Sex and the shitty

Allow me to open a new discussion here in this fishbowl of ours. I’m addressing this to you, the twenty-somethings of Halifax who have long been ignored. We are no longer naïve high-schoolers, and we are certainly not thirty-somethings with their smug, sexually aware little faces. I know that in this, the era of Sex and the City, Judd Apatow, and the writings of Adrian Lee, we have fooled ourselves into thinking that we are open with each other about sex. It wasn’t until recently, when a friend’s sexual encounter reminded me of my own multitude of uncomfortable sexual scenarios, that I decided to act.
When I say awkward sexual scenarios, I don’t just mean the “then I turned around and saw in the mirror that my skirt was tucked into my underwear” (3 on the Cosmo blooper-metre) kind of story. I mean the “I said the wrong name,” “I got a nosebleed at the WORST moment,” “I grabbed the wrong size of condoms and I think it’s still inside of her” kind of stories.
It happens to us all. Trust me. So, my friends, please open your hearts and your memories to me at marysadshaw@gmail.com. Share your moments of horror, your vomit inducing (or induced) stories. I would love to help you overcome your trying times and even more importantly prove to the rest of the world of sexually inhibited/incompetent individuals that they are not alone.
I’ll start. It all begins in the bedroom of a very dreamy guy, decorated with the requisite number of Reservoir Dogs posters and filled with Jack Kerouac novels. It was the first time we had hooked up, and suffice it to say I was extremely nervous. It wasn’t until I was underneath him that I realized the worst had happened. It couldn’t possibly be, I thought… not on the 12th… I usually have until the 15th… and I hadn’t had any cramps, or even felt inexplicably angry that day! Fuck!!!
There was nowhere to go, no way out, and things were rapidly progressing. Eventually I had to make a choice. I would tell him—what’s the worst that could happen? Then he told me how pretty I looked and I forgot for a minute about the whole thing. I was enraptured by the fact that he obviously had weak enough eyesight without his glasses that the automatic double chin one acquires while lying down appeared as some kind of lovely collar. So it went on. And the following day I waited for him to go to the bathroom before uncrossing my legs and moving the sheets to asses the damage. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was – a few smatterings here and there. That is, until I moved the pillow. HOW was there a stain up there? WHEN were we ever in that position? Forget it. I had to leave. It didn’t matter if I ever saw him again, I just had to get out of that house. I quickly gathered my clothes and re-adjusted the sheets so that I could avoid the inevitable for a few more minutes. Once he re-entered, I made some excuse that my mother had just called and I needed to return home quickly. He offered to drive me and I almost burst into tears, imagining the life we could have shared together. I left immediately and didn’t see him again until somehow, months later, we managed to have sex again. The only possible explanation? Blindness.
This story is the first of many that I could tell you, but instead I would like to hear yours. This is not a place to come for an answer (I’m not Dan Savage), and it’s certainly not an open forum for Adrian Lee, or Griffin McInnes (just because you’re in a relationship doesn’t mean the awkwardness subsides. I get it Griffin. Please stop calling me at night in tears). Send me your stories and see them recounted here ANONYMOUSLY, so at last the sexually obtuse community will finally get the recognition it deserves.
In solidarity,
Mary
marysadshaw@gmail.com