Sex and the University ~ the blog

Aw.... isn't that sweet! Try explaining THAT one to the kids...

Moral of the story is that it's usually so much fun crushing on someone even though it won't necessarily work out. Just being in "that world" is fun enough. Thinking about it...the two girls I've been with, I never actually had a crush on. Bizarre.

As mentioned in my post last week, today is Blog Against Sexual Violence Day. (Pssst: It's not too late to join in!) Basically, you blog about anything related to sexual violence in a collective effort to raise awareness.

So for today, I'd like to blog about gender inequality (which can and does lead to violence). I was talking to another girl today, and we were both complaining about the complacency surrounding gender equality that we seem to see quite often in today's society.

We agreed that it annoys and frustrates us when people, especially other women, claim that gender equality is here and here to stay. Likewise, it's even worse when said women, believing the fight for gender equality is over, try to distance themselves from anything remotely resembling the word feminism. (It's the new F-Word, I've been told.) Sorry to break it to everyone, but ... gender equality still doesn't exist, and feminism is still just as important as fucking.

Sure, women can vote, but why is it that in the House of Commons, only about 20% of the seats are held by women? Sure, rape is treated more seriously now than before, but would you want your best girlfriend walking on St-Laurent at 4 am ... alone? Sure, there are more women in the military, a traditionally male-dominated field, but what's up with the prevalence of sexual harassment and the subsequent lack of punishment?

Don't get me wrong, I definitely don't want to be pointing fingers at anyone. It's pretty easy to get complacent about any issue these days. We're all busy people suffering from information and sensory overload. News reports that make it to the front page get a fair bit of attention from the public for the first couple of days. But after a week or so, the subject slips from page A1 to page A27 and ends up getting squished between the margin and the Bell ad with the talking beavers. The same thing occurs to us, as an issue that seemed so unjust and outrageous two weeks ago now slips away to the backs of our minds.

This is especially true in the case of gender inequality and people of my age. Hell, I wasn't even born early enough to see the first fights and victories for women's rights. And so, by the time people in my generation were old enough to read our ABCs, it seemed that such issues were already considered back-page filler fodder.

Gender inequality is not old news though; the fight for equality for all genders has taken new forms. For example, it's gone international, manifesting itself in the modern-day slave trade. Last year, the first human-trafficking charge in Canada was laid on a man who smuggled Chinese women into Canada and forced them to become prostitutes. In fact, the revelation that 80% of modern-day slaves are women speaks loads about the unequal status of many women around the world.

Want more stats about non-Canadian women? In Afghanistan, 40% of all marriages are forced arrangements. At least 33% of all women have been beaten, abused, or raped at least once. I have to wonder, how many people who fall into the second category are also part of the first? Though technically not slaves, these women are still enslaved, by virtue of their gender.

The fight for gender equality has also moved to challenge the general lack of respect towards anyone who isn't part of the gender binary and doesn't follow its prescribed roles. Keeping that in mind, I see homophobia and transphobia as proofs of present gender inequality. Cases of homophobia are well-documented, but transphobia, not so much. There are some well-publicized stories, though, such as those of of Tyra Hunter or the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival. Even simply by skimming Facebook discussion boards, I see people insisting that anyone besides men and women simply "can't exist". If it's so difficult for some people to even realize and accept the fact that more than two genders exist, then how can we say that equality between all genders is present?

I guess the point of today's post is to just remind myself and anyone else reading this that gender equality is not universal, nor is it even 100% present here in Montreal. It's hard to be aware of everything all the time - or at least, it definitely is for me - but when it comes to gender inequality, I'd like to see it brought back to Page A1.

- Yun

It's no secret that I'm an Etsy addict, so here are some of my favourite sex-inspired finds this week...

Who knew a penis could be so darn cute? Spend those lonely nights cuddling up to this Billy Boner Amigurumi Penis for only $15. Read about the crafty 22 year-old seller here.

This print sums up my life philosphy! I want it. My boyfriend tells me I'm banned from buying any more gocco from Etsy, but what he's actually saying is, "Only get ones that you really, really like, baby!" (he called me an "inveterate spendthrift" yesterday - I don't know what it means, but isn't that just the sweetest pet name?). Evil Vices is available for $15 from Olive47, who may or may not be the bastard daughter of Tammy Faye Bakker...crazy televangelists.

Take the role of Officer Kinky to a whole new level with this red hot necklace, available for $14 from Seattle-based Melissa of Chuckles Central. I imagine it offsetting a black dress with wicked fire-engine stilettos.

Enjoy the slight perversity of storing your birth control pills in this little wallet stolen straight from Strawberry Shortcake, $5 from Plastichearts.

I have ambivalent feelings about turning old. Like 60 years old. Part of me has no doubt that I won't even make it - dumb luck can only carry you so far. However, what if I do? Then I can look forward to going senile - not that it'll be a long trip. I look forward to that. I'll be able to say and do anything with total impunity! The only downside is that I may not realize what power I have. It's like being a baby: you don't realize what you have until you're too old to use it to you full advantage. Except, instead of tiny and cute, I'll be medium-sized and wrinkled. If I make it.

Hopefully, by the time I'm sixty-four (the new forty, really), matter transporter thingies will be commonplace. Why such a vested interest in this technology, you ask? Well, a couple of weeks ago, this article popped up in my Gmail links bar. If this technology hits the mass market, whenever I please I'll be able to nip over to Germany for a little midday romp in the hay, 50% off that is.

It's all good and dandy for an old fart like myself - I'm sure as hell not getting any (in this scenario, I am not married). I get to take full advantage of Germany's aging population, and thus growing niche market, and get to diddle some 20 year old. That would be awesome. Old guys always date young, pretty girls. In this case, however, I won't have to worry about poison in my drinks. Heart attack from physical exertion notwithstanding, this seems to be a sweet deal all around. It assuages all the politically correct (read, intellectually mundane) people who believe everyone should have everything. The old guys are getting some. The owner of the brothel just tapped into an penetrated market. The only people who lose, really, are the 20 year old hookers. But, who cares about them? They're marginalized, young women whose lives are dictated by the great dick-tator: their pimp.

I can't even imagine what these girls must think when an old lump of flesh hobbles into the brothel. First of all, people who frequent brothels aren't the most upstanding bunch of individuals the planet has to offer. Second, these people are old. Third, if they didn't go to the brothel before the discount, you know that they're taking advantage of cheap sex, which somehow sullies even the most noble of the intentions. I'll bet that the discounted brothel is like the discounted airlines: no frills. No foreplay, no talking, no lights, and definitely no happy pills.

Apparently the website promotes this new tactic by proclaiming that "life begins at 66." I wouldn't ride these old guys too hard - we don't want Germany's infant mortality rate to skyrocket.

So a couple of weeks ago, I found myself nearly sleeping with a guy. We clicked. I wanted to do it. He wanted to do it. But in the end, we didn't. What had gone wrong ...?

He told me I was hot and sensual and sexy. That was kinda nice. It's always nice to get compliments, right? But then he pretty much ruined it by saying four fatal words that extinguished any chance of anything happening between us: "You look so exotic."

His words made me think of sex tourism, an industry pretty much fueled by the promise of "exotic" people to sleep with, and supported by an underlying mindset of colonialism, racism, sexism, and classism. His comment on my "exoticism" made me feel cheapened and objectified, not to mention angry and completely turned off.

However, things aren't that simple. This incident made me really reflect upon my Chinese heritage, something that I don't do often or in much detail. As the first person in my family to grow up and spend my formative years in Canada, I've often had identity issues.

When I was a kid, I tried to renounce my Chinese background. My eight-year old self cringed when I saw what my grandmother had packed in my lunch box, and I'd look longingly at Sam Joyce's Lunchables snack kit instead. I went through a phase where I wanted my mom to call me "Amy" instead of "Yun", my birth name. I stiffened when the kids in my mostly-Caucasian elementary school spoke Chinese-sounding gibberish ("Ching chong shee shaw") and would ask me what they just said.

I gravitated towards other Asian kids like me, kids who grew up in Canada and were also trying to navigate the path between fitting in yet accepting their ethnic and cultural backgrounds. However, despite our mutual experiences, we never quite discussed our Asian heritage, possibly because we were ashamed of it. We, the first and second-generational Asians, even shunned the "new" Asians. These were kids who had come to Canada more recently, and thus were "more Asian" than us, whatever that meant. Looking back, I feel ashamed by that, though I can sort of see the reasoning behind it too. We were just trying to compensate for our differentness by distancing ourselves and refusing to acknowledge it at all.

I thought long and hard about this stuff while I was walking home, still slightly horny, though no longer for that guy. Yeah, I took issue with his words because I found them to embody ideas and mindsets that I found intolerant and colonial. But at the same time, I wondered: What if I was so bothered by his comment more because I was once again feeling that shame of being Chinese? How much of my anger was fueled by my disgust towards the beliefs that lay beneath his statement, and how much of my anger came from that underlying fear and shame of my childhood, of being associated with my heritage?

And to take it even further, the type of life that I lead right now - one that involves casual sex with and attraction towards people of all genders - isn't exactly one that garners approval among traditional Chinese families. It's just not something that "good Chinese girls" do. But why do I do it? Is it subconsciously just another way for me to distance myself from my heritage?

Until that incident, I'd believed that I was no longer ashamed or embarrassed to be Chinese. Sure, I knew I hadn't yet developed to the point where I could fully take pride in my Chinese background the way I'd like to, but I'd previously thought that I was on the road to doing so. That comment from the guy really threw me off, because it led to me questioning just how far I had developed after all. But I guess self-evaluation isn't a bad thing; it's just a damn hard thing to do.

- Yun (not "Amy")

PS: By the way, for those who are interested, next Thursday is Blog Against Sexual Violence Day. To participate, all you gotta do is write about anything having to do with gender-based violence, be they experiences you've heard of, links to further resources, or your own thoughts. Even small gestures count, yeah?

The vagina dentata, or toothed vagina, is a myth that exists in some cultures. The belief is this: behind a pussy’s lips lie rows of razor-sharp teeth, ready to chomp down on whatever comes their way. Vagina dentata can be seen as a metaphor for men’s (and society’s) fear of female sexuality. Women are sexual predators, temptresses, and seductresses. Men should steer clear of their wickedness and women should be branded with a warning label: Danger! Sex may result in your death or castration. Whether the myth is part of an ancient Chinese folk story or an Aboriginal tribal legend, the concept of the vagina dentata is also present in our society (albeit in many altered forms).

The anti-rape condom, or Rapex, is a new product which has a design guaranteed to perpetuate the vagina dentata myth. After hearing a rape victim state, “If only I had teeth down there,” Sonette Ehler, the inventor of the product, was inspired to create the condom-shaped device lined with sharp hooks. Any man who tries to rape a woman and inserts his peeper into a Rapex will be unpleasantly surprised and momentarily incapacitated. While it currently awaiting patent approval before it can hit the shelves, there is already objection to the device on the basis that women could seduce their ex-boyfriends or other assholes while wearing Rapex in order to get back at them. Pricks beware.

Femdefence (or the “stabby tampon” as I fondly call it) is similar to Rapex, except instead of a condom with hooks, it’s a tampon with a sharp pin attached to the end. However, this product is imaginary, and was only designed to help spread awareness about sexual violence against women.

Beyond product design, the vagina dentata can also be found in representations of female sexuality in pop culture. Possible spoilers for uh, GoldenEye, Dracula, and Hard Candy.

Consistently ranked amongst the top 5 best Bond Girls, Famke Janssen’s over-the-top performance as Xenia Onatopp in GoldenEye demonstrates that female sexuality is dark, dangerous, and deadly. Onatopp is hands-down the most original Bond babe with her legs up. Like a true black widow, Onatopp kills her victims during sex by squeezing them to death with her thighs. Not only a psychotic killer, she is supposedly the first girl in the whole Bond franchise to orgasm.

above: see Onatopp in action, courtesy of youtube

Lucy Westenra, the virgin-turned-vampire in Stoker’s Dracula, demonstrates the phenomenon of vagina dentata. While this time around our femme fatale’s fangs are in another place, Lucy’s sexuality is still deadly. As a vampire, Lucy is evil and impure. She’s also quite the seductress and described as being more beautiful than she was when alive. Lucy proves to be a danger for society and her actions beg for Van Helsing and his friends to plunge their stakes into her and nail her…in her coffin.

Not quite a femme fatale, Haley Stark in the 2005 film Hard Candy is nevertheless an example of how female sexuality can result in male castration or death. Haley is a teenager who, after meeting an older man over the internet, decides to go home with him. As the plot unfolds, it becomes evident that Haley suspects the man to be a pedophile and had planned their meeting in order to wreak havoc upon his life (and his manhood). The poster of Hard Candy is proof of the vagina dentata phenomenon as it shows Haley standing in a bear trap as bait. The pedophile is attracted to young girls (who he sees as helpless) and only later finds out that Haley is using sex to reel him in.

I would sleep with Slash, Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler in a heartbeat. In that order. Slash is just plain cool; perhaps I could receive some of his coolness like an STD, but the good kind. Jagger and Tyler transcend any gendered normative behavior - I have a sneaking suspicion not only would it not be weird, it would be awesome as well. Curiously though, I would not sleep with any of the Beatles, definitely no one of the punk inclination, or Kurt Cobain. The Beatles lack any depravity (Lennon's obsession with Yoko Ono notwithstanding), punk people, to quote Mr. Vicious, "don't even like sex" and I couldn't be paid to touch Cobain, even with a disease-ridden diplodocus at the end of a ten-foot pole. These categories are not all-inclusive. Chances are though, my not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that list would not grow quickly.

Sleeping with someone as a plainly visceral reaction to puberty still requires a significant amount of brain power, regardless of the troglodyte behind the humping. So many factors get inputed into an as of yet unknown Sex Equation. If the number pops out positive, get your humping cap on; if it comes out negative, bring out the standard fake phone number with six digits; if it comes out neither (ie. zero), the convincing factor will be amount of alcohol consumed. Scientists say gravity is the most unifying force in the universe - they obviously have yet to discover fermentation.

It doesn't really matter how sexually advanced someone is, the people they diddle serves one purpose alone, pleasure notwithstanding: it defines them. Like anyone who's ever talked about the Beatles and the Stones in the same sentence, when comparing the two, it all boils down not to what their respective cultural and musical impacts are, but who you align yourself with. The Beatles make love (though perhaps somewhat obsessively and mostly subvertly as the 60s wore on) and the Rolling Stones fuck (if that Pierre Trudeau story is at all true). The same goes with sleeping partners - I'd do Slash in an instance because, let's face it, I'm trying my hardest to replicate some of his cooler aspects - my hair is getting there, length-wise, and his top hat is stunningly difficult to find. Likewise, Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler are my sort of cultural role models - they can do no wrong. Punk, as much as I love it, is not something I would want to devote myself to; as for Cobain, why would I want to define myself like the man that obliterated rock with 4 minutes of distorted, angst-ridden, self-depreciating bullshit? Not even I am that heartless.

The thing about cliches is that somewhere, sometime, they were true. So, for example, when a girl stumbles from guy to guy during her first year of university and "she's lost" or "she's trying to find herself in her newfound freedom," there's a modicum of truth in that. The more people you sleep with, the harder you are trying to define yourself concretely in a manner that, not only will it yield a personal sort of satisfaction, and not only will it look good from the outside, but it will also lead to many more partners and situations where any self-definition is obviously superfluous. And that's really the point of life - to know thyself so well, you no longer need to know thyself.

One of my best friends is a girl who will kick her one-night-stand out of her bed as soon as the fun is completed. As she has many times re-iterated to me the frustrations that come with having to physically repel someone who wants to hold you after you've just has sex with them and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Poor darling, she just wants to sleep after sex and this stranger won't stop hugging her. I'm similar in a sense, I don't enjoy having sex with strangers and I will beat a person down if they touch me and I don't know them (ye have been warned).

Yet when it comes to sex I'm really just a kitten. Treat me well and listen to me, and I will do anything to make you happy. And after sex? kiss me a couple of times, stroke my hair and then go to sleep! I don't want to hold your hand and talk about my feelings. Not unless I'm in a particularily euphoric mood, and we actually have something worthwhile to say.

On that note here is a particularily crude flash video for you all to enjoy;
Bang Bang Bang
- Jehan

Clicking on the links will take you to a full-length news article.

• While current Prime Minister Abe continues to deny that the Japanese military forced women to work as comfort women in wartime brothels, Japan's ex-Prime Minister says Japan was responsible for wartime sex slaves. Read three women's accounts of their brutal treatment at the hands of the Japanese here.

• Sex slavery isn't in the past, and it isn't limited to Third World countries: it's a problem in Vancouver, where sex slaves are trafficked from Asia to work in "massage parlours". First Nations women are also frequently victims of sex abuse - and it isn't reported in the mainstream media.

• It's also a growing problem in Britain, where young women from impoverished countries (especially Lithuania) are imported and forced to work in brothels. It's estimated that 4,000 women are forced to work in Britain's sex trade at any given time - and if they manage to escape, they are often deported back to their home countries, where they face the same cycle of violence. The Telegraph reports that women can be bought for as little as £1,400. Read one Nigerian woman's account here.

• What's being done? Britain has set up a task force to combat human trafficking, and has signed the European Convention on Human Trafficking. The Protection Project works to "to influence policy and practice in the war against trafficking". The V-Day movement discusses sex slavery here. PBS features the world of sex trafficking here.

Trying a new Sudoku puzzle is like sleeping with a new partner. Every person is a puzzle, and every puzzle is different. For me, the fun part, the challenge, is the exploration of a new puzzle. I love trying to figure out what makes each and every person sexually tick. And even if I don't figure out the puzzle completely, that's okay. I don't feel "robbed" and I've learned to not take it personally; I gave it my best shot and above all, I had a great and fun learning experience. Besides, there's nothing that absolutely guarantees that I can't try the puzzle again a week later.

I love learning, and therefore by extension, I love sleeping with different people. I've often wondered where I got this casual attitude about sex from. It certainly wasn't something that was instilled in me when I was young.

I grew up in a rather average suburban family. I was raised mostly by my mother alone. She wasn't a stereotypical Chinese mom, but still, sex, having sex, and talking about it was quite taboo in my family, until very recently. I went to a typical high school. Maybe it was a little more artsy and liberal than most, but it certainly wasn't the Gomorrah of Fred Phelps' nightmares either.

The first time I had sex was exciting and funny and awkward and cute and fun ... but it was not serious. I wasn't in love with or even loved the guy. We had sex because it just felt right at the time: We enjoyed each other's company, had chemistry, and were eager to explore each other more.

I don't quite know when, why, or how my outlook on sex changed. I just know that one day, I realized that I no longer saw it as a purely emotional act between two people sharing a deep connection. The somewhat Disney-fied idea of sex - that sex was only for someone you thought was The One - no longer appealed to me. Instead, I saw sex as simply being great as a source of sheer, mindless, fun. Casual (safe) sex was not something to be frowned upon; in fact, it made perfect and logical sense!

Such is the mindset I generally bring with me to any new sexual encounter: If we're attracted to each other, if we click, if it doesn't hurt anyone, then why not do it? If it goes over well, then why not do it again two days or two weeks later? If it didn't work, well, that's okay too. We can let it go and stay friends only, or even stay as strangers.

Does all this make me promiscuous? Probably. I'm still young and discovering myself, but I feel no shame in admitting that I may very well be sexually promiscuous. According to Dictionary.com's primary definition, I am merely "having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis". That's not such a bad thing, if everyone's getting off and no one's getting hurt, right?

There are some people who see promiscuity as a completely negative characteristic. No doubt, my actions would be looked down upon. But after a lot of contemplation, I've come to realize that I really don't care.

It's their prerogative to believe what they want, but I know myself. I know that being sexual is not synonymous with being depraved, perverted, stupid, lonely, or lazy. More importantly, I know that I am not depraved, perverted, stupid, lonely, or lazy. And the people I care about, the people who know me, are aware of that as well.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a new Sudoku puzzle I'd like to try tackling.

- Yun

I find this HIGHlarious! Since I bought my friend a cute pack of gum at MultiMags with this quote on it, instead of using one of my most hated words, I say "I just killed some kittens". Fine, it's disturbing but then you think about the fact that it's not actually TRUE!

Ok So I can say the word "vagina" all freaking day long but "masturbation? Can't do it. It's like "menstruation" and "moist": I just HATE those words.

Getting back to the point, I know people that almost never (or never, but that must be a lie!) pleasure themselves. I don't get it. I mean, you are alone, you are horny, do it! Even if you are NOT alone but can do it 'under the radar"... DO IT!

How many people here masturbate 5 times a week? How about five times a day?

What's the weirdest place you've ever done it (with yourself...) ? Ok, I'll tell you mine and then you tell me yours! I was on the bus to D.C. (a 13 hour bus ride), bored and horny, with no one sitting beside me. Put my long jacket over myself and voila! And then I was relaxed enough to sleep for a couple hours. I would have loved a cigarette though... hum...

Take preventative measures. When you’re looking for an apartment, avoid those that have adjacent bedrooms, no matter how great the rest of the apartment is. Test walls, close the doors and yell, but make sure you know what you’re getting into.

Shut up. You might enjoy the theatrics, but it’s doubtful that someone trying to eat dinner will feel the same way. Save the heavy moans for when they’re out.

Turn up the music. This one is debateable. On the plus side, it will probably help to cover up the aforementioned moans – but there’s a chance it won’t, and then your roommates will just hate you more for ruining a good song (“Let it be” met this fate in a friend’s apartment last year).

Keep out of the communal areas. Sure, it’s hot and spontaneous to test out the couch or the kitchen table, but refrain. People have to use the furniture when you’re done.

Lock the door. Good roommates knock, but there’s no point in leaving it up to chance.

If all else fails, make it up to them. Baking cakes and cookies seems to be a good way of appeasing my roommates, and nothing says, “I’m sorry I kept you awake with incessant thumping all night long! Yeah!” like breakfast in bed—with earplugs on the side, of course.

people are showing just a bit more skin around our fair city these days. things are heating up. with our new ahead-of-time schedule in place, spring is taking root. finally. so let's participate. it's time to start breathing in some of that out door fresh city air. mmm.
recently, i had the pleasure of chatting with one of those quintessentially-montreal cabbies that are seemingly bred here and only here. our conversation, although it was mainly mr cabbie talking and me listening, bordered on creepy. i won't hold it against him though, we're all entitled to make observations. and what's more, we all know the girls of montreal are, by some twist of genetic good fortune, some of the hottest per capita around the country. and the men, for the most part, are not half-bad either. and this particular cabbie was insistent. he let me know just how much he loved the women in this city. i could practically sense his impending boner and, as my luck goes with cab drivers around this city, i couldn't help but wonder, why me? again. but those are tales for another time. i'll just say he likes it when the clothes start to come off in the spring time too. one slow layer at a time. first the gloves come off, then scarves are shed to reveal faces that are more than just eyes again, and bare legs with skirts become the new norm. needless to say it's his favourite time of year.
and now i'll agree. the cabbie was right. spring is skin. so let's all enjoy, do our part and give the man something to pick up his day as he tours the streets. surely it will pickup someone else's day as well. this is a call to all of those hot ladies and men alike to get out and start moving. let's breath some more love into this air. and if love's not in the cards, i'll settle for some good old-fashioned lust. let's go.

I have never ever ever had sex outside a commited relationship. I don't mean a commited relationship in which we're going to get married but one in which I have not heard the words "will you be my girlfriend" pronounced. Hence, now that I find myself in such a relationship-less sexual relationship I don't really know what to do with myself. In fact, I don't even know if I am capable of separating my emotions from the act of having sex, and if I cannot do that that what right have I to be in this sexual entaglement to begin with?
I would love to know if men feel the same, do men get this emotional attachment, or is this purely a female problem?
- Jehan

I was listening to “Stormy Weather,” and got all nostalgic, thinking about past relationships, and the music I associate with moments frozen in time: image => people, props and positions. Indelibly printed into my mind, those songs send me over the sentimental edge every time I hear them. Its amazing, how only within the auditory presence of these songs do those particular mixtures incite my weak spots; those intoxicating potions made of feelings, smells and touches…

Its cheesy, yeah I admit: be prepared to eat a whole jar of cheewhiz. But fuck that, I’m the one shagging/making love/fucking, and the only other person subject to my fixation on playing music, is well, fucking me, so they (usually) don’t complain.

I chuckle a bit to “Ghettomusic” (Outkast), get a bit teary to “Dinner Bells” (Wolf Parade), and am overwhelmed by the power of past loves and longings- and shagging. (And I say shagging because I’ve picked up that silly term from my silly British boyfriend). By far the best shag I’ve had to music was to Antonios Carlos Jobim: Brazilian bassanova, yes, the musical antithesis to appropriate fucking music. No, I made love to his music, maybe that’s why it was so incredible, in that special “only you my love!” kind of way, where you’re gone in the moment, and the world blacks out.

When you listen to Ghettomusic by Outkast while doing a 69, its like Aphrodite and Ares having sex, and by that I am not likening myself to the goddess of beauty, I am pointing out the personification of war and sex fucking, hate and love fucking: opposites attract. Boy, that was um, interesting sex.

“There’ll be no more dinner bells, left for you to ring.” – Wolf Parade. Sad. People come and go, and sometimes we never see them again, and you think wow I could pass that person (whose touched me down there) and not say a word. But things lighten up. And with the passing of time, new music and new people are born.

Dating. I say "fuck dating" and as my best friend said to me a couple days ago: "Dating is way too overrated, who even dates anymore?"

Well, I tried this dating thing people speak of and turns out, it ain't my cup of tea. I got shafted after three "dates" and lots-o-sex. Thank the Lord Jesus up above(i like to be dramatic sometimes...) we had sex because if not for that, these three "dates" would have given me NOTHING (bitter much?).

After the girl called me and told me that she wasn't ready for a relationship and the whole shabang, I started thinking: perhaps I was too used to being in a relationship that I just didn't know how to date? Then, I started thinking about my "mistakes".

First mistake: I talked too much about my ex. I'm very well aware that the subject of the ex is a big nono usually but she's a very good friend so I couldn't NOT talk about her. Also, as the girl was going to attend a party of mine, she was actually going to meet the ex. I don't think that helped.

Second mistake: Introducing her to almost three quarters of my friends present at my party. I believe that was a bit too quick. Again, I didn't really clue in.

Third mistake: Now, this mistake wasn't mine. While chatting during my party, my good friend declares that when "Marie comes to Toronto next time, you should come too!". Alright, even I knew that was wrong!

Fourth mistake: Calling her the day after our first date and emailing her to tell her how much fun (fun=good sex) I had with her. Apparently I came on too strong. I say "pffff" to that.

So basically I suck at dating. I just want to meet someone that I get along with and chill and not necessarily have to go have drinks and go out and ask questions about each other... We can do that step by step.... while watching tv, smoking a joint or playing Nintendo.(Okay I didn't list "playing Nintendo" as a mistake because she really did like that idea, hehehe) It's so comfortable to be in a relationship and dating is the opposite I find. I never actually dated my ex; it just happened!

There goes another rant from Marie. If anyone has anything to say that I should know about the world of dating(especially lesbian...or bi), go right ahead. Stay tuned for more ramblings because I'm full of them.

Okay, so maybe it's old news, a little bit, but I just can't not share it. A friend of mine sent me a link to this news article: Apparently, some theatre in the US was forced to change its marquee from The Vagina Monologues to The Hoohaa Monologues, because some parents found it "offensive".

Okay, skipping over the sheer idiocy (and the irony) of the name change, because that's just too easy to make fun of, I'll ask instead: What is it about vaginas that so often gets people's goats?

Strangely enough, I think this situation actually can find its parallel in Harry Potter: You know how everyone's afraid to say Voldemort's name, because he's such an all-powerful wizard? And how they have to replace his name with You-Know-Who instead because they're so scared of him? I think that's what's going on with vaginas.

People are scared to death of vaginas, because vaginas are representative of sex, an act that traditionally is seen as dirty and forbidden and terrible. Thus, they must resort to veejayjays or down theres or hoohaa instead. Vaginas are the Voldemorts of this world. (They even start with the same letter! 'Nuff said?)

Furthermore, why is it that the word anal, as in anal-retentive, is used relatively often and without fear? There doesn't seem to be a stigma attached to anal the way there is with vagina, even though an anus strikes me as a body part that's a hell of a lot dirtier than a vagina can ever be. So really, it's totally the sexual aspect of vaginas that gets people scared.

You know, it's stuff like this that makes me wish for another huge Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky sex scandal. In the ensuing media explosion, we were constantly bombarded with stories of sex and sex and even more sex. Over the space of a couple of months, we heard all the gory details about Bill and Monica's sex lives: their sexual intercourse, their "I did not have sexual relations with that woman", their oral sex, and if you were lucky enough to hear it, their "kinky" use of a cigar as a sex toy.

It's not that I bear any ill will towards Bill Clinton or any other hapless politician following his pecker. In fact, I don't believe that what goes on in a person's bedroom (or on the expensive mahogany desk in the Oval Office) should be exhibited for public judgment and scrutiny. No, but just pause for a minute, and imagine what would happen if George Bush was caught bangin' his intern while in office ...

... The world would undergo a temporary sexual renaissance of sorts: For a glorious few months or so, their sexploits would be splashed across newspaper headlines and blaring from primetime newscasts. For those wonderful few months, sex would be completely demystified and stripped bare. For those liberating few months, there would be no stigma placed on sex, and people would actually be unafraid to talk about it in public.

And maybe, hopefully, it would be during those few months that The Hoohaa Monologues could regain its rightful name again.

- Yun

I fuck, therefore I am. We all know people like this. Their entire sense of being is totally wrapped up in their ability to get laid eight days a week. And this applies to girls as much as it does to guys, what's more, stereotypical representations notwithstanding, I'd say that girls, while not as vocal about it, are far guiltier than guys. Let's face it, it is much easier for a girl to go up to a guy for a good lay out of the blue than the reverse is possible. As a tangent, I was at a power metal concert on Friday night at a small ex-strip club on Parc, and the opening act had a female lead singer. This made me think of other metal bands with female leads, like Girlschool, and it made me wonder what the groupie situation is like backstage. See, male metal leads apparently have a plethora of women waiting to place themselves in compromising situations while their boyfriends wait patiently. But the power here lies with the women - they come up to the metal star, they are much better looking, and save for what actually gets done, groupie sex is totally feminist. But, when the lead is female, I'm not sure exactly how this works. People who go to underground metal shows, myself included, aren't usually the best looking fuckers on the face of the planet - metal is dirty, raw, and heavy, and you won't see the latest fashion in the pit. Regardless, at this point we have ugly men approaching powerful women at the head of a metal band seeing if they'll score. I really do wonder what it's like backstage.

ANYWAYS, getting back to my original point. The power of girls to define themselves in terms of their latest conquest is incredible. The new woman, present since the sixties, lives in the city alone, gabs with her girlfriends freely on sex and by and large treats men almost as if they were disposable, which, I'm sure many guys don't mind too much as long as they are throwing it in fairly often. These people fuck to be. The most interesting point about this statement is that it stands to contrast with the original, ostensibly more intellectual, statement. The comedy lies in the dichotomy between fucking and thinking and popular lore tells us that those who fuck to be cannot think to be.

So, what does it mean to fuck to be? What exactly does a sense of self wrapped in latex create? It could mean that these people are unhappy and vapid, looking to fill their vacuous life with senseless pleasure. But that is way to simple an explanation. Descartes thinks, therefore he is, and because he is, through philosophical meanderings, proves that God exists. And this is what people who fuck to be do as well. Maybe God doesn't exist, but god definitely does. And that shift key makes all the difference.

If one fucks to be, one is firmly rooted in the sensible, pleasurable world. Though there are emotional and intellectual levels to sex, it is primarily an activity to feel. And fucking is nothing more than the path to the best orgasm possible, and while there are religions and traditions that espouse the greatness of the orgasm as the medium to communicate with whomever, I'm much more interested in the post-coital coma that follows as a result. Lying there, naked, sweaty, blank. Even if it's just for a couple of seconds, you don't feel anything. After that may come the pleasure, the guilt, the anger, the instinct to flee, but for a couple of seconds, the feeling is blank. It is a feeling of nothingness. And this nothingness is not a nothingness of negation, but a nothingness of otherness. During the small coma it's not that you feel nothing, but it's that you don't feel something. This not-something is the not-something of death, which is nothing of life. And so sex is a birth that leads to the blank post-coital coma, which is a death. And in this death, there is a boundless freedom, for it is not-life, not-bound. What is death? It's not life, that's all we know. And since we know life and we can put limits on life, we have no limits on death. In that state of blank nothingness we are limitless, we are everything, we are god, and so we are ourselves.

This past week, one of McGill’s student newspapers, The Daily, ran a story about CheckTonight. CheckTonight is an online “informational tool” that enables people to send in their health information (specifically their STI tests) and see the results from other members on the website. The site was created to help people look up potential lovers in order to ensure that they don’t have the clap, the syph, or whatever other names the cool kids are calling VDs these days. The benefit of the website is two-fold: users can practice safe sex and yet avoid that “unpleasant talk” – and mood-killer –about having an STI. Hmm, a website with a purpose to facilitate guilt-free hook-ups…I won’t be surprised when this is incorporated into Facebook profiles.

CheckTonight is not the only online network which revolves around STIs, but unlike CheckTonight (which denies membership to those who tested positive for an STI), these sites are created for people who already have one. Online dating sites for people with STDs (such as stdmatch.net and the herpes-themed MPWH.com) are more than just a way to look up hotties with um, something in common, but are also outlets for sharing frustration, embarrassment, and the sense of feeling like a social leper. The sites also simplify the otherwise complicated issues that surround dating with a disease. By registering on stdmatch.net there’s no need to worry about the opportune time to enlighten your partner of your condition, or how they will react to the news. There’s also no need to worry about infecting your partner (seeing as they already have the STI), making it easy to tell them that you burn for them (both literally and metaphorically)…now that’s truly guilt-free dating.

“Thump! Thump!- Thuuuumpp, thump thump, thump, thumpthumkp!! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!”

And those are the incessant sounds that bellow at me from my bedroom ceiling, right before I’m sleeping, - EVERY SINGLE FREAKING NIGHT. So it leads me to wonder, loud bass from some house beat, or relentlessly long humping? Or jumping jacks???

I’ve thought multiple times to go straight upstairs and declare that their ruckus is of an intolerable volume and frequency, and must cease. But every time I think to do this, I flash back to when I first met them: two Muslim girls living together, seemingly quiet, about their own business, private people. And honestly, the loud bass house beat hypothesis is really not persuasive; it doesn’t sound anything like music. It sounds like fucking. But then I think, they’d never have such rudely loud sex. People like that don’t ‘bang.” And then I admonish myself for making the same presumptions on others, that I hate when others presume those ‘nice quiet prude little girl” traits about me.

Alas, I must find a way to tell them, in a non-intrusive, friendly neighbor who just wants to get to sleep so she’s not cranky in the morning. I was thinking a note instead,

“Dear neighbor,
Plz crank down the fucking volume.

Thnx, sleep deprived 2nd floor .”

Okay not exactly like that. But one of these days I’ll puck up the courage to tell them something along those lines.

I don't know about you, but one of the most satisfying words in the world to me is the word fuck.

Say it. Fuck. FUCK. F-U-C-K. Fŭk. FUH-kuh.

It starts off strong and aggressive and angry-sounding, yet it ends with a soft, cute, little kuh sound. It's sort of endearing. Sort of like March entering like a lion and leaving a lamb, but I digress.

I love that fuck can have a very specific meaning, when used as a verb. When you say that "we fucked all night", it's very different from the romantic-sounding "we made love all night" or the preteen-sounding "we did IT all night" or the goofy Bridget Jones-esque "we shagged all night" or especially the "we had sex all night", which sounds so clinical that it evokes images of hospital-bed sex.

Let's face it, there's nothing quite like the word fuck to get your point across. To me, fucking implies passion and strong emotions and spontaneity and ... great sex. From my own experience, when you tell your partner how much you want to fuck him or her, there's very little else that you can say that will incite such a strong sexual response. Whether you're on the giving or the receiving end of an "I wanna fuck you so bad", there's a pretty good chance that such usage of the word fuck will awaken the animal in you. (Pardon the cheesiness of that statement.)

I'm not a fan of using fuck in non-sexual situations. For example, you'll never catch me saying "fuck George Bush!". I'm no fan of his, but why would I make a statement implying my willingness to "fuck him" if I really don't want to fuck him? Likewise, it's very rare that you'll hear me say "fuck this [insert inanimate object here]!"

My reasoning behind this might be a little irrational, and will probably make me sound like a huge dorky loser who worries too much. But I'll confess anyway: Somehow, I'm afraid of saying fuck too often in non-sexual and day-to-day situations, for fear that using that word so freely would somehow diminish its power as a sexual aphrodisiac.

If I say I want to fuck Stephen Harper and Big Tobacco and corporations and Montreal's metro system and my imminent term paper and the patriarchy and the system and the police ... well, that's a lot of metaphorical fucking of a lot of rather unpleasant things.

And what would happen when the lights are low, and all parties involved are horny, and then I tell someone that I want to fuck him or her, and I sincerely mean it? What if I've associated so closely the pleasure of fucking with such unpleasant entities like George Bush, that I'll no longer be able to enjoy the same strong passionate effects of that word on myself?

So what do I say instead then, when I wish to sincerely express my hatred for something or someone? Screw works well enough for me. It carries the same meaning as fuck, but without the same effects of lust and passion.

Am I irrational? Overly cautious? Worrying too much? Most likely. But as my mom said when I was a kid, "It's better to be safe than sorry."

- Yun

PS: Upon rereading and counting, I see this post used the word fuck (and its variations) 25 times. Huh. You think that's a little excessive?

I'm back in the game. After last week's post about how I have nothing to write about, I return triumphantly with a strong card: a 60 year old sex change. That's right.

I was working last night (and by working I mean staring dumbly at the ticket machine in a dead bar) when an old friend from high school whom I haven't seen since last Thanksgiving showed up with my girlfriend. In the midst of our hurried catching up she mentioned that, given that I was writing about all things sex related, she had a story for me. Apparently, her grandpa knows some other old guy who, after 60 years of walking around with a penis, decided that he was tired of all things to do with shrinkage, chafing, spontaneous erections and whatnot; he got himself a lovely pair of blouse bunnies with a new name to boot.

This is nothing if it's not odd. Why would someone go through the surgery, the hormone therapy, the legal process and the whole ordeal of getting a sex change so late in life? I mean, it's not like he has much more to go - at best he's got 25-30 years, and when you're 60, it's not that much. Plus, it's not like he's at the pinnacle of his sexual life and can pursue countless of previously unaccessible romances. Granted, I know nothing about this guy - my friend half yelled the story from across the hot table under the din of the blower struggling to keep the bar warm. My knowledge is minimal at best. Still, it's under these conditions that my awesome powers of snap judgments thrive.

Let's start with the obvious: he realized he would be happier as a girl than a guy. That is way too simple of an explanation when someone is 18, let alone 60. Why now? Conceivably, he's been with lots of women, several long-term relationships, maybe even was married. And just now he realized he wants to be a girl? I can't really think of any other reasons why a relatively old guy would want a sex change, though, I can't think of a reason as to why this would be the only factor. Sure, I guess he could have been thinking about it for decades and just now there's the technology, or just now he has the money or the courage. But still, from what I gather, there haven't really been any other symptoms - I doubt he spent lots of time doing all he could to portray a woman.

I guess it's really not that big of a deal - I'm all for people doing what they want when they want. This just seems somewhat capricious to me. If he's lived this long, why not play the entire game and hope that overtime sees him better off? This is why modern medicine is such a bitch - it gives in to people's whims at the drop of a hat. We've got medicine under our thumbs, and in this case, there's a girl who just changed her ways. Sex is definitely not gender - people can feel a variety of ways with a variety of equipment. But, to me, this is a case of giving people too much rope. Today's accelerated culture gives us what we want when we want it. This old guy either spent the last 40 years thinking about this or the last 40 minutes. Personally, I hope it's the latter.

What do really intense workouts, almost unbearably hot saunas, and amazingly passionate sex have in common? The sweatier the better. There is nothing like the feeling of cold sweat dripping down your stomach and feeling it mix with someone else's as you both get hotter and hotter. Thanks to an experiment conducted by researchers at UC Berkeley, there is now an explanation for our appreciation of sweaty sex. Androstadienone, a derivative of testosterone found in male sweat, saliva, and semen was found to elevate women's mood, sexual arousal, blood pressure, and heart rate upon inhalation. Women who smelled this musky scented chemical reportedly experienced all of the above reactions as well as increased cortisol levels. So far, this is the only component of male sweat that has been tested and the reverse experiment has not been done, nor has research been conducted in relation to homosexual couples of either gender, but researchers are confident that there may be more to the sweat - satisfaction correlation.
So, it might mean doing more laundry and a higher hydro bill but for a change of pace, try turning the thermostat in your room up as high as it can go and experience a little more of what your partner has to offer!
Check out the article here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17045070/

Some holidays are limited
To a particular nation or state;
But here's one that's followed
By all who masturbate.

- Tricia

I'm supposed to be a good chinese girl. I"m supposed to do my homework, get good grades, find a reliable job and a good reliable husband whose emotionally (and financially) stable. Oh and btw, no pre-marital sex. but that goes without saying, cause being a good Chinese girl, I don't think about sex. Period.

Well, little does mummy know about all my extracurriculars. Shag Shop, this blog/magazine, and my future goals to become a sexual health educator and sex therapist.

"So tell me about your life. We haven't talked in awhile."

"Well, I'm volunteering at a health promotion store."

"What kind of health promotion?"

"Ummm, toothbrushes, and general er hygiene, student stuff....."

"Oh I see. What else are you doing?"

"I'm writing for a magazine. Its just starting up."

"What kind of magazine?"

"Er um, a magazine for school."

"Oh okay-" and then she quickly switches the subject.

How the hell do you balance, wanting to share with your mom all about your life, yet not being able to tell her, MOST of it, because it has to do with sex? How do you tell your mom that her tenants wouldn't keep irresponsibly having babies if they knew how important contraceptive protection is? I know its traditional values. But I'm talking about reality, that and the possibility of NOT being afraid of talking about or displaying sex. I mean, its everywhere, yet we censor and fight with millions of dollars to endorse 'abstinence programs' to preserve the sanctity and purity of our modern day amercian youths! (and unwanted pregnacies and STIs are just myths) These abstinence programs dramatically distort scientific facts, ie. stating condoms only work 31% of the time. (its actually closer to around 80%). Not saying my mom endorses these programs, she wouldn't say it out right, but she certainly wouldn't talk about it. But then again I think, well, her life was so incredibly different from mine. I can't blame my mom for that, just like I can't blame her for a lot of other cultural gaps between us. Her sex-ed, growing up in communist China, was limited and restricted, to say the least; huddled around a book called "Sex Knowledge" that some of the kids read. She said that the ones who refused to read it, were secretly, the most sick- and she pointed to her belly for some reason. I still don't know why.

Yet, all utterances of "sex education" go completely ignored. So tell me, all the anthropologists and cultural brokers out there, is it better that I never tell her about this then? To keep my relationship with her running smoothly? But is it really smooth if I don't tell her what Im doing with my life? And the worse possibility, would she just reject it? or perhaps, reject me.

So how do I be a good chinese girl who likes to fuck? And this is where my identity crisis begins. Chicken or the egg? Both please.

The art of Kama Sutra has become a popular reference for partners to add excitement and adventure into their sex lives. But little do many of us realize the ancient-dated history behind Kama Sutra.

Kama, meaning pleasure or sensual desire, comes from the name of the Indian God embodying the sexual nature of man. And Sutra means short books or aphorisms.

The first Kama Sutra book, ‘Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana’ was written by the Indian sage of Vatsyayana not as a lover’s guide for the public, but rather for one wealthy city man.

The contents of the book were assembled around the third century BCE, based on nearly three thousand years of writings on various sexual topics. These include not only lovemaking, but also kissing techniques, dating practices, treatment of your marriage partner and recipes for aphrodisiacs.

The original version was written in Sanskrit, translated into English for the first time in 1883.

Today the Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana is not only the oldest and best-known Indian sex manual, but also the most famous of all books published on the ancient art of desire and lovemaking.

The explorative and sensual nature of our ancestors is captured in this old text. With its insight into the ancient sexual mysteries of the far east this early Hindu love-manual has powerfully fascinated generations of people and inspired many versions of Kama Sutra.

See original article at: http://www.thatsweird.net/history1.shtml

I am currently in desperate need of continuous internet service and such and this is why I have been incognito as of late. However I did get the opportunity to catch the following advertisement for Dove on late night television last night. Click Here to see it. I thought it was great! Beautiful and classy and demonstrating that no matter what our age might be beauty remains despite (or perhaps because of) age spots, wrinkles, and a little tummy fat. Although, out of curiosity... why is it that all the advertisements for beauty and such never have Arabs in them... makes me wonder if advertisers are afraid of backlash or even if we aren't considered as a separate entity in this realm of humanity. hmmm... food for thought.
- Jehan

I also find myself in this situation: I haven't had any contact more than a couple kisses with any girl in the past, pfff, let's say, 3 weeks. I feel like I shouldn't even be writing about sex if I ain't doin' it!

I'm getting to that bitter state that annoys every person that IS having sex: "damn you for having someone to FUCK when I don't!" It's true, I'm bitter. Too bitter for my own good. I know I'm rambling here and you have my permission to skip this post.

I broke up with "the girlfriend" in November and since then, apart from a few booty calls with her, I went out with another chikidee three times. That obviously didn't work out because I'm now writing about this. I just want to add that it's way too hard for me to be able to find ANYone in this city. As mentionned in a previous post, there are plenty(perhaps TOO many) hot girls in MTL. The thing is, they are mostly straight or bi(but let's face it, they'll end up with guys). OH, they might be gay but who the hell knows. As I've been told countless times before, I look as straight as the next girl so no girls ever hit on me (OH, except butch lesbians: just my luck). Nope.. I always get hit on by guys. And when I kick myself in the ass to actually go out in the Village, I get hit on by... the only straight guy in the place! When I tell them that I am gay they jump back and practically ask me for "gay ID".

Therefore, for me to actually find (and keep) a lesbian, I would need to either go to all those "gay activities" organized by universities i don't go to, go to clubs where everyone thinks I'm straight, meet someone on the net who will perhaps turn out to be a psycho OR make myself look way more "gay" which will not happen.

What would guys say to this(in my experience)? GO BACK TO DUDES!

And to that I say "do you even KNOW how hot it is to be with a girl?"

So thank you for listening. I swear my next post will be more... bearable!

Ah, my creative well has finally run dry. For the first time since I started posting in this blog, I have no idea what to write about. And it's really not my fault. Sex is a dead horse. But, I still like talking about it, reading about it, thinking about it... if sex is a dead horse, I don't want to be a live horse. Regardless, my thoughts on equines and their lives has nothing to do with this blog, at least not until I can figure a way to slide them into the conversation like a guy trying to slide in through the back door "by accident." Anyways, back to the topic du jour: I really have nothing to write about. I wrestle with this particular demon every week as I rack my brain during the week to come up with something barely comprehensible to post, and so far, I think it's worked pretty well. I suppose I could just post a link or a picture, but I like to think. I like mental challenges. I'm awful at Sudoku. And so, here I am, trying to exorcise this bitch of a writer's block.

I've already written about sex as the most universal experience. The most universal taboo is incest, which is also about sex. Sex is interesting to read about because everyone has their own experience which is instantaneously related to by millions. Having a "unique" experience in the sack is like buying your punk t-shirts at the Gap... it just doesn't happen, and if it does, everyone has one. Writing about sex is ridiculously easy and the hardest thing I've ever had to write about, and that includes splitting hairs between popular and mass culture in Dracula. It's easy because just about anything passes for a conversation on sex and sexuality - just look at this post for a prime example. It's hard because, well, look at this post. I'm trying to come up with something original. But, original is hard to come by in this line of work. Or perhaps I'm a mediocre writer, which is a strong possibility. What is original? It seems to me that coming up with something original between the sheets is like trying up to think of a fantasy with absolutely no basis in reality. Every dirty word can be said has been said, every position humped into the ground, every fantasy realized. Sex has probably been postmodern since about two weeks after Adam and Eve found out how to insert slot A into tab B (and C and D). All that's left for us 21st centurians is to re-piece the puzzle in different ways - not necessarily original, but different enough so that it stands on its own.

And so, I leave you with a comical ad. Incidentally, diamonds are not forever, that's a scam. I wonder if that's a real blowjob or they just used shadows to eliminate depth.

Luckily, this embarassing incident didn't scar me and turn me off sex permanently. It did, however, instill me with a certain sense of wariness before having sex with a new partner. Will I queef? Will it be loud? Will it - oh god! - occur while my partner's face is right by my crotch, so that he or she receives the force full-blast?

I was just speaking with another girl who queefs not during sex, but up to 24 hours afterwards. I haven't yet decided if I should feel envious of her. Is it better to queef in your partner's face in bed, or to do it while quietly standing in line at the bank or while in Downward Dog pose at yoga class the morning after?

All that being said, despite the suckiness of queefing at inopportune times (like there's even a right time anyway!), I'm starting (or trying to) get used to it. It's something that most women have to deal with, so I might as well try to laugh it off.

I'm trying to be grateful: If I'm queefing, well, at least it means that I'm having sex. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right? I'm trying to be pragmatic: The body makes all sorts of weird noises. Stomachs gurgle, jaws crick, throats gulp. Why is it that any sound that goes on below-the-belt automatically gets demonized? I'm trying to be optimistic: Hey, at least queefs don't smell!

I'm really trying to embrace the queef. I guess I've already taken the first step, which is admitting that I queef. Maybe next, I should search for a t-shirt that says QUEEFING IS CUTE, in an effort to give it some positive publicity?

- Yun

PS: By the way, if you're like me and you do happen to queef during sex, you can try to take preventative action. Before having sex, try pressing down on the area right below your stomach and above your pubic bone. It might expel some air lurking inside your pussy.