10 Tips for Men to be Better in Bed

Recently a series of conversations on Facebook took place surrounding a very funny summary of sex between a cishet man and a woman. The jist of the joke had to do with the experiences of women who sleep with cis men and an exaggerated version of the very similar script followed by many of these men. Basically along the lines of of ‟kisses for 20 seconds, fingers you for 30 seconds, immediately wants PiV intercourse. Pumps away with no clitoral stimulation. Cums. Asks did you cum, then rolls over and falls asleep.”

The number of women and non-binary people  who commented on the shares of this post was both entertaining and a sad commentary on the average straight sexual experience. Many of the comments included additional frequent script additions including the stereotypical downward head push when some guys want oral sex, the rareness with which men actually offer or go ahead with eating out, and the tendency for sex to really be all about his orgasm – while at the same time many men are convinced that they’re Dynamos in bed.

As I’ve written previously, I’ve been having some sexy adventures of late, in an attempt to live by the old adage: “The best way to get over someone, is to get under a lot of someones.” While it is only recently that I’ve engaged in more diverse adventures, even before my possibly tawdry experiments however, I had an uncommonly good knowledge of matters related to sex and sexuality.

From a fairly young age, I was intrigued by sex and my research took various forms including but not limited to pornography, literotica, various articles, sex and relationship advice columns, as well as actual academic studies in sexology. What’s more, for all that I may be awkward, I have been told that I have fairly good insight into people’s motivations, wants, fears, etc. Even before I lost my virginity, it was not uncommon for friends and acquaintances to seek my advice on issues related to sex and relationships, and my advice very frequently proved helpful. A few years ago, I even looked into starting an advice column, but had no idea how to seek out questions.

Continuing the fun, I asked my friends about advice they could give to cis het men when it comes to being a better lover. More hilarity ensued, but there was also an undercurrent of anger. I mean… seriously, wouldn’t you be if guys bragging about what great lovers they are, but continuously turned out to be nothing to write home about?

Based on the comments and my own experiences, I’ve put together a list of advice designed to help cis het men, and frankly anyone who sleeps with either women or people with vaginas. Note that because this article is targeted at Cis Het Men when interacting with women with vaginas, the language used may be somewhat binary in nature. This is not meant to exclude non-binary people as both existing, their identity being truth, but is only meant to deal with a very specific set of circumstances and not be a general essay on sex and different orientations. Those posts may yet be coming. Remember: Not all women have vaginas, not all men have penises, and there are more than two genders.

Without Further Ado: Ten Tips On How to Rock Her World Continue reading “10 Tips for Men to be Better in Bed”

10 Tips for Men to be Better in Bed
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Tales of Tinder

As a way of coping with the break-up, I’ve given myself the opportunity to have a little sexy fun. For most of my sexual history, despite always being very interested in sex, I had never engaged in casual sex. There were different reasons, including assuming that people wouldn’t be interested, but the bigger reason had to do with the fact that my attraction is often connected to a certain connection with the person. Worse, some obvious sign of bigotry or hate is an instant clit-boner killer. There have been multiple cases where I am completely overwhelmed by how attractive someone is, only to have them ruin it by saying something so enraging, that it’s just over.

Still, at this time, I’ve been finding myself in the perfect frame of mind for casual hookups. I’m not in a place where I consider myself in a place to start a new relationship. I’m not looking for someone to date since I’m too busy rediscovering what it means to be someone who isn’t part of a couple. People always talk about not becoming consumed by a relationship, but even in the best case scenario, there is a difference. When you are part of a couple, you have this assumption that there is someone there for you to count on. A partner – whether a true one or not- means that there are two of you instead of one. As a couple, your plans, your goals, your presumption about the way your life will follow, they all factor in another person in some way and change the equation.

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Tales of Tinder

Dismissed By People like You

CN Spoilers for Grace and Frankie, NSFW, Discussions of Sex, Consent, Mentions of Rape

Note: The bottom quote does not include some of the text, but has been edited down to contain the relevant parts of the discussion.

Grace: What are we doing? I’ll tell you what we’re doing. We’re We’re making vibrators for women with arthritis.

Frankie: Yes! Vibrators! Brilliant!

Grace: Oh, grow up. Older women masturbate too.

Frankie: And we have vaginas.

Brianna:  I highly doubt there’s a vibrator market for geriatric women with arthritis.

Grace: There is. I’m in agony.

Frankie: It takes a lot longer for us to get off, Sol.

Grace: She’s right. Our blood doesn’t flow as easily – and our genital tissue is more delicate. I did some reading. The more effort it takes to orgasm, the more you irritate it, and the more it inflames your arthritis. And I mean shouldn’t older women have it better than that?

Mallory: How do I explain to my children that their grandma makes sex toys for other grandmas?

Grace: I’ll tell you what you can tell them, honey. We’re making things for people like us, because we are sick and tired of being dismissed by people like you.

So ends the second season of Grace and Frankie. The line “We’re making things for people like us, because we are sick and tired of being dismissed by people like you.” Seems to me like a perfect summary of the first two seasons of Grace and Frankie. Nominally the show is about two older women relearning how to live on their own after their husbands leave them for each other.

More than that, the show is about two older women realizing the extent to which they have been taken for granted, and the extent to which women past a certain age get treated as invisible and irrelevant. The level to which women’s identities are subsumed into that of their families and especially their husbands.

Continue reading “Dismissed By People like You”

Dismissed By People like You

It Was Assault and It Wasn’t the First Time

CN/TW: Descriptions of Assault and Rape

I was at a party the other weekend, when the subject of my book came up.

I decided to tell the anecdote of the faith healer, the punch line of which was the description of his hand on my crotch and ass stroking back and forth, while I tried not to laugh in his face or look at my mother who was also struggling. I played it like I always do; for laughs at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation. But this time something was different. Maybe it was the look on the face of the person I was speaking to. Maybe it was the fact that I was already thinking about something related to assault. Whatever it was, even as I was laughing, I was suddenly face with the fact that what I was describing was sexual assault.

A man was touching my body in intimate places, in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. He was stroking my crotch because he knew he could get away with it. Despite the fact that my mother was sitting right there. I was in a position where I couldn’t object, and I couldn’t really refuse. Not without possible consequences.

It’s not as if the realization changed much. I was already an assault victim, having come to terms with what had happened to me at 18 years old with a doctor.

But the realization that I had been telling the story of my assault as a humorous story made me stop and think.

Continue reading “It Was Assault and It Wasn’t the First Time”

It Was Assault and It Wasn’t the First Time

Sexual Assault By a Medical Provider Is Not a Big Deal… Until It Is

When I was 18, I was assaulted by a doctor at the university clinic.

 

I had gone in to get tested for bacterial vaginosis. I was in love and wanted to make sure that I didn’t smell strange if the chance to have sex ever came up. The first doctor at the clinic was very kind. She opted not to use a speculum since I was a virgin, just like every other doctor I had seen for a vaginal issue until that point. I got a call a few weeks later to come in to get my results. The doctor who saw me then was someone I had not seen before. Before she even got to the test results, she began laying into me about my weight. She told me I was morbidly obese, that diabetes must be causing the smell. I was maybe 40 lbs. heavier than my optimal weight for my height. I didn’t know what fat shaming was then, but I tried standing up for myself, letting her know that my cholesterol, blood pressure, and blood sugar levels were all perfect.

The facts didn’t matter to her. She had decided that I didn’t meet her standards of fitness and that the best way to deal with it was to make me feel horrible about myself. Finally, we got to the results: I did not have BV. She asked me why I had come in to check on it, and so I told her. Unexpectedly, she offered to take a look. I was shocked, but I accepted her offer. I was worried and she was a doctor. She had to be professional, right?

As I sat on the table, getting ready for the exam, I looked over at her and asked her not to use the speculum. I was a virgin, I told her, and the other doctor said it wasn’t necessary. Then, I lay down on the cold table. There is vulnerability in that statement. Everything about the doctor’s office is about power. You sit, while the doctor stands above you. You are naked, while they are dressed. You are in pain, afraid, vulnerable, and they hold the answers. Everything about the doctor-patient relationship reinforces that power dynamic. I was vulnerable on that table, exposing my private parts to a doctor who had already wounded me. She had already established her power over me, so I knew that my request was a supplication. It was her power to grant it.

But she didn’t.

 

As I lay there exposed on the cold table, worried about whether or not I was normal, the doctor violated my request. She shoved an unlubricated speculum inside me and opened it to its widest setting. I can’t even remember what came next. I do remember the pain. I don’t remember walking out of the clinic. I do remember trying to rush back to my dorm; I didn’t want to cry in public. I looked for the room of the person I trusted most on campus but he wasn’t home. In my search for him, I ended up in a room with some people I vaguely knew. I broke down crying. I told them what had happened. I was bleeding, I was sure of it. I felt torn. But I was crying about the fat shaming, had every instance of it having happened flying through my brain.

I was lucky in some ways. The people I barely knew, who comforted me as I cried, said all the right things. They told me what happened wasn’t my fault. That what she had done was wrong and that I was right to be upset. Not everyone is so lucky. But I didn’t want to listen. I wasn’t prepared to face that what happened to me was assault, so instead, I concentrated on the fat shaming. I convinced myself that the assault was no big deal.

Years later, when I lost my virginity, I postponed getting a pap smear for two years. Normally, you are expected and encouraged to get one within a year of becoming sexually active, but I didn’t want to be in that vulnerable position again. Moreover, I became more sensitive to fat shaming. I lost my temper more quickly whenever my weight was mentioned. It tinged all my interactions with doctors. If they brought up my weight, I found it more difficult to trust them or found myself reacting negatively to the rest of the appointment. Every time a doctor failed to listen to me, it felt like another betrayal.

Everything came to a head when my GI made the decision to send me to the weight management clinic. The morning of the appointment, I woke up in a panic. My heart was beating like crazy. I was sweating. I couldn’t focus my mind. I found myself sitting in a corner, rocking back and forth and crying. I couldn’t understand why.

All I could think about was that doctor, her cold hands, the pain of the rough plastic edges as the speculum entered me, the stretching-tearing feeling of it being opened. I couldn’t get the feeling of betrayal, of being violated, out of my mind. Superimposed over those feelings was every instance when a doctor refused to listen to me, all the times when I’d had to be vulnerable with a doctor and had that vulnerability rewarded with pain and betrayal.

When I realized what was going on — a panic attack — I took some anxiety medication and tried to calm myself down. I spent my day curled around myself, trying to hold myself together, as I watched the clock tick down to my appointment. I was terrified. I didn’t know what would happen when I went into the clinic.

Throughout my struggle, I realized that what I had thought was no big deal had actually been affecting my interaction with doctors for years. Suddenly, I was facing the truth: What had happened to me was a big fucking deal. I had been assaulted. By a doctor. By a member of society that I was supposed to be able to trust implicitly. By a person that everyone expected me to trust. Not only had my body been violated, so had my ability to trust that doctors had my best interest at heart. What’s more, the violation brought on the realization that I was very much a member of a vulnerable population: people with disabilities are among some of the most at risk for sexual assault.

Sexual assault is about power. It is about the perpetrator feeling like they have power over the victim. It is not about sex. The inclusion of my genitals in this assault was incidental. The doctor in question wasn’t trying to get any kind of sexual thrill or fulfill a sexual desire. Who I was didn’t matter. She just needed to assert her own power over someone else, and I was the lucky victim.

If you asked her, she probably would have no idea that what she did to me was assault. She might make excuses about how she thought that the use of a speculum was necessary. She might say that she is a doctor and I am not, and that she knew better than I did. It doesn’t matter what she would say. The simple truth is that I made my boundaries clear and she violated them. The fact that she did so without even the courtesy of using lubrication (standard in those types of medical procedures) is just icing on the cake. To her, it didn’t matter if I felt pain. I wasn’t a human being in that moment. I was at her mercy. She was the one in charge and she could do whatever she wanted to me without fear of consequences. To her, what I wanted didn’t matter. And that is what makes it assault.

Assaults by doctors, unless sensationalized and existing on a large scale, rarely get talked about — and are sometimes even trivialized. We as a society put great faith in doctors. We don’t want to face that the people responsible for our health and well-being might be as human as the rest of us. We don’t want to address the fact that power dynamics that are enforced as severely as those between patients and doctors puts everyone at risk of abuse. We especially don’t want to talk about doctor abuse, because in doing so, we risk being lumped in with conspiracy theorists that take things too far and condemn the medical profession altogether. As an advocate of evidence-based medicine, it’s difficult to draw attention to abuses perpetuated by doctors and still defend medicine as a profession.

And yet, drawing attention to this abuse is very important. When someone is hurt so personally by a doctor, it can be easy to lose faith in the entire industry. Being violated by a doctor does more than affect you psychologically, it can also put your health at risk. It can make you afraid to be vulnerable with doctors again. It might mean that you try to protect yourself by keeping things to yourself that the doctor should know about. But more importantly, talking about doctor abuse is essential to help victims know that they didn’t do anything wrong and that they are not alone.

Whenever I discuss what happened to me, someone always feels the need to mention that the doctor might not have been thinking about consent but might have simply decided that using a speculum was necessary. Who was I, as an untrained patient, to decide what equipment the doctor needed or didn’t need, they ask? I have questions of my own. If doctors know better, does that mean they have the right to ignore the boundaries I set for myself? Does that mean that I have no say in what happens to my body? And if so, is my body really mine? What about your body? And where do we draw the line?

Sexual Assault By a Medical Provider Is Not a Big Deal… Until It Is