Credit: Jennifer Pate, @maridad.studio

Getting banged by squishy half-chubs was an old pastime of mine. Why, might you ask, did I allow flaccid penes to wriggle their way into my vagina with not so much a peep out of my otherwise daring 18-year-old persona? I did it for the same reason why I let my vag get chafed and raw and swollen while banging a fling when I was 20 because he hadn’t jizzed yet. Neither had I. I did it for the same reason why I had never orgasmed from getting eating out until I was 24-fucking-years-old. “It’s just not my thing,” they said. I did it for the same reason why I got jack-hammered for ten consecutive minutes, sweat dripping from the tips of his greasy hair into my eyes while I pondered if he even remembered that I was a human being and not just a warm, gooey hole to stick his junk in. I tolerated this unfortunate behavior because I was mute in expressing my desires. Also, college bros are douchey as fuck.

In my burgeoning sexual youth, I continued to fuck men when I felt uncomfortable because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I didn’t want to seem needy or unchill or ungrateful. I continued to fuck because I didn’t want it to “get awkward” when an arrogant, long-haired documentary filmmaker’s dick couldn’t get hard — because getting railed by a stick of silly putty was less awkward (lol). Male fragility is a motherfucker, y’all.

As women, we’re told growing up not to put out too soon, but not tease too much. We’re told that losing our virginity will hurt, that our distracting breasts and thighs aren’t worth risking a boy’s education, and that we should keep it coy, remain sweet, and stick up for ourselves only when we’re not stepping on another person’s toes. We’re taught to hold a man’s pleasure over our own; dick is God and female ejaculation as elusive as ownership of our own gahd-damn bodies. Of course 18-year-old McNasty was set up for failure in the bedroom. How could I understand my own pleasure when I was too worried about facilitating another person’s orgasm?

It wasn’t until after college that I started shedding these learned behaviors of what I should and shouldn’t be during sex. Like before, the story starts with a squishy dick. A recent breakup had led me to start giving a shit about my future, life, and expectations when it came to getting down. An old high school friend invited me over for drinks and swimming, and fuck if I had anything better to do that Wednesday with no job, a liberal arts degree, and mostly fond memories. A few glasses of Maker’s later, we made it into his bedroom while talking about our recently snipped relationships. The talking turned to dry humping that inevitably led to some good old-fashioned PIV. We got off on the hard, slightly fumbled step, but it wasn’t long until the boner started tapping out. As soon as I felt his erection dissipating, I told him we could stop, or more — that we should stop — I wasn’t having a good time. He was shocked and puzzled.

While telling a dude who’s lost his boner to stop banging you ranks on the lower end of the “owning your own pleasure” spectrum, it was still a step in the right direction towards my discovery of sexual self. I didn’t owe this guy anything — not a coddling of his pride or an ounce of fake moaning. There was no putting anyone down, either — only a matter-of-fact conversation that involved desires and consent. Wonderful! I may have walked away from the experience unscathed and feeling pretty okay, but as it turned out, his recently “snipped” relationship was never really snipped at all. Male entitlement is a motherfucker, y’all.

Nowadays, I try my hardest not to give into sexual experiences that I don’t feel comfortable with. I still might share an affinity for Grey’s Anatomy and good vegetarian food with an 18-year-old McNasty, but my patience for selfish lovers has waned greatly. Don’t they know that they could be having way better sex if they were just, like, less shitty people? If only. So for all of the clavicle-clapping-jackhammer-sans-pussy-eating-chafed-vagina-sex I’ve had in the last 12 years of fucking, I like to think I’ve encountered more good than bad. And there’s still a hell of a lot of time to learn and grow and find my best-fucking-self.

If all sexually consenting adults would be upfront and understanding of their own desires and expectations and vice versa, the world would be a better, more sex-positive place. Honestly, I probably would have fucked at least 30 more people had that been the case. But alas, we live in a world full of pussy grabbing presidents, a slew of Harvey Weinsteins, and more Aziz Ansaris than we could ever really know. It’s not always easy or applicable to speak up for yourself in an uncomfortable sexual experience, but working toward stripping yourself of insecurity and unhealthy learned behaviors will help keep the entitled dicks at bay — squishy, hard, and all.

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