My favorite sex stories to tell at parties

I’m going to let you in on something that’s no great secret if you’ve spent more than four minutes with me: I can’t handle small talk. I’ve long considered it an exhausting pageant of patience, and life is fleeting, so I’d rather spend what precious time we have left in this mortal realm discussing the things that really matter. 

What are the primary values that govern your life? How do you plan on making a difference in the world? What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you during intercourse?

Sure, it’s personal, but I’ve got two decades’ worth of anecdotal evidence informing me that talking about sex is a surefire way to get to really know someone quickly. So, in the interest of never again having to suffer small talk with anyone who might happen upon this piece, I submit for your reading pleasure my three most humiliating, haunting, horrible sex stories. 

The Waterbed Down

My first near-miss sexual encounter started with a bang. Well, it was really more of a pop. 

I was 16 and a virgin and had been with my then-boyfriend, now husband, for around 18 months, when I decided — nay, decreed — that I was ready to move beyond “everything but” (a charming Southern adolescent aphorism encapsulating all the activities just shy of penetration one might partake in when attempting to preserve his or her chastity). 

When the night arrived, I laid down on his waterbed, it undulating under the weight of both our bodies. There were kisses and sighs and I love yous, and Scott cradled my head with his left hand. He straightened his right arm to support his weight on top of me, and with one swift, smooth movement…

WHOOSH. His. Entire. Arm. Breached the evidently dry-rotted cell of his bed, letting loose a swell of what I can only imagine was moldy, 20-year-old liquid. We scrambled, naked, out of the watery wood pit that was recently his bed frame, and Scott quickly devised a coat-hanger-and-bungee-cord combo affixed to a ceiling fan to contain the spillage. 

I’d be lying if I said I remembered what it was like when we successfully deflowered yours truly weeks later. In my mind, only the waterbed remains.  

The moral of the story: Sure… trust and chemistry are important, but when looking for a sexual partner, also seek out someone who’s resourceful and does well under pressure. And who doesn’t own a waterbed. 

The Dominique Mocea-NO

Then there was the time in college when we decided after I’d imbibed between four and six Jack and Cokes, and Scott had finished off the evening with a “bar juice” — an unholy concoction comprising whatever’s left in everyone at the table’s glasses — to give a mid-coitus handstand a try. I mean, it was college. 

Even upside down, the math was all wrong. Scott’s 6’3”, and on my best day I clock in at 5’2”, so this feat of sexual gymnastics was doomed from the start. There’s no elegant way to invert oneself, but I instructed Scott to catch my ankles and we gave it our best effort. We couldn’t have been more than 11 seconds in when my elbow buckled and I collapsed with a less-than-graceful dismount, clipping the burning B&BW candle on my bedside table with my foot on the way down. 

A smallish fire and wax burn to the inner thigh wasn’t the way I envisioned kicking off Maymester, but, hey… them’s the breaks.

The moral of the story: If you’re going insist on living this kind of life, it would behoove you to keep the room of your apartment free from miscellaneous piles of clothing (or, as I know now them, fire hazards). 

The Smoky Mountain Pain

Ahhh, the Great Smoky Mountains. The majesty. The adventure. The deep, unceasing ache of anal trauma.

Scott had driven his Mustang to my family’s cabin rental to join us for a week of bonding and Dollywood. After considerable alone time in the hot tub drinking too-sweet swill from some mountain vineyard and undertaking what my elders might call “heavy petting,” we decided to take the party for two inside, lest I contract a stray, waterborne STD that I was just young enough to believe was certainly a thing. 

It seemed like there were bodies in every bedroom of that cabin. So, we settled on a tiny bathroom off an inconsequential guest room that was barely large enough to powder one’s nose in and got to it. Me, doubled over the sink, and him, fully upright and operating at a high rate of speed. There was a quick misfire, and Scott pushed forward a few inches upward, in a space where millimeters matter.

Searing pain. High-pitched guitars. Black encroaching on white. “Perforated bowel?” I thought. Accidental anal it is.

I grabbed behind me as I went down… hard. So hard and fast, in fact, that my skull connected with the side of the builder-grade bathtub on the way down. 

I doubt I’ll ever forget the panicky look of fear in his wild eyes when I came to, or his first words to me, his beloved girlfriend of eight years: “Are you alright?! I thought I dicked you to death!”

The moral of the story: Fast and loose sex is fine, so long as you know that protective headgear is a must in the mountains — and not just on the slopes. 

Now that you know these things, I trust that you’ll never again ask me, “So, crazy winter we’ve had, huh?”