There are four things I know for sure when it comes to sex—it’s really great, it smells weird, it better be fucking consensual, and everybody is thinking about it mostly all the time. Except for asexuals. And me whenever I see grilled cheese being slowly pulled apart. Oh no that’s when I think about it the most.

I always feel weird when I talk publicly about sex and having it with people. My biggest fear is sounding like some sort of lady standup shock comic who is made of brass and old Chelsea Handler books. “Dicks? More like get em in my mouth poles, right ladies?” My second biggest fear is God hating me. My third and realest fear is (WAS) somehow being thought of as…less intelligent. Less feminine or mysterious. Isn’t that ridiculous? In all my Mean Girls quotes and burping, I was worried about how LAME I would sound if I talked about sex. Sex is an easy conversation that a human bulldog can have on the line at a bar on the Lower East Side, pounding his penis and pointing at women. WANT. HAVE. MUST. Sex conversations can be had while cackling and bathing in mimosas at brunch. LIKE. TOTALLY. GOOD. And me? I read books! I have carnal lust for food carts and heavy books. Don’t talk about lube with me!

Of course, I talked about sex with friends sometimes. Smart girls who use correct grammar and also had pretty nifty blow job tips. I didn’t prescribe to the bullshit notion that girls aren’t ladies if they talk about masturbating. People are ladies if they identify themselves as ladies. Case closed. And I also enjoy a hearty and robust laugh every once in a while about how penises kind of remind me of Seymour, the giant plant in Little Shop Of Horrors. No? Yes. Point is—I liked talking about sex in the confines of my room and I really liked having it in my room too, but I was afraid of putting it OUT THERE because I didn’t want to seem one-dimensional: the sex girl. “Smart girl likes things in her so therefore she should shut up and lose her glasses forever get some glitter heels you wench.” 

And, excuse the pun, FUCK ME for thinking that. I am multi-million dimensional, and some of those dimensions take place on all fours. Sex is fun and funny and ridiculous, and I still hate Cosmopolitan magazine for making it sound like it’s NOT FUN (and also not for lesbians or gays anyone who identifies as anything else but pretty!!). Cosmopolitan magazine makes it sound like sex is for fembots who greet men at the door wearing nothing but his tie and artfully shaved pubes and does fancy moves on his member so he’ll never leave you. COSMO.That’s not true. I believe in girls being equal and I hate misogyny and I love Tina Fey and I think sex is fun. I am wearing an old sweartshirt and my hair is in a messy bun and I’m watching a David Wain movie and I think sex is fun.

Sex is sweaty and squeaky and fun and sometimes you do weird positions that don’t work and you laugh and your ass is up in the air and you pant and make weird noises and groan. Sex is sometimes had by yourself or with somebody you have a crush on or somebody you love or somebody you used to love or somebody you don’t know very well. And it’s all sticky and if you’re having a good time, it’s good. And there is drool and stickiness and lots of grinding and moving and it looks not very good and if you’re safe and smart, it’s good. And you’re not weird if you don’t have it or don’t want to, either. Nothing about sex is weird, except for all the genital movements.

And I want to recognize that. I want to make sex (on this blog, at least) a little more in our conversations. So I’m going to answer a couple of your sex questions over the next couple of days in the best way I know how—-with humor and awkwardness and honesty. Because it’s okay to talk about how much body hair you should have. It doesn’t make you a sex kitten because you wear pajamas and also like to do things in the style of doggy.

It just makes you..human. So let’s spit on our hands and get real human with it.