“What if I’m doing it right and then something SUPER EMBARRASSING happens???”
Krista: Like what, boo? Like…
…getting your lip ring caught on your girlfriend’s nose ring the very SECOND her parents walk into the living room?
LIVED TO BONE ANOTHER DAY: Krista
My girlfriend’s parents were in town, visiting her for the first time. They were staying with her, and my god, were they staying. They never left the room of the house we were in—ever. For days at a time, they were glued to our sides, never going out for a walk, never needing a nap. I was going home every night to sleep—at no point did I want her parents to think I was having sex with their daughter, no way, even though they knew we were dating. Having them around all the time was sheer exhaustion, compounded by pent-up new-relationship super-horniness. And then, on Sunday afternoon, four days after they’d arrived…her parents went to a coffee shop. YES. It was just down the street, but this was my chance. I jumped on my girlfriend and we started making out hardcore, basically slobbering all over each other on the couch. I was on top of her, trying to eat her face, when it happened: the one thing my dad had warned me about when he saw my lip ring for the very first time. “You’re gonna get that caught on something and get hooked like a fish,” he had said. And he was right—I had hooked myself with my lip ring, like a fish, ONTO MY GIRLFRIEND’S NOSE RING. We were stuck! We couldn’t detach our rings! Her parents would be back any minute!! We scrambled, frantically trying to unhook ourselves, in no little amount of pain. And then THE FRONT DOOR OPENED. And there I was, the person who was dying to make a polite and good first impression on my girlfriend’s parents, straddling their daughter on the couch, my lip hooked to her nose. And of course, as soon as they’d taken in this whole scene, my girlfriend managed to detach us. I tumbled off of her. There was a silence.
“I think I’ll make a cup of tea,” her mom said. Then she walked into the kitchen.
…or when cooking a meal with Boo becomes a sensual recipe…FOR DISASTER?
LIVED TO BONE ANOTHER DAY: TONY (FROM BEFORE)
In the first month of dating my current partner, she made us fish tacos at her house. After we ate dinner, we fooled around. Her hand was on my junk, and I started to feel this intense burning sensation. I didn’t think I had suddenly caught an STI, so I thought, OK, I’m gonna just push through this, because I really wanted to have sex. But then the pain got worse. I started to sweat, and every part of my vajay was on fire. So I told my partner, “You have to stop! My junk is burning!” She was totally confused. I asked her if she had used anything spicy when she was cooking us dinner, and she said, “No….oh wait, I used cayenne pepper!” OH MY GOD. And, I don’t know how this was my first reaction, but I was like, What helps when you eat spicy things? and asked her, “Do you have any milk?” When she came back with the milk, I was in the shower. She handed me the carton, and I proceeded to pour all the milk over my burning junk—just loads of milk, it was so disgusting. But it worked!! I was pissed for a second, but then we went right back to fooling around.
…or finding out that the commotion in the hallway was your climax’s personal cheering section?
LIVED TO BONE ANOTHER DAY: LOLA
My friend Z. was going down on me to terrific results, and through my orgasm-haze, I became peripherally aware of the sound of movement and voices in the hallway. This was not unusual, as Z. lived with nine other people in an old library–turned–feminist art collective with limited sound insulation. Later on that night, Z. informed me that the noise was three of those nine roommates standing directly in front of her bedroom door, cheering me on and then, when I came, bursting into applause and celebratory high-fives.
I never even considered this could happen and thus I was so mortified—as in mort, death, a corpse of embarrassment—that time slowed to a crawl. I reviewed my choices: Should I apologize for being loud? Apologize for being born? Cry? Cry really hard? Laugh? I laughed. I laughed, and I was like “That’s right, I’m a fucking champion,” and then she laughed too, and I barely ever thought about it again except while fondly recalling great sex I’ve had in the past. If you’re in a similar situation—confronted with a sex horror you could have never foretold—and you can muster a, “That’s right, I’m a fucking champion,” even if you have to imagine that you’re in a movie about confidence, or that your convincing performance will save a kitten’s eternal soul, even if you have to pretend you’re ME, get a wig and do it, you goddamn shining star.
When you let it all out and just GO FOR THE GOLD, sometimes stuff like that is gonna happen. Or maybe even stuff like THIS:
Well…probably not that. But, I mean, if your privates were secretly full of spiders, what would you do? We’ll tell you what: You would live through it. You hear us? You would live to bone again! Here’s one last true thing about sex-having: You cannot die from embarrassment, even if you might want to. So go forth and crylebrate! ♦