while I masturbate, spanking me, touching my anus or penetrating it, telling me what a bad girl I am or how slutty I’m being, or sharing a fantasy of something we’re doing together will take me to the doorstep of an orgasm every time. This is the one benefit of all the sexual taboos in our culture— we can use them to have even more fun!

Orgasms are unique and individual to everyone and always changing throughout our lives. I hope these stories throw some fuel on the fire of your orgasm and help you discover all the pleasure your body is designed for. Because you are designed for pleasure! It only keeps getting better the more time and love you give it. Shame, trauma, and lack of education can slow down the process, but your sexuality is always inside of you wanting to express itself. So make time and explore. The world is awaiting your orgasmic, sexy self. Your orgasm is beautiful.

Want to learn more about orgasm and female sexuality? Check out Lauren’s courses, books, and upcoming sexuality summit at www.LaurenBrim.com. Or read even more sex stories in my first book, “The New Rules of Sex” available on Amazon.

Dysphoria

It’s been 10 years since I graduated high school. I can’t help but sit here and think about how different my life would be if I had known that I wasn’t an awkward ugly duckling who was going to turn into a swan. I was a man trapped in a woman’s body.

I always see dysphoria described as this constant, nagging hatred towards one’s body— a struggle people often describe as a lifelong feeling. But for me, I really had no idea I was experiencing dysphoria until my mid-twenties.

Looking back now, I find it so silly. I wish someone had told me, “Hey you aren’t crazy, all these feelings you’re having, this constant questioning— other people feel this way too. You aren’t alone.”

I spent so much time insisting that I didn’t have dysphoria, that I wasn’t transgender, that one day I was going to meet someone and things were just going to line up. I’d feel at home in my body. Sex would seem fun. My family and I would start to smooth things out, and I would be so happy that I waited for things to get better.

That never happened.

In 2014 I began to see this girl, and she was going to spend the night. I hadn’t had many sexual experiences, which I chalked up to me being nervous and slightly awkward. But I remember that night as a crucial turning point in my understanding of myself. Suddenly, I knew that it wasn’t me being awkward, it wasn’t me being nervous, but it was in fact dysphoria causing me to feel this way.

We were making out and she tried to move things a step further. I completely disassociated and got very quiet. At that moment, I was so afraid because whenever she touched me, there was only one thought running through my mind: I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I didn’t have a penis when I so desperately felt like I should. I knew this was dysphoria, but I still didn’t want to accept it.

I tried to live as a lesbian, but it didn’t feel right. I was always dating or pursuing straight women, but something about me felt different. These relationships would always end in heartbreak for one reason or another.

I tried to live as gender fluid because I knew that my family wouldn’t be accepting of me as trans, and I was afraid of their rejection. I thought that I could have the best of both worlds and that as long as my friends and significant other saw me as masculine, and my family saw me as female, I could appease everybody and still live my life. But it wasn’t enough. I always felt something was missing, and the more that people began to gender me as male, the more right it felt.

It took three more years until I garnered the strength to take hold of my life and accept the inevitable. I moved to California and began working for a prominent TV company. One day while discussing an episode with some of my female producers, everyone went around commenting on how they could relate to the production’s female star and the hardships she was going through as a woman. When it was my turn to speak, a horrifying realization overcame me. I could in no meaningful way relate to this woman’s experience. While I had lived some of the implications of being deemed a woman by society, I was not having the same emotional reaction as my female coworkers. I did not feel the connection, the bond. I simply couldn’t relate.

So on this day, at the age of 26, with the knowledge that I could support myself and that I had insurance from my job, I made the decision to transition from female to male. This decision saved my life.

I remember waking up the day after my first testosterone shot. Already, I felt different. A feeling of peace washed over me, and the racing thoughts were gone. Within the following weeks, my anxiety began to fade. I was no longer waking up with panic attacks. I was able to sit down and watch movies again. The constant need to see some form of masculinity within myself stopped. I no longer spent every waking second of my life trying to sort through my racing thoughts.

While I’m still very early on in my journey, being only one year and five months on testosterone, I am more and more certain every day that this was what I needed to do. Not everyone needs hormones or surgery to feel complete, but I am so grateful I had the opportunity to take charge of my life in the way that was best for me. I can now see a future for myself. In 2014, I really didn’t see one. I want to encourage anyone feeling lost or alone that it’s never too late to create the life you always wanted. To come out and be yourself— not what society wants you to be.

You can find happiness. You don’t have to be consumed with anxiety or feelings of isolation. You can have a sex life, you can have a successful job, you can have a family, you can find love. It’s okay to experiment with your gender. You don’t have to go on hormones overnight or get a major surgery. Gender and sexuality are a huge part of who we are, and sometimes we have to do a little experimentation in order to figure out what truly fits.

Although life is still challenging and anything but perfect, I never dreamed that I would one day be able to wake up and start my day without being crippled by the anxieties caused by my dysphoria. Now, I can breathe, and that in itself is so much to be grateful for.

Is Grindr A Subculture?

*The featured photos are selections from gaytona.beach, a project highlighting photographer Andrew Harper’s experience on Grindr in Daytona Beach from the age of 19.

In 1979, the British sociologist Dick Hebdige published an extra-thick wad of social science on similarities between subcultures in a book called Subculture: The Meaning of Style. Don’t worry, I read it for you.

If you want to know whether the crowd of people you’re looking at belongs to a subculture, look out for these things: inventive language, distinctive dress, a common favorite music genre, an exclusive media channel, and, most importantly, a bold philosophy that explains their opposition to mainstream culture. In most cases, the subcultures Dick Hebdige studied had at least one other thing in common: heterosexuality.

Mainstream culture has always been a very serious threat to gay men. Masculinity is the norm, heterosexuality is the law. Disobeying either can threaten your livelihood, if not your body. Years ago, you’d get beaten and/or killed. Today, the abuse is more often psychological than physical. And so, for gay men, repressing our identities has always been an act of self-preservation such that the only place gay men can find acceptance, free from the threat of the mainstream, is in an all-gay space.

At least for younger generations, those all-gay spaces are increasingly virtual – they’re supplements to the physical spaces gay subculture has long inhabited (i.e. clubs, bars, bathhouses, community centers).

Enter Grindr, “the world’s largest gay social network app.” Yes, it’s a media channel for gay subculture, but now it’s also a subculture of its own.

This makes perfect sense when you realize that not every gay man uses Grindr and not every Grindr user is a gay man. The ability to self-select into Grindr is part of what makes it a subculture. Those who choose to use it get to know their sexuality in a space that’s intentionally separate and safe from mainstream culture. Curiosity has a place there. Sexual-expressive freedom is Grindr subculture’s philosophy. And those who use the app quickly realize that its users have a language of their own.

On the platform some key terms were carried over from gay subculture – terms like “top,” “bottom,” and “versatile” that describe a gay man’s sexual preferences (the “top” likes to penetrate, the “bottom” likes to receive, and the “versatile” man likes both). But Grindr users often abbreviate them to single letters which are faster and easier to type: T, B, or V.

Among Grindr’s host of custom (sometimes NSFW) emoticons that have their own sub-textual meanings, there are bunk beds – one depicts a man on the top bunk (for the tops) and one depicts a man on the bottom bunk (for the bottoms).

Of course, that library contains a purple eggplant (an emoji that now cross-culturally represents a penis), but there’s also one that’s brown, one that’s white, one shown through a magnifying glass for the less-well-endowed, and one displayed in a polaroid (sent as a substitute for requesting nudes). There’s a peach and there’s a peach with a phone over it for a booty call. There’s a set of handcuffs, a man with a bear paw for the “bears” (those are hairy, bulky, older men), a man in leather chaps wearing aviators, and the lower half of a man wearing a jockstrap.

Grindr users message each other “looking?” or “DTF?” – shorthands that ask whether the person on the other end of the chat is looking for sex right now. Some users even change their profile name to a “looking eyes” (👀) emoji to reach a wider audience.

“Grindr tribes” offer an even deeper dive into a user’s identity and sexual preferences. Bear, Clean-Cut, Daddy, Discreet, Geek, Jock, Leather, Otter, Poz, Rugged, Trans, and Twink describe the physical and psychological categories a gay man identifies with and/or is looking for in a partner. After all, Grindr exists for sexual exploration.

So, Grindr is a subculture that is also its own exclusive media channel. As a subculture, it also has a philosophy and an original language.

To be sure, Grindr’s place and purpose are complicated by its neighbors – Scruff, Growlr, Hornet, etc. I suspect that technological shortcomings are not why the gay community loves to hate Grindr. I think it’s more about our relationship with shame and our relationships with one another. On some level, we love to hate ourselves. What we see in one another reminds us that mainstream culture taught us to hate homosexuality. If you need proof of that, consider the fact that there’s not a homo among us who hasn’t been asked, “Why are gay people obsessed with sex?” or wondered it themselves in a critical tone.

For gay men, the act and topic of sex is not just a rejection of the idea that we ought to hate our sexuality, it’s a rebellion against the idea that we ought to hate ourselves for it. And that’s why there’s hardly a Grindr user I’ve met who hasn’t deleted the app (often seeking out another) and returned to it because gay sex has never been so freely discussed between so many of us as it is there.

Orgasm Equality

“Nope, I never have.”

He was asking me, again, as if I hadn’t already told him I don’t orgasm, as if it was just so appalling that I couldn’t possibly have been telling the truth the first time. In a twisted way, it was amusing that he was so insulted by what people with a vulva experience. I was a 21 year-old and had never had a orgasm. For most people who are socialized as a female, this isn’t surprising.

But of course I hadn’t. Even after living in a school district that covered (slightly) more than abstinence in sex-ed, even after voraciously reading every sex listicle or Yahoo answers thread, even after watching people fuck on TV and Chrome Incognito, I had barely heard anyone talk about what makes a vulva feel good.

Every mainstream magazine targeting women boasts the same derivative kind of article like “29 Ways to Drive Him Wild.” Movies constantly show women having a orgasm from penetration, when in reality, a majority of people with vulvas don’t. I literally once read an article about how to cut a grapefruit for the use of stimulating a penis, yet I’ve never read about how to stimulate a vulva. God forbid we want to pleasure ourselves, or our partners with vulvas.

The closest magazines get is usually along the lines of “Here’s how to accidentally get off during vaginal intercourse…” implying that intercourse is the only sexual act that matters. Laurie Mintz describes in Becoming Cliterate that language exemplifies the ways society centers sex around the male experience. Most people understand the word “sex” to mean vaginal intercourse between vulva and penis. This reliably leads people with penises to orgasm, and simultaneously negates the experience of non-hetero sex, manual, and/or oral sex— which are generally a more reliable route to orgasm for people who have a vulva.

Same goes for the overuse of the word and focus on “vagina.” The reason why Mintz encourages, rather, the use of “vulva” is that it’s more anatomically correct, plus it includes all of the different machinery that, depending on the person, may be more crucial to their sexual satisfaction than the vagina. The fact that the anatomy of female genitalia is not common knowledge, and that society frequently use the wrong word reinforces the idea that these bodies and their subsequent needs are not important.

What further proves this lack of consideration is the normalization of female pain during intercourse.

“A casual survey of forums where people discuss ‘bad sex’ suggests that men tend to use the term to describe a passive partner or a boring experience… But when most women talk about ‘bad sex,’ they tend to mean coercion, or emotional discomfort or, even more commonly, physical pain,” asserts Lili Loofbourow in her incredible article “The Price of Male Pleasure: Female Pain.” Heterosexual women are taught to expect little from sex or else face disappointment. We’re taught that our bodies are for satisfying men, not ourselves. That our partner’s pleasure is more important than our pain. That’s bullshit, and I’m angry about it.

Unfortunately, it is normal for a person socialized as female not to orgasm or enjoy sex. If you’re someone in that situation, know this: you are normal. You are not alone. If it doesn’t always feel that way, I understand. It definitely didn’t to me. Most of the time I felt like I would never enjoy sex, and any attempts to change that felt hopeless. I felt like a freak, worried maybe there was something medically wrong with me. I tried so hard to do everything I could to please my partners that when my lack of orgasm hurt their ego, I felt like I had let them down. I wished I could orgasm to make them feel good.

So that’s how I got to be 21, an expert on all things dick-approved but completely at a loss for what to do with my own vulva. I finally decided I deserved pleasure as much as my partners did, and that I would pursue mine as eagerly as I had theirs. As unfair as it is, I wasn’t going to stumble across sex-positive media centered around the female body and experience, so I had to seek it out.

I started masturbating. I bought a couple of vibrators. On OMGYes.com I found videos of people with vulvas explaining and demonstrating exactly what motions and rhythms worked for them. I read Come as You Are and Becoming Cliterate, which are both books specifically geared towards helping people with vulvas revolt against the toxic sexual norm and craft the fulfilling, reciprocal sex lives that we deserve.

Reading about other people who had struggled like me and had gone on to learn to enjoy sex gave me hope. It also made me feel normal for the first time. I could recognize how society had lead me to this position, which gave me the knowledge to walk away from all of the ideas that didn’t serve me, and walk right into my bedroom and give myself my own goddamn orgasm.

Deciding my pleasure was important and worthy of time and effort were the biggest factors leading to my orgasm, and in fact, it many ways more important than the orgasm itself.

In reality some people with vulvas don’t orgasm, and that’s okay, too. They can lead just as exciting and satisfying sex lives as everyone else. However, what good sex does include is knowing you and your partner’s body, which is why the lack of education on vulva satisfaction is so upsetting. When I initially admitted to a partner I had never orgasmed, I thought a lot about how his shock reaction revealed how little he understood the female body. Although, through the months and the books and the vibrators since, I was surprised to find out how little I understood about my own body, as well. Both parties needed to change.

If you’re having sex with someone, your pleasure should be as important as theirs. Oral sex should be reciprocal. Everyone should be taught where the clitoris is. Female masturbation should be as widely accepted by society as male masturbation. Public and private sex education should cover pleasuring people with vulvas! Additionally, emphasis should not be placed on vaginal intercourse as the sole valid form of sex.

More than anything, we need to talk about sex: as a community, as a society, with our parents, with our children. Reassure your friends that they are normal. Ask your partner to tell (or show!) you what makes them feel good. As Loofbourow says, “sex is always a step behind social progress in other areas because of its intimacy.” So, let’s talk about intimate justice and orgasm equality. Let’s give the next generation the education they need to have mutually satisfying encounters, instead of struggling and scrambling for years like many of us have. Let’s tell them what we wish our partners had known. And what we wish we’d known.

Top Privilege

There has been a long time understanding between “The Gays” (the male gay community, that is) that we are divided into 3 main categories: Top, Bottom, and Vers (there’s also Vers Top or Vers Bottom, but we won’t get into those specifics here).

Throughout history it’s believed that we have coexisted, for the most part, in peace and harmony. However, when you take a closer look into these intricate gay sex lives we lead, you’ll start to see underlying issues that separate us and how sexual positions can affect our lives in very real and impactful ways. Everything from fleeting to poop shaming to HIV contraction rate, we start to see that we Tops have a kind of privilege that our Vers and Bottom sisters do not have.

STI Risk

The risk of contracting HIV and other STIs is significantly lower for Tops, and especially if they are uncircumcised. According to the CDC the insertive partner’s (Top) risk of contraction (uncircumcised) for anal sex is 1 in 906. Meanwhile the receptive partner’s (Bottom) risk for anal sex without ejaculation is 1 in 154 and with ejaculation is 1 in 70. That’s a staggering difference in contraction rate.

An additional Top privilege is the preventive steps available to them post cloital. Tops with penises can do small things like washing potential exposure areas after sex with soap and water, killing any leftover bacteria that may contribute to Syphilis, as well as peeing to reduce risk of contracting Chlamydia or Gonorrhea. It’s not as simple for Bottoms to flush said bacteria if they’re located internally. Not only that, but Tops have the distinct luxury of being able to identify symptoms of certain STIs more quickly than Bottoms, allowing them to seek out treatment right away, while it might take a Bottom a formal diagnosis to know something’s wrong.

Trust

When a Bottom isn’t on PrEP (a HIV preventive drug), a certain amount of responsibility and trust is placed in the Top to not do things like remove the condom mid-sex or notice a potential break in the prophylactic. “Stealthing” is when your partner removes their condom during intercourse without telling you, opting for their personal pleasure over your safety. Unfortunately, this a common practice within the gay community and many times a Bottom may not realize until after the fact.

Social privileges

Next I want to talk about the social benefits a Top is afforded, which might not be as medically provable, but we absolutely do see evidence of it in our community.

While two Tops or two Bottoms can hook up with one another in several non-penetrative ways — and that’s completely valid — the most common perception of sex is believed to be penetrative, and between a Top and a Bottom (you might flip positions midway, but you get what I mean). But unfortunately, there are still many people who see Bottoms’ promiscuity as something more shameful, dirty, or “slutty” than that of Tops. There seems to be different reasons people “Bottom shame” and, truthfully, all of them are dumb as hell.

I’ve come across people who celebrate and cheer on my success on Grindr, and have even noticed that it makes me more desirable. Meanwhile, my Bottom peers with a similar sexual resume get looked down upon for the same practices. There is a false sentiment that bottoms who engage in high levels of sexual activity or with many partners, have “loose holes” which is simply untrue. If you are having anal sex and taking your time, using lube, and making sure everything is done at a proper pace, the asshole will remain tight. It’s only when the anus gets damaged that it loses its elasticity, which is mostly caused by tops who have no idea what they’re doing. One of the most despicable ways I’ve seen this attitude expressed is Tops using Bottoms’ STI contraction rates against them. Another is the old school way of looking at things we’ve unfortunately adopted from #TheStraights, is that the “catcher” is the weaker, more feminine one in the pairing. This thought process comes from internalized homophobia and sexist attitudes towards penetration. Some seem to feel like, “Sure, I’m gay but at least I’m a top.” This belief stems from residual shame after coming out, and the notion that traditionally masculine expressions of sexuality are somehow more valid. Luckily as I’ve gotten older and delved into more sexually liberated groups of gay people, I encounter less and less of this. But every now and then I’m reminded that there are plenty of people of all ages who still feel this way.

Paint shaming

Lastly, I’d like to speak on a topic that I believe isn’t given enough attention within our community, and that’s paint shaming. For those of you who don’t know what painting is, it’s a slang term to describe when a Bottom isn’t all the way cleaned out and a little something is left on the Top’s penis! Now, I personally think Bottoms are made to upheld completely ridiculous standards, not only dietary wise but also supplementary! I’ve seen threads upon threads of tweets and Facebook statuses about what Bottoms can do to make sure they have pristine anuses for their Tops. Some people go to certain extremes as taking 6 fiber pills a day, using multiple Fleet enemas, and not eating for hours prior to a hookup. And while this humble Top is no nutritionist, I can’t imagine that’s healthy!

I understand that most Bottoms do this to feel less worried, more prepared, and cleaner, but as Tops we have to stop demanding such perfection from Bottoms. We must be more understanding if something goes wrong, and recognize how much labor and time Bottoms put into their bodies (specifically their buttholes). They may say they do it for themselves, but we Tops reap the fruits of their efforts either way, and we do not appreciate it enough. I have heard stories of Tops kicking Bottoms out after being painted, making a big deal about it, and causing further embarrassment to the Bottom and it’s just not right. Tops should know what they sign up for, and if we can’t handle a little collateral damage we shouldn’t be playing the game to begin with. Listen, shit happens, and if we don’t start accepting that, and stop demanding perfection then I smell a Bottom revolution in the near future. Watch them stop douching all together because we couldn’t appreciate what we had. We need to cherish our Bottoms for all that they put up with and do for us. Let’s recognize our Top privilege and try and do better by them, it’s about time we checked ourselves.

All the Ways You Can/Cannot Contract HIV

There is a lot of stigma attached to HIV and the subsequent AIDS, most of which stems from false information.

HIV (human immunodeficiency virus) is a virus that attacks your immune system, which, over time can develop into AIDS (acquired immunodeficiency syndrome) which is a condition. HIV can be contracted if cum/pre-cum, rectal or vaginal fluid, blood, or breast milk that is carrying the virus comes into contact with damaged tissue or mucous membranes in your body. These membranes are found in the penis, vagina, rectum, and mouth. You cannot contract HIV through saliva or free-standing semen.

There are many misconceptions about how people contract HIV, so let’s settle this once and for all.

CAN:

Unprotected vaginal sex
Unprotected anal sex
Sharing/reusing syringes that have been exposed to HIV
During pregnancy, birth, and the breastfeeding period between mother and child

CANNOT:

Vaginal/anal sex with a condom
Vaginal/anal sex with a partner who is on PrEP
Vaginal/anal sex with an HIV positive partner whose viral load is undetectable
Kissing
Touching cum
Oral sex (while it is hypothetically possible to contract HIV from swallowing/your partner ejaculating in your mouth, the CDC asserts this is extremely rare, and there are very few such oral transmissions on record)
Groping
Food prepared/handled by an HIV positive person
Biting (unless severe trauma is inflicted to the skin tissue; again, there have been very few documented cases of this)
Receiving a tattoo or piercing (again, hypothetically possible, but there are NO reported cases of this kind of transmission)
Mosqutio bites

While the ways you cannot contract HIV outnumber the the ways you can, this list by no means seeks to downplay the seriousness of HIV/AIDS. While infection rates in the United States have drastically dropped since the worst years of the American outbreak in the 1980s and 90s, HIV/AIDS is still classified as a global pandemic. The history of the disease is expansive and complicated, fraught with governmental neglect of marginalized populations (one that continues today, through systemic restriction of proper health care and sexual education to minority populations). It is important when discussing HIV/AIDS, you’re sure you don’t contextualize the pandemic solely through a Western perspective. Data suggests 66% of new HIV infections in 2015 occurred in sub-Saharan Africa alone.

Due to advances in modern medicine, HIV/AIDS is no longer the death sentence it was thirty years ago. However, diligence and the practice of safe sexual methods is vital in ensuring the epidemic does not once again reach the disastrous proportions of the past.

Resources:

To find free, confidential testing locations near you, visit https://gettested.cdc.gov.

For information regarding PrEP, a preventative drug, talk to your doctor or visit https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/basics/prep.html.

A list of HIV/AIDS hotline numbers can be found at here.

Single Stigma

For some of you, the morning after a sexual encounter may begin with groggy words of endearment like, “Last night was fun, gonna call an uber in a sec.” From that point, the exchange may shift to your relationship history. “How long have you been single?” Then, it could end with something like, “You’ve never been in a relationship before?! That’s shocking! Especially because you’re like, so good looking!” As someone who’s been single for 9 years, with the exception of short term hookups and two-night-stands, my impermanent suitors have reacted with this backhanded compliment almost every time I’ve shared my status.

The shock value of their responses may have lost its punch over the years, but I’m left retracing the origins of my dating and hook-up experiences, and often placing the blame on myself for not “putting myself out there enough,” or for “giving off the wrong vibe.” Navigating the dating world amidst these expectations and assumptions is exhausting. When my partners have questioned the duration of my single status, using conditions like beauty and appeal as reasons for their confusion, I become frustrated. Not because they’re ill intentioned, but because being single is so often misunderstood as involuntary, or as some kind of solitary confinement.

The weight placed on beauty in a relationship status— whether “taken” or single— has created a false standard that beauty should serve a purpose, and exist merely for someone else’s taking. Physical appeal, especially that of women, has been learned as something to be observed and enjoyed by others (predominantly men). If one is deemed beautiful, pretty, sexy, or hot, their “single status” becomes outlandish, or undeserved. People are surprised if beautiful people are without partners, as if the concept that one might not want a partner is simply out of the question. Beauty shouldn’t equate sex, romance, or be a determinant of why someone is in a relationship or not. Beauty is exploited and fetishized, which furthers the assumption its primary purpose is to please.

I’m a woman that’s horny often, lonely sometimes, and usually down to spend the night with a respectable, attractive guy if the opportunity arises. Although inexperienced in the world of relationships, I’d imagine that when you’re in one, there are moments—even if they’re fleeting— when you want nothing more than to be a maverick, unbound by responsibility.

For me, it’s the same as a single woman. There are moments when I want nothing more than to be loved, spooned, and nurtured by a boyfriend, even though I’m content being single. Of course, I’m not speaking for all singles, but personally, I’ve discovered and explored many parts of myself as an independent that I wouldn’t have been able to embrace otherwise. From the excitement of coming home to my bedroom and spreading my limbs across my comforter, to the endless time I get to devote to my friends and weekends out, the bliss and harmony of being able to do what I want, when I want, fills me up. I’ve had years and years to work on friendships, try out new pick-up lines, learn how to navigate sex with different people, and get a feel for what the hell is out there.

One time, I was chatting with a male friend at a party, and the conversation turned to our relationship statuses, and the pro’s and con’s of being single versus in a relationship. He told me that maybe I needed to try being more open because I came across “stand-offish.” It was awful to feel like my character was not only being judged, but that my apparent isolationism was the reason I was single. Once again, I found myself reflecting on scenarios where I was at social gatherings, questioning whether or not I should have presented myself differently, approached that cute guy, or ventured out from my clique of girlfriends. I replayed the way I carried myself, my gaze. Did I come across “bitchy” and cold? Am I single because I’m that cold bitch?!

These toxic questions made me question the pride I had come to so closely associate with my singledom. I felt incredibly self conscious. After talking to many different people, gathering opinions, and taking the time to just think, I’ve come to the conclusion that we should all try to be better about making assumptions and judgments about people based solely upon the way they’re standing, or who they are or aren’t talking to. While it can be intimidating to approach someone who seems removed, or above it, I’ve realized that nine times out of ten, that person is either…

A) enjoying the evening with their friends, or B) feeling the same way you do. Yes, A and B may lessen the amount of new people you speak with in a night, but don’t let someone project these reasons onto your single status, and certainly don’t let them perceive these realities as inherently negative.

There are assumptions that being single for so long means you’re either a party animal or a recluse, hedonistic or anti-monogamy. The single life is filled with opportunity and autonomy, yet often, it’s met with sympathetic pats on the back, or these baffled remarks.

It wasn’t until very recently that for the first time ever, a guy I was hooking up with responded differently. Instead, when I told him I’d never been in a relationship, he said, “You seem like a strong, independent woman.” Sadly, it took me aback. This is the type of feedback that us singles miss out on, but need to hear more. The aghast reactions of my hookup partners at the “single for 9 years” sentiment is proof that being single is misunderstood in many ways. For some, it’s a choice and for others, it’s not. But either way, the single life deserves far more respect and critical thought for being the absolutely valid and acceptable lifestyle that it is.

Tips On How To Talk To Your Queer Friends About Sex

It’s okay to not know everything about sex (most of my past partners would probably say I don’t either) — but it’s less okay to demand explanation from people who engage in different types of sexual activity than you. While asking queer people about their sex lives is not inherently offensive, it does matter how you approach the subject. I’ve come up with some guidelines*, not because I’m trying to police how straight people talk to queer people, but rather because self love is hard and most of us are trying to undo years of hurt from being labeled as different. Language is powerful, and without meaning to, you could make a queer person feel like, oh I don’t know… they were back in a middle school locker room in Texas counting down the minutes until the bell rang to distract from their classmates jeers. Or some other unspecific example.

Don’t call it “gay sex.”

Gay sex? I don’t know her. I wouldn’t ask you, “Susan, how was your hetereosexual sex last night?” That’s weird, and such rhetorical dichotomy plays on the idea that one type of sex is normal while another is not. If for whatever reason you seek to highlight differences in mechanics, try phrasing your question in the personal: how was your sex last night? It’s crucial you don’t make the queer person feel fetishized or unnatural.

Don’t use sexual stereotypes, even in a joking manner.

It’s not uncommon to hear cis gay men and women tease each other about their sexual type. Top, Bottom, Butch, Lipstick, Fem, etc. have connotations attached to them, connotations that are often rooted in stereotypes. And while queers slinging these terms at each other can be an empowering repurposing of language, it takes on a different context when a straight person uses these stereotypes to tease. “Jake? With those earrings? He’s got to be a bottom!” You most likely mean no harm, but there’s a thin line between teasing and demeaning, and there are still several spaces where words like “butch” and “feminine” are used as slurs rather than indicators of sexual roles.

Personally, I don’t mind if a close straight friend draws correlations between how I present and my presumed sexual role, but it’s a conversational intimacy that must be earned. And while a certain stereotype might ring true for an individual, it’s vital we don’t forget it is still a stereotype.

It’s not cool to gender sexual activities.

It’s 2017, and we’re doing our best to unlearn concepts of gender, but too often we don’t extend this understanding into the bedroom. Under no circumstances is it okay to ask your queer friends, “Who’s the boy and who’s the girl when you have sex?” Jeremy, this is all sorts of fucked up. Not only are you gendering the sexual act of penetration (who says women can’t penetrate? Read: pegging), but you’re also forcing queer relationships into a heterocentric mold. Sex is not defined by straight expressions of it. While penial/vaginal intercourse between a cis-man and a cis-woman is probably the type of sex you’ve heard about most, there are so many other ways to have sex. Expand your mind, breeder!

Stop asking gay men if they get feces on their penises.

This should seem like a given, no? But every now and then some drunk person will whisper in my ear, “Aren’t you worried about getting poop on your dick?” Well, Bridgette, first I’d like to applaud your scientific curiosity. Secondly, I’d urge you to discover your own taint, for it’s a complex and self-cleaning creature possessing the capacity to give you far more satisfaction than that derived from dropping a deuce.

Avoid making any visible or audible indicators of disgust.

That being said, despite our best efforts there are inevitably times where queer men will come into contact with fecal matter. If you’re crude you refer to these moments as “shitdick,” but personally I opt for the less negative “painting.” While such moments are not necessarily enjoyable for queer men, they are an unique reality of engaging in anal sex. If you’re a hetereosexual person who doesn’t engage in anal sex, I wouldn’t expect you to understand — but I do expect you to exhibit enough respect not to make me feel bad about it. No one should be forced to apologize for their bodies, its functions, or the sex they have.

Questions are ok. But when it comes to questions about mechanics, maybe you should just google it?

You’re probably reading this on a smartphone right now, so rather than ask queer people to explain the intricacies of how they have sex, perhaps try redirecting some questions to Siri. It’s not that we are ashamed and don’t want to tell you how we fuck, but it can be tiring to be constantly put in a position where we have to explain ourselves. Imagine if we consistently asked you to unpack how the clitoris is stimulated by a penis (although, if statistics of female satisfaction are any indicator, maybe we should do this more often and loudly in the presence of straight men). Why ask a queer girl to break down scissoring when you have the worldwide web at your fingertips, chock-full of visual aids?

Stop saying you wish you were gay or bi.

Sure, being queer is fabulous and magical but it also has its downsides. It’s not cute for you to co-opt an identity, even in the hypothetical, without taking on any real weight that comes with the reality of being queer.

Be aware of how you qualify sex in conversation, and then stop doing it.

It’s natural to assume how you’re doing something is the norm, but to project that onto others can be frustrating. So therefore we have to be extra aware of how we qualify sex, including our own. It usually comes down to linguistic subtleties, for example, people often tell queer girls: “So you two just eat each other out?” Notice the phrasing, and use of the word ‘just.’ It seems small, but it implies that oral sex is secondary to penetrative sex, which can be conflated to penetrative sex is better/more legitimate than oral sex. And whether or not you intend to, your phrasing can make a queer person feel like shit. Odds are, your queer friend won’t tell you this because they know you don’t mean to hurt their feelings. But we are responsible for how we express ourselves, and a little awareness goes a long way. We all have personal preferences, but it’s important not to conflate your sexual tastes with fact. No type of sex is better than another.

It is not your place to ask non-binary or trans folk about how their private parts correlate to their gender identity.

Just because your friend is genderqueer or transgender does not give you the right to nonchalantly inquire about their body. Gender identity is expressed and manifests differently with everyone, and asking a trans man or woman to detail their anatomy, surgical history or plans, is NOT YOUR PLACE. Their bodies are politicized enough without their friends pressuring them to explain or divulge information. Not to mention that by asking such questions, you’re further perpetuating cis-normative concepts of gender, and thereby asking genderqueer/trans folk to redefine their identity in terms you — cisgendered human — can understand. Wait until they’re comfortable enough to share information about their bodies, or better yet, don’t fixate on someone else’s genitalia because it’s none of our business.

Treat the conversation like you would treat one surrounding hetero sex.

These tips are in no way meant to turn you off from talking about the nasty with your queer friends. I’m a queer cis-man and I enjoy celebrating/commiserating with my straight friends about my sexual experiences. And odds are your queer friends want to share their sex life with you, too. But like all relationships, it’s about respect, and it’s a two way street: it is likewise fucked up for queer folk to fetishize or shame you for the type of sex you have. Creating a safe and positive space to discuss each other’s sexual escapades is about genuinely listening and being mindful of how we speak.

**Lastly, this is a list of tips generated by only a few perspectives, and should be treated as such. Not all queer folk operate similarly, and therefore view this list as some rough guidelines that are general and not universal. The best way to discover your friends comfortability, believe it or not, is to ask them; always remembering we are not entitled to information about anyone’s sex life, queer or straight.

Black and white photos taken by: Sage Sohier

Losing What?

I remember the first time I watched the scene in Love and Basketball where Monica Wright (Sanaa Lathan) has sex for the first time with Q McCall (Omar Epps). Soft music. Gentle touches. Intense eye contact. A dimly-lit room decorated with both affection and apprehension. The pearl necklace that she never took off.

The term “losing your virginity” never made much sense to me after that because it didn’t seem like she was losing or gaining anything. Monica didn’t lose any part of her identity and didn’t look different after intercourse, so what was there to lose? Conversely, what did the penetration allow her to gain beyond experience with heterosexual intercourse? I don’t ask this in order to invalidate their experience or relationship; this intimate moment warrants respect from the film’s audience. However, it is implied that sex has altered Monica in some ambiguous way.

Let me be clear: these false ideas of virginity as a core part of one’s identity do not only pertain to straight, cisgender people. The example above was only used because it was my first experience with the idea of virginity as purity. Gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual, intersex, and asexual people’s fundamental characteristics and psychological makeup are not tainted or altered by sexual encounters. Monica’s worth is not tethered to her sexual history, and neither is that of anyone on the gender and sexuality spectrum.

Again, your mental and moral qualities are not changed after having sex. Sure, maybe you’ll feel less awkward and more experienced but overall you’ll still be you. There are several cultural and religious traditions that equate virginity with purity, honor, and worth, which would suggest that having sex spoils your character. The idea of virginity has long been associated with sexual abstinence and moral implications, so it can be discerned that if you abstain from sex, you’ll remain pure. Funny, I don’t remember Monica becoming a dirty, immoral beast, but maybe I’ll give the film another glance to make sure.

When I think about my own first sexual experience I recognize that I was a very different person back then, but that has nothing to do with the fact that my initial experience happened in a boarding school dorm room at age seventeen. I had braces, was a track and field nerd, and rarely ever caught the attention of boys at the school dances. I was undoubtedly awkward, but still comfortable with myself because my strengths were my passions and I had countless people in my life who genuinely loved me. Despite being less physically desirable, according to myself, than many of my peers, someone still wanted to have sex with me. Maybe he was genuinely interested in me; however, the fact that we’ve barely spoken in five years suggests otherwise.

My encounter comically conflicted with Monica’s. The Rick Ross poster taped haphazardly on the wall next to us fell off right as a Spotify commercial for Clorox interrupted his Jamaican dancehall music playlist. No soft music, no gentle touches, no dimly-lit room, no pearl necklace.

I remember waking up the next morning in my friend Shana’s room. My first thoughts were: “When can I fit in my long run today? Can I do eight miles in between dinner and study hall?”. Pre-sex Addis was post-sex Addis in almost every sense, except for the sole fact that I now knew what it felt like to have sexual intercourse with a boy. I was still naïve, I was still terrified to go to college, I still had braces, and I still thought it was cool to pretend to be super drunk to fit in with everyone else at parties. (It’s not, by the way).

It is worth acknowledging that for some, their first sexual episode is absolutely life-changing, especially for those who are deeply in love or have been sexually assaulted. However, sex is not a universal cognitive modifier. It is as individual as it is personal.

You can be a virgin with terrible character; You can have over fifty sexual partners and a heart of gold, and you can be anywhere in between. However, the moment you have sex for the first time does not dictate where you reside on this supposed “morality spectrum”. You will not immediately lose your standards, innocence, dignity, morality, or self-respect after sex.

I’m not a sex expert, just someone who has had a diverse set of experiences, but my fear of life changes and lasting passion for running indicates that I’m still somewhat similar to the awkward seventeen year old girl in the boarding school dorm room. Monica Wright lost her virginity to Q McCall and she still made it to the league. Sex changed nothing about her character or mine.