Sex is Solemn Business

Recent reader mail has made it clear that my attitude toward the sacred act of lovemaking is misguided, possibly evil, and just plain wrong. One reader called my words disgusting, pornographic, and denigrating to women. Still another referred to my column as a "handy dandy boxed fuck feast." (At first I thought this was a compliment, but judging from the tenor of the rest of her missive, I'm fairly certain she didn't mean it that way.) Perhaps the most troubling of the bunch was an e-mail from a fellow named Brian who took me to task over my sad grasp of the basic rules of grammar. To Brian and the rest of you, I dig deep into the recesses of my rutting she-beast of a soul and offer you a heartfelt apology. Obviously, I am a deeply troubled individual and you should not waste valuable eye-power reading any further. As for my fellow deviants (!) and perverts (!!) out there. . . .

Hopefully most of you have witnessed someone hitting orgasm. Much to my horror, I've been told that my eyes roll back into my head and my skin erupts into a patchwork of red splotches upon lift-off. That this description sounds more Linda Blair than Linda Lovelace has not been lost on me. One reader wrote in saying that the first time he heard his girlfriend come it sounded like "a cross between a donkey and an elk . . . strange but beautiful." Then there's a rumor I've heard for years about the famous writer who begs his women to make "vroom vroom" motorcycle noises as he's about to let loose. My point behind these tales? Sex is one of those acts that's inherently funny. If you're doing it correctly, you're covered in sweat, inevitably pulling funny faces, and using vocabulary that is unique to the language o' lovin' (i.e., "Suck that big cock!" "Harder!" "Do me slow and dirty, big boy!" as well as moans, groans, grunts, and references to god).

I can't even count how many tightasses gave me shit for pointing out that there is something very wrong with a 30-year-old virgin. One reader had the temerity to suggest I become "a tad more open-minded!" Feh! I say. Everyone above the age of consent should have sex—and lots of it. How can anyone be so bloody serious about an act sometimes referred to as "bumping uglies?"

Even before I started writing about sex, people were always telling me goofy and/or vaguely disturbing stories about their escapades. Now that I can pass myself off as a professional (ha!), I demand that my friends spill. A good buddy of mine was doing the nasty with a girl he'd met earlier that same evening. He was just about to hit critical mass when he looked up, only to see one of those scary inspirational posters hanging over her bed. This one was a picture of a kitten clinging to a tree branch, the gaudily scripted message reading, "Hang in there, baby." Of course, not being the most discriminating of loverboys, he shut his eyes and shot his load anyway. Then he foolishly told me about it. Then I told two friends, and so on, and now look—two years later it's made the paper!

There are a million embarrassing sex stories in the naked city, many of which you or someone you love feature in. There's Babette, whose girlfriend ordered something called an "erotikit" from Good Vibrations. When Girlfriend was a little overzealous in smearing the mysterious tingly green gel on Babette's most private parts, the searing pain this hoochie hot sauce produced sent her shrieking towards the nearest source of water. "To this day, we refer to this as the 'Toothpaste of Death incident,'" she laughed.

My friend Paul picked up an older man while on vacation. Mid-deed, the trick started rocking back and forth, maniacally muttering, "I love you, I love you, I want to have your baby," over and over again! Paul had to yank the covers off him and physically remove him from his suite. While I'm sure it was quite unnerving at the time, in retrospect it sure is a good belly laugh.

Here's what happens when people get all serious about sex. I saw this book called Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood at a thrift store. I had heard that it was a big hit with the ladies, so I wanted to read it. (Plus it was only 50 cents.) Let me leave you with a quote from page 124: "She touched her blossom until, out of self-love, it swelled and quivered." What took me a second to comprehend is that this broad is talking about having a wank! Her blossom? Now that's obscene.

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Send your swollen, quivering mail to dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.