I’ve never been in love. I’ve been in lust plenty of times, and there was that one time I believed in fairy tales, but actual love and not the crazy-person kind? Nope.

Wait. Hang on. Hold the violins and the pity party, please. I know y’all wanna start feeling all bad for me for some reason – but put that knee-jerk on pause for a sec. Falling into romantic love isn’t the only form of love, you know. My life is full of love – and it is one of the things that sustains me. It may just be a bit different. Let me explain.

First, of course, is equating love with physical intimacy.

1) Box o’ chocolate love: Avoiding the whole commitment thing means, well, you never know what yer gonna get when the lights go down (or not) and the clothes come off. Might be that adorable 21-year-old knocks your socks off, even with his age and one arm in a cast. Might be the dimple-faced Irish bartender can’t perform past jackrabbit sex. So, yeah, you take the chocolate truffle with the marzipan. But you can always send the marzipan home in the morning, and I’m no worse for wear. I don’t have to keep eating (pun intended) marzipan… or try to change it into truffle.

More importantly? It makes my life exciting and diverse. Different people can teach me different things– yes tricks in the boudoir, but also about my body and their bodies. Additionally, I don’t have to ask permission to try new things, nor do I have to let go of certain desires, I just find someone new who is into them. And, you know, it rarely gets monotonous.

2) Solo love: Why don’t we celebrate masturbation more? I mean, I know why, and sometimes people do, but still! Hell, you know what works, yet you never have to have awkward conversations about what doesn’t. There’s no need to fake it, either. Moreover, no one’s making me watch lesbian porn or getting weirded out by watching gay boy sex or gang bangs (although sometimes I have to send my inner feminist out for ice cream).

Of course, there’s more to love than physical intimacy. Love also translates into emotions and relationships with other people.

3) Unconditional love – My family: I love my family. They love me. However, we’re going through a pretty rough time (no, I’m not getting into it here), so… it’s a bit complicated at present. While this isn’t the time to really rely on my immediate family for support, it is very much about unconditional love and self-sacrifice. About putting other people first, letting go of selfish notions and inappropriate expectations. About the deep bonds we often take for granted but hold up when things are completely shit.

4) Platonic love - My friends: I may have said it before, but I am ridiculously lucky when it comes to my friends, both near and far. They listen when I throw a fit, bring over wine and a shoulder when things are tough, and call me out on my bullshit. Yeah, yeah, I’ve never been in love, but I do know my life wouldn’t be complete without them – I would never give them up in exchange for romantic love, and I think it’s always a bummer (and, let’s face it, stupid) when people sacrifice their friends for their partner.

And then, of course, the last one…

5) Self love: I am not perfect. I make mistakes and say the wrong things and can be naïve and trip over my own feet. Yet, I love the person I am. I love the life I have built, and continue to build, for myself. I love what I do, I love the people I keep close. IMHO, you cannot have and truly appreciate any of the other kinds of love unless you have this one.

In short, my life is full of love. No, I don’t have experience with the one we may typically associate with the term, but ever stop to think about our obsession that one anyway? I’m not knocking it, but damn you can’t turn on the radio or watch a movie without Romantic Love being shoved in your face as the end-all be-all experience of not only love, but practically life itself.

I beg to differ.

Look. I’m not saying one kind is better than others, that it’s better to have the whole box of chocolates than choosing to have the caramel-with-sea-salt every night, but neither is having the best chocolate in the box better than anything else and worthy of sacrificing everything else. I’m also not saying that Romantic Love ain’t awesome.

What I am saying is there is more to love than the romantic kind. There is more to love about love, than our conventional notions.

Why not cultivate it and celebrate it in all its forms?

When it comes to sex as a performance, it’s not a matter of whether or not it is, or whether or not one should approach it as such…but simply…to what degree. Life is a performance and sex is no different. The real question is just exactly who am I performing for? Because I assure you, it’s more often than not, not the easy answer of but your partner of course. And then more than this is the why behind the escapade or depending on degrees, more aptly titled the charade.

Sex is like ice cream. It comes in any flavor you can imagine. And here are just a few of the flavors that drip themselves upon my tongue. Power sex. Makeup sex. Hate sex. Hotel sex. Vacation sex. Novelty sex. Sampler sex. Revenge sex. Love sex.

Power sex is about me. And you. It validates me. It’s a pat on the back not to worry sweetie, you’re hot, you’re desirable, you can get what you want when you want it. Sure enough you might be in the audience, but the show is for me.

Makeup sex is about us. Together. And apart. I ‘m sorry and you’re sorry and this is how we say it, even if we’ve already said it with words, or maybe exactly because we didn’t or couldn’t. Sometimes it’s sweet. Sometimes it’s cathartic. But the slate is getting washed clean. You wash my slate. I wash your slate. And then the curtains close and the show is over.

Hate sex is about putting me before you. Because I hate you. And also probably love you. But mostly hate you. Maybe because you broke me. Or maybe you just chipped me a bit and I shed a tear or two but we’re through and this is how I say it. I’ll be more aggressive. The sex will be louder, and faster, and harder, and when we’re done I’ll have my clothes on before you can even think to reach for a towel. It might happen only once or I might come back a few times. Really, it just depends on how much rage I still have to work out. But you can be certain. You won’t come out of this without a scratch. And more than just a few bite marks.

Hotel sex is about everybody and nobody. It’s a show for anyone within listening distance. These aren’t my neighbors. These aren’t my sheets. And I haven’t a care in the world. But it’s also something private. And intimate. Because I’ll likely do just about anything, try anything, be anyone, go ahead and ask for your greatest fantasy. Hotel rooms are like little chambers of time and space that don’t exist outside of the four walls encapsulating it. They are a safe space. And while I’m not moaning louder, panting faster, or yelling out fuck me harder for anyone but you. Unlike at home, I don’t care if anyone hears. You’ll fuck me stupid and then I’ll send you out for donuts. With sprinkles!

Vacation sex is about me and my friends, and my spank bank. I’m putting on a show for myself. Look at me, I’m so daring, I’m so scandalous, I’m so indulgent, and I can do whatever I want. And then I do. And it’s a fantasy. And it’s amazing. And you’re so attractive. And everything is just so tropical, or foreign, or spontaneous. And then I’ll go home. And tell all my friends about the amazing sex I had while on Vacation. And I’ll think of you again, warm against my flesh when I’m wet and warm under my sheets. You’ll get me through many a cold winter night when who has time to go out and date when all I want is to help myself off to a good night of sleep. And I’ll cherish you. And what you did for me.

Novelty sex is a grab bag. Sometimes it’s for me, because I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be with two guys. Sometimes it’s about you, because you wanted to see what it was like to rip a whole in my nylons and do me through it and I’m nothing if not a good sport for someone who deserves it. And sometimes it’s about both of us, when there’s role play and suddenly I’m performing for you and you’re performing for me and suddenly the role of audience becomes intertwined in our interactive live show.

Sample sex is about me. And testing you. Though you may or may not really be able to control your performance. Maybe we’ve gone out on one date and you were absolutely fucking tedious we just didn’t click but you’re super hot and I could use a good booty call. Or maybe we’ve gone on three or four dates and we have a good time, not a great time but good enough and frankly I’m trying to figure out if our time together is worth the effort to put on makeup and shave my legs. Either way. I sleep with you. And it’s a test. Not one that you might pass or fail in the sense that you have any real control. But more like a litmus test. I’m testing to see if your acid balances out my base to form the most intensely balanced pH. I’m testing to see if you can fuck me science…er…I mean silly. This is sampler sex, and I’m dipping my toe in your waters. Whether or not you have any idea.

Revenge sex is about you. Because it hurts. Because it hurts me. Because you’ve hurt me. And so this about me trying to hurt you. Or at least make you flinch. Two for flinching!! And the thing of thing is, you’re not even the one getting laid. Maybe it’s your best friend. Maybe it’s your brother. Maybe it’s your cousin. Or even just your roommate from college. But it’s a sad bad mad thing that I’m doing. And no one will come out the better for it. But people do it anyway. I’m going to do it anyway. The revenge is about you, it’s a show I’m putting on for you and the other guy, my co-star…well…I barely notice him. And the whole thing is so misguided and childish and spiteful and unhealthy but dammit if I’m not going to fall down the rabbit hole anyway.

Love sex is about us. I look into your eyes, run my hand along your jaw line. Trace my thumb across your check until just before it touches your lips. Those are for me, waiting for mine. Lips kiss. Part. Wait. Pant. Hold. Nuzzle down into my neck. There are slow times. Soft times. Fast times. Hard times. Passionate times. No secret times. Sharing everything even this moment times. We lock fingers. Intertwine like highschoolers walking through a county fair. It borders on sappy and gross. But we don’t care. Nobody is watching. Nobody else matters. This is for us. You. Me. Us.  Love.

And I’m sure you. He. They. Her. The other person. Has their own view, another side to all our fantastical sexcapades. These Performances of Passion. These Luaus of Lust.  These Dances of Desire. These Operas of Orgasm. But sometimes I’m just fucking for myself. Sure you’re there. You’re necessary. You’re an integral ingredient. But the reasons why you’re there. Why I picked you. Picked now. Picked here. Or there.  Well that’s about me. Narcissistically nuanced sex. And don’t pretend you don’t do it to.

And sometimes the sex is good, healthy, stable type sex. And sometimes it’s false, destructive, broken type sex. That’s life. A mix bag. A grab bag. You just never know what you’re going to get. But just remember that the next time some young 22 year old lets you fuck her in the backseat of her car, parked down some dimly lit rarely used street, at four am after the club…she’s probably just doing it for the feeling of power it gives her. And if you’re cool with that, then fuck away my friend. But know that she’s faking. And that’s really the biggest problem with performing sex. A girl not getting off, and a boy not knowing.

Is there a moment when you’re more vulnerable than that poignant instant when you first get naked with another person? Everything is out in the open – everything. Those minute flaws that you obsess over in the mirror are now under the microscope of physical intimacy. The oddly-shaped birthmark? Check. The lack of a six pack? Check. The strangely baggy arm skin? Double check. More than that, now that you’re naked, there’s nothing between your partner and those most private parts of your own body. I’m not talking strictly about your Television Parents Council-designated private parts. Maybe you feel weird about your elbows. Maybe you giggle uncontrollably when someone kisses the right side of your neck. Whatever is it, you can only hide it for so long when you’re naked. Even with the lights off, your body is on display.

It’s not just your body, though. It’s your sexual self. When we go through our daily lives – going to class or grabbing a coffee before getting to work, we aren’t being sexual. Doesn’t mean we don’t think about it. And it doesn’t mean that we all don’t get those random waves of arousal that make any given day simultaneously surprisingly awesome and awkward. But we have to show the world that we’re above our basal instincts. That’s what being a person in society is all about. It’s the reason we don’t get drunk during the day, or eat an ice cream sundae in the break room for lunch, or make out with our co-worker at our desks (at least, not often). It’s not that we don’t want to do these things, it’s that we aren’t supposed to. This is the reason that getting drunk is so intoxicating (if you’ll excuse the pun). Being drunk allows us to ignore all of this righteous self-restraint and say, “Why yes, I will buy a lamb sandwich from this gentleman in the roadside cart at three in the morning because it smells good.”

When you get naked with someone and sleep with them, you not only let them see your body. You’re also letting them see you at your most basic level. The part of you that you spend a lot of time trying to pretend isn’t there. We’ve been taught to separate our hedonistic sexual selves from our demure, proper, tax-paying selves, and to keep the sexy part under wraps. To borrow from the ineffable Lil John, we are all supposed to be “a lady in the street and a freak in the bed.”

So when you get intimate with someone, you’re letting that part of yourself off the leash. You’re introducing another person to a side of you that even you don’t even always see. And that’s a scary prospect. It becomes much easier if we embellish our sexual selves and mask those drives we have with a more theatrical approach. If we distance ourselves from our sex lives, then maybe we won’t be held responsible if we do something wrong.

This is another confusing part of sexual intimacy – the fear of doing something “wrong.” We aren’t taught a whole lot about the realities of having sex, except that we’re supposed to be really good at it. We’re supposed to be able to successfully please (with an orgasm being the only valid measurement of pleasure) any partner with minimal amounts of conversation. Anything other than that, and we’re simply not “good” in bed. Can you imagine that kind of pressure in any other type of situation? You get hired for a job, and on the first day someone hands you a folder of blank papers and says, “The clients want a dynamite presentation. You need to address profit margins, assets, and merger outlooks. And not necessarily in that order. I can’t tell you how long the presentation will be – it could be two minutes, and it could be two hours. At no point should you stop and ask the clients if you’re on the right track. If they sense weakness, you’re a goner. Good luck!”

The simple answer is to detach our sexually performing selves from our real selves. We become the embodiment of who we think our partner wants to be with because it’s safer than being ourselves. We act out a script in our head that’s been successful in the past, or we embellish our moans and cries of pleasure because we think it’s what our partner wants to hear. I don’t think this is necessarily a bad strategy. Sex can be stressful and each new partner presents unique challenges, preferences, and learning experiences. Retreating behind a sexual persona can make it a bit easier to have confidence in yourself.

This only becomes negative, in my opinion, when our obsession with being “perfect” prohibits us from enjoying ourselves. Even though having sex with another person is a shared experience, it is still a way for us to express ourselves. Becoming a caricature can alienate us too much from what we want and need. I think this tends to fade naturally when we develop a long-term sexual relationship with a partner, and this facilitates the development of those lovely little layers of intimacy.

My suggestion would be for those of us who are not in a long-term sexual relationship to try to find ways to be ourselves in bed. We don’t always have to hide behind this facade of being the perfect partner. Be willing to do what you must to get what you want and need, including asking the awkward questions. After all, at the end of the day, allowing your partner to really please you just might be the best way to really please your partner.

What about a fine for him?

Okay, this story boils down to one thing: lack of respect for sex workers.

Let’s see, dude goes into a strip club, gets himself $100 worth of shimmy and shake dances. Of course, there is the potential that he got more in that booth, I’m not going to sugarcoat that. Regardless, services of some sort were rendered, and the agreed upon monetary transaction was not forthcoming.

He ran out without paying.

She smashed him with a beer bottle.

Now she’s going to jail for nine months.

I’m not going to defend her actions, but this jerk had it coming to him. This was a dine-and-dash of the meanest kind. He had no right to stiff her after she’d gotten him stiff. Even though private dances in strip clubs are legal, what was she to do? Call the police? That is what restaurant owners can do if they catch you trying to sneak away without paying. That’s what can happen to shoplifters. But I highly doubt strippers will get the same cordial treatment.

When I used to be a more frequent patron of the naked ballet, I found it embarrassing and disgusting the way a good number of the other visitors would treat the entertainers. They were rude, crude and grossly lewd. I know the whole spectacle is ribald, but you don’t need to be nasty about it. Guys would openly mock women if they didn’t like their bodies. They would hurl insults and degrade the dancers. It was awful and I didn’t and still don’t understand why it happens.

Oh wait, I do. Men don’t value strippers as people. Just objects. And that thought is revolting.

–

Huh, who knew? Seems the little bud of pleasure is actually a much bigger organ of orgasm! Though, why are we only learning about this now? Considering how much humans think about sex, you’d think we’d be studying it all the time. But oddly enough, we don’t. We don’t spend remotely enough time or resources on the act that is the origin of our existence.

Because of this, it really isn’t too surprising that it was only a couple years ago that researchers discovered that the clitoris is a much larger and more complex organ in female sexual pleasure. When excited, a woman’s clit engorges and wraps the vagina in a hug of pleasure. This can possibly put an end to the debate between clitoral/vaginal cums. It would seem they are all clitoral!

I do love the analogy in the article that the little glans, the tip of the clit we can see (and rub and lick and vibrate) on the outside is just like the tip of iceberg. However, unlike icebergs, the clit is nothing to fear! Instead, it is a harbinger of great things to come. Now that researchers have started to study female sexual organs a little more, we might finally learn more about how women are pleased sexually.

Hot clit off the starboard bow!

–

Most would agree that when it comes to sex straight men rarely get the short of end the stick. Or in this case, the short end because of their dick.

But how much do I love the fantastic Nikki Brown for pointing out that dudes aren’t “allowed” to experiment with other dudes. In our society, guys are expected to fuck women or, with a bit of expanded acceptance, other guys. That is all. Why, even on this fine site, there’s been debate back and forth as to whether a guy can go back to getting pussy once he’s gotten his dick wet in a dude’s mouth.

While there is certainly room for debate as to the societal motivation behind encouraging women to explore sexuality, there is no doubt that women have a greater degree of freedom when it comes to trying new things. Sure, guys encourage it for their own thrills, I won’t debate that. But if a woman was to reveal she has tried some lady loving but chooses to stay with men, she is not degraded and considered less. In contrast, there’s no chance a man can suck balls and not always be considered gay, in some respect.

So, I’m all behind Nikki and her words here. Everyone should be given the opportunity—without anyone questioning their sexuality—to try what they want to try. So many different flavours out there. Take a good slurp of them all!

–

And I’m going to leave you this month with some sexy eye candy! HOT HOT HOT!

Hi, I’m Ethan Sommers. I’m new around here at Met Another Frog. Ms. Blue invited me over because I have a confession:

I hate performers in the bedroom.

Don’t know what I mean? Here’s the nitty-gritty…

It was some years ago when I was with one particular lady-in-question. We were both in our early twenties and she hadn’t had a lot of partners. I was a bit more experienced and welcomed the opportunity to play teacher.

In one of our first forays in the bedroom, she decided to ride cowgirl over my rough and rugged plain. After she slowly lowered herself onto me, I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sensation. She quickened her pace, up and down, and then, like a Hawaiian dancer, twisted her hips from right to left, drawing me in and out of her as she did.

I remember thinking for someone so inexperienced, she seemed pretty crafty with the coitus.

She began moving her hips in a circular fashion, stirring herself with my erection, alternately speeding up and slowing down depending on her impulse in the moment. At first, it was enjoyable. I was content to let her play around as she was still discovering herself. Then I opened my eyes.

Her gaze was fixed to the left of the bed, on the mirror that made up the sliding door of her bedroom closet. She was watching herself, noticeably sucking her stomach in as she pinched the pink nipples of her perky breasts. Watching her as she moved, I realized she was so focused on how she looked that she didn’t seem to be enjoying herself. I had a theory why and a question to ask.

“Where’d you learn how to do this?”

She looked back at me, smiling. “Honestly? I saw it in a porno I watched last night. You like it?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to keep things positive. “How about you?”

“Oh, it’s nice.” She turned her head back to the mirror. While her attention was on me, she had relaxed a little. Now that she was conscious of her appearance again, she assumed the upright porn star pose once more, sucking in her stomach as she picked up the pace.

Did she look hot? Absolutely. If Heaven is a real place, then I hope the first sight I see beyond the Pearly Gates will be a woman riding me to climax. This lady, however, wasn’t even coming close. She was going through the motions of how she thought she should screw me, and that was a huge turn-off.

I’ve never had a problem with girls who want to watch themselves in the midst of a good fucking. It can add to the experience in so many ways that it’s worth a shot if you haven’t tried it already. The problem in this instance was that the lady-in-question wasn’t doing it for her enjoyment. She was putting on a show, performing for herself in the mirror; obviously more worried about how she looked than what she felt. I knew I’d have to nip this shit in the bud.

I chose my words carefully, got her to close her eyes and concentrate on how things felt as she moved above me. It didn’t take long for her to figure out what worked for her, and as the mess of the bed later indicated, it didn’t take long for me either.

Following a few more weeks of exploring, we tried the mirror again. Gone was the idea of looking sexy. Now it was about being sexy. Watching each other’s reflections pump and grind instead of spot-checking appearances made for quick and delightful work.

Sex done right is about connecting. If alone, with one’s self. If with others, then it’s about connecting with one ’s self and others. Whether you ride waves of pleasure to the port of orgasm or just for a lengthy cruise, it’s about knowing what you want to experience and exploring how to get there. By being more concerned with the performance rather than the sex, the lady-in-question was missing the point.

That’s the problem with learning about sex from porn, as so many do nowadays. Anyone with an iota of actual experience knows that on-camera fucking isn’t always the same as actual fucking. Porn is performers getting paid to look good in acrobatic poses meant to arouse the viewer enough to rub one out. You can learn some new positions and get turned on plenty, but not everything on-camera is going to work for you in the real world. As hot as it may look, no girl I’ve been with has ever enjoyed reverse cowgirl while suspended above me on all fours. I’ve been with a few good women that have tried, but it ended up not being worth the trouble because neither of us enjoyed it.

The moral of the story?

When the bedroom antics become a show, it’s more about the idea of sex than sex. One is good, but the other is much, much better.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which.

As I delicately recover from the viewing of Michael Fassbender’s penis in the sweaty sex-fest Shame (I have to wonder:

Where can a girl go to see some decent dong these days?

Male bits have always been scarce in television and film, and IMHO it’s the greatest tragedy of our modern age. Breasts, breasts everywhere but nary a hairy dink. Don’t these creative types realize that after decades of shoving exposed female flesh down our throats that ladies and gays are ready for some equal opportunity ogling? When every gumshoe crime show and frat boy comedy flick can get away with slipped nipples and prominent pubic mounds it becomes rather obvious that something rather important is missing.

Well perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself. After all, let’s not pretend that the female bodies exposed on our screens are generally depicted in a fun and flattering manner. Heaven forbid that we the viewing public should interpret female nakedness as something lovely, natural, normal or complex. Oh no, my anecdotal couch potato evidence shows that most naked ladies on TV are also…dead…or dying…or will be soon . Unabashed sexuality is after all, a punishable offense.

And, let’s not forget the entertainment industry’s astute use of naked ladies as background props to illustrate the supposed badassedness of various pimps, thugs and gangsters. After all, graphically gruesome murders don’t do nothin’ for a man’s cred without a couple of naked hos hanging out back at the bachelor pad, right? Thanks Hollywood, your respect for the intelligence of your audience is as always, less than zero.

Lovers of equality, I think it’s time to stick a flag in the sand and declare that the same viewership that can handle casual female nudity on TV along with intense psychotic violence is also able to handle a little swinging dick and some realistic depictions of people enjoying sex without (horrible) consequences.  I mean, if I can already see a hooker raped and murdered on TV before the kids have gone to bed then really, what harm can it do to imply a little consensual cunnilingus now and then? Ladies is it only blowjobs going on out there? Have you ever actually enjoyed some sexy time without suffering a fate worse than death? Advertising executives (don’t) want to know!

Perhaps industry execs are worried that audiences will become as blasé about balls as they have about breasts. This could be their attempt to keep the proud penis shrouded in its virile mystery. If we get too used to seeing them around maybe we’ll have higher expectations. Men will feel judged. Women will compare the onscreen offerings with their home model and call for change. To say nothing about the extra expense in body doubles for all those shy and/or underequipped movie idols. Think of the budget issues.

It’s a sad to think that what we see onscreen does, in fact, reflect larger cultural values:

War is a great way to turn around a depressed economy. Sign up at 18 and make your country proud.

Women like??? Um, who cares?