Ah, sexually transmitted infections. The modern scarlet letter. “Stay away!” we cry. Particularly if it’s herpes. Oh, religious deity, forbid it be herpes.

For many, STIs exist on an intangible parallel plane. This or that promiscuous so-and-so might have had it coming, but we’d like to think we’re far removed from that plane of existence. STIs are seen as “dirty,” a blight upon whoever might have them. We dread joining their ranks.

In truth, however, STIs are as ubiquitous as bedbugs in New York. And like bedbugs, STIs are often more discomfiting than necessarily nefarious. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, nearly all sexually active adults will contract some strain of HPV at some point, but the body magics away most HPV infections.

This unfortunately isn’t quite the case with herpes, the second-most-common medically incurable STI. One in six people in the United States — 50 million people, y’all — have genital herpes, or HSV-2, and somewhere between 60 and 80 percent have oral herpes, or HSV-1, also called canker sores. Although there is no cure for either strain, both can be treated and their symptoms vastly ameliorated. And for the more notorious HSV-2, besides the occasional flare-up — which can lie dormant for years, in any case — there doesn’t seem to be any larger health issues. No complications with the female reproductive tract, no internal damage, no cancer.

Despite HSV-2’s commonness and relative harmlessness, it is still surrounded by social stigma second only to HIV, according to a 2007 Harris Interactive Poll. Not to cast HIV as some sort of extreme (modern medicine can help the HIV-positive live long lives full of salacious sex if they like), but herpes? C’mon. It’s like slightly misplaced acne.

Let’s start by asking you, the reader: Would you call a relationship off if your potential or current partner told you he or she had herpes? In the Harris poll, most respondents without HSV-2 said they would either avoid partners with herpes or end things with their partner if they were told he or she had herpes. That’s indiscriminately voting one out of every sixth potential mate out for something that doesn’t cause any problems and that doesn’t need to be passed on if you practice safer sex. For groups with one herpes-positive partner and one not, paying attention to breakouts and always using condoms and/or antiviral medications can cut your rate transmission down to 1 to 2 percent per year of regular sex — pretty minuscule, if you ask me.

The most alarming statistic in my eyes is that an estimated 80 percent of people with herpes don’t even know they have it. Yeah, we’ve talked about how herpes isn’t that bad. But the larger issue behind this stat — besides not possessing the ability to be open with your partner or practicing safer sex — is the fact that these people probably aren’t getting tested for other entirely curable — but more dangerous — STIs such as chlamydia, trichomoniasis, gonorrhea and syphilis, either. This convenient forgetfulness or ignorance about our own susceptibility to STIs could potentially be what damns us. We sexually active folk are likely all exposed to STIs at some point in time, so why do we evade the issue?

Chlamydia, trich, gonorrhea (the “clap”) and syphilis are all bacterial, so you can be rid of them for good with treatment. Left alone, however, they can have devastating effects in the long run, although they might not manifest any symptoms in the short run. Chlamydia — the most commonly reported STI — and gonorrhea can cause infertility if left untreated. Scary syphilis, if not caught early on, can cause damage to the brain, heart and nervous system and possibly even lead to death.

If you’re sexually active, whatever sex you identify as, the CDC recommend getting tested for chlamydia, gonorrhea and HIV once a year. The Tang Center covers an annual checkup for chlamydia, the clap, HIV and Pap smears (the last recommended to be administered every three years for women above the age of 21). Other STIs, such as trich, syphilis and herpes, aren’t generally tested for unless you feel you have been exposed to them or display symptoms, but you can ask for these screenings at either the Tang Center or Planned Parenthood.

Stigma won’t go down without a fight, unfortunately, but perhaps talking about it and dispelling falsehoods will help combat it. Hopefully with more openness and knowledge will come more testing, acceptance, treatment and discussion. It’s better to play it safe and get routinely checked, so if necessary, you can plan ahead or get treated accordingly — but remember, it’s not an end-all if you contract something. Life and sex go on. A tour guide and actor at Kink.com once told a classmate of mine about the first thing a colleague told him when he discovered he had herpes: “Welcome to the club.” You won’t be alone.

Vi Nguyen writes the weekly Sex on Tuesday column. You can contact her at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @yonictonic.

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I had gone through the longest dry spell of my nonvirgin life while studying abroad. By the time I returned to the good ol’ U.S. of A, my sex drive had all but shriveled up and died due to neglect. I thought I had found a new sort of sexless nirvana. So this is how people go months, even years, without doing the deed, I mused to myself. It was almost calming. Zen. I could keep doing this.

Zoom to Los Angeles. I was telling my good friend about this new state of being as I was relaxing on her bed in her new apartment, but it didn’t seem like she was paying me much heed. Rather, she was busy peering around the space, poking at neatly folded piles of clothing in her armoire. “Whoa, looks like my boyfriend hard-core cleaned the place up earlier. We were pretty high and I joked about our having a threesome tonight … I guess he took it seriously,” she said with a laugh.

If there is nothing else you glean from this article, just remember this: Very rarely does someone joke about having sex with you unless there’s some shrapnel of truth to it.

Three hours later, I was reflecting on the wisdom of this adage as my friend tried to hide her nervousness by flip-flopping between “joking” and testing the waters as to my level of interest. But then the moment of truth: “Wait … let’s actually do this. I’ve never had a threesome before.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes … Would you be down?”

Rest in peace, newfound temporary abstinence.

One very quick conversation about boundaries and rules later, my friend strips and giddily runs into the bedroom. I turn around to see her boyfriend behind me so I think, fuckheregoesnothingokay, and kiss him. But because I feel weird as hell — I’ve never been attracted to him, and this is the dude my friend is convinced she’s going to marry — I yank off his shirt and run off with it in what I hope seems appropriate and sexy. Inwardly, I feel like a five-year-old miscreant.

Previous to this exchange, the only advice I’d received regarding threesomes was to find a way to keep myself busy. This sounds frantic, but it’s actually a pretty good rule of thumb to keep from being discouraged; getting into the sharing groove of three is a distinct departure from the single-mindedness of having just one partner. When I wasn’t being stimulated, I found a way to incorporate myself in the romp, enhancing my friend and her boyfriend’s experience in some way or form; in turn, I was never neglected for very long. We spent a good chunk of the time laughing and making bawdy small talk, and there wasn’t a single heavy moment throughout.

Apparently, it was good enough for them to want another go a couple weeks later.

I don’t know what it was about the following summer. Maybe that first couple of threesomes really set the mood or something, but nearly all the sex I had in the following months was in groups of three or more. The starts of such romps were sometimes awkward, sometimes not, but they had one theme in common: their focus on casual good times. None of my experiences materialized as the lustful throng of body parts that I had previously stereotyped orgies to be — my partners and I just wanted a playful romp.

I have found that I cycle between periods of abstinence in which I tell myself to wait for someone I care about — having gotten tired of a string of loveless hook-ups — and subsequent periods of hedonistic lovefests after having gotten tired of waiting. But somehow, group sex doesn’t leave that sour taste in my mouth that casual hooking up often does. From my experience, there’s generally less emotional intensity and instead a focus on just having some lascivious feels and fun. Maybe it’s because things aren’t personal, but people feel calmer — it’s not about getting to the passionate pinnacle of orgasm.

Rather, the intent is simply goofing and playing around with many sets of naughty body parts. And one huge perk: You can leave whenever you want. Done? Respectfully slip out. Your remaining partners will either continue or let things come to a natural end. And communicating what you want in this often-goofy, sometimes bizarre situation is easy, since things usually don’t get intense to the point where speech disappears.

Although I feel too occupied to emotionally invest in something serious at this juncture, this doesn’t mean I don’t want to still have fun in the sack. But sometimes I’m not into the intensity or faux-seriousness that might accompany your standard fuck buddy. For pure sex and giggles, I’ve found group sex to be a whimsical outlet for thrills and fun.

Vi Nguyen writes the Sex on Tuesday column. You can contact her at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @yonictonic.

The post How I came to love group sex appeared first on The Daily Californian.

Leather and latex cover some parts of the bodies at Folsom, but not the parts that society typically asks of clothing.

Some folk are bound by rope and chain — others are led by their partner by collar and leash, often wearing full-head leather masks. A woman’s limbs are arranged artistically via rope and knots before she is suspended by hooks, her bound breasts turning slightly purple. She grins wolfishly as the fellow who tied her up pinches a nipple, and she kisses him upside-down — he grips her hair in a show of both force and devotion. A beautiful transvestite rocks a lace bra and knee-high leather boots. A naked man in a ski mask stands in a window on the third floor of his apartment and jacks off what might be the largest erect dick I’ve ever seen. The crowd on the street erupts in cheers when, 15 minutes later, he cums.

These are a few of the scenes I was fortunate enough to be privy to at the Folsom Street Fair last Sunday. For those unfamiliar, FSF is an annual leather and BDSM — Bondage, Discipline, Dominance, Submission, Sadism and Masochism — street fair. BDSM practitioners enjoy a myriad toys and methods, many of which I saw at FSF. But for all the variety in sexual preferences — from butt plugs that had horse tails, aerial suspensions via rope and so forth — there was one thing that all the people I saw held in common: smiles. No matter whether the party was a dom — the dominant member in a BDSM relationship — in spiked heels or a sub — the submissive — in a full-face leather dog mask, a totally naked middle-aged man getting his ass whipped cherry-red or a plainly clothed average human walking through the fair, everyone was having a good time bringing bedroom preferences to the daylight or simply watching others do so.

Nearly no one I saw was intoxicated. No one did anything to anyone without explicit consent: Nearly all the sexual activity — be it flogging, spanking or stroking — was between people who already knew each other or was within the bounds of set-up booths. I felt entirely comfortable the entire time. There I was, surrounded by people who were so open, honest and communicative about their sexuality that they chose to air it out in the sunshine. The feel of community and adventure was buzzing in the air.

Oftentimes, people associate the images I painted at the beginning of this article with a sort of deviant, seedy subculture. Part of this is institutional. Older editions of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, the psychologist’s bible for mental disorders, had listed paraphilia — an umbrella term for “unusual” sex desires like fetishes, BDSM and kink — as a mental disorder. But a Dutch study published last summer found that, of the survey’s participants, BDSM practitioners scored better on measures of mental well-being and the emotional security in relationships than those who only practice “vanilla” sex. Granted, the participants self-selected into the study, so the results may not be representative of society as a whole, but it was still a refreshing shout against the historical villainization of BDSM. And maybe the sort of communication necessary for BDSM — regarding soft and hard limits, for example — does lend itself to healthier relationship skills.

BDSM is simply a personal preference, not an expression of some dark personality twist or abusive history (as with the hero of Fifty Shades of Gray, Christian Grey). The newest DSM does make the distinction between “atypical” behaviors and mental diseases involving those “atypical” behaviors, which is a solid step toward appreciating BDSM as just a personal preference. But I still think the wording is a bit problematic. What’s “typical” and “atypical” when it comes to your inexplicable carnal passions?

An incredible BDSM comic on DeviantArt by artist “Shiniez” said it best: “With sexuality being a taboo on a good day, deviations (have always been) observed with judgmental eyes. They took that small, personal aspect of one’s life, and put a spotlight on it. And under that spotlight sexuality cast an ugly shadow on the society and the society frowned upon it. But there were those who understood that it is a wonderful aspect of the human experience. Wonderful, exciting, intimate, sometimes a bit scary, and sometimes even a little funny.”

Human sexuality is a messy maelstrom of emotion, carnal passion and power plays. It will inevitably materialize differently based on individual tastes. You might not like BDSM. But you also might love it, and it doesn’t say anything seedy about you or suggest anything warped in your past or personality. The happy, loving and confident people I saw at FSF were an ardent testimony to that.

Vi Nguyen writes the Sex on Tuesday column. Contact her at sex@dailycal.org

The post Notes from Folsom Street Fair appeared first on The Daily Californian.

Toward the beginning of most consent workshops I’ve been to, we anonymously poll the participants. Two questions are inevitably asked: “Have you ever had your consent violated?” and “Have you ever possibly violated someone else’s consent?” At the last workshop I went to, about 70 percent of my peers solemnly responded yes to the first question. As for the second, only about 10 percent did.

Maybe consent is a new subject for you, incoming student; maybe it’s something you’ve talked or read about once and dismissed as hyper-politically-correct mumbo-jumbo jargon; maybe you’ve had mandatory discussions on consent every semester, as I have. In any case, I’d like to start off this semester’s column by revisiting consent, given how many people feel they have had their consent violated in the past. For the most part, I’ll wager that whoever violated their consent wasn’t some demonic-eyed, evil rapist; it could have been any well-meaning person — it could have been me or you.

Allow me to disrobe my anonymity. I answered yes to both questions. Though “yes” is a very strong, black-and-white affirmation, the situations that came to my mind were far more gray and nebulous. People often only associate these violations with male-identified individuals, but the perpetrator could be anyone, baby, especially in our age of assertive female-identified individuals who know what they want sexually — which is awesome, but potentially double-edged.

My story begins at a social gathering in which I had somehow had a little too much to imbibe. I was told the next day that I had flown around and kissed quite a few people. This horrified me, not because of a sense of personal dignity but because I couldn’t remember if any of my face-mauling had been consensual — intoxication was no excuse. Later, I chased down some of the people I heard I had given my “regard” to, and it seemed the general consensus was that it had all been totally consensual and in good fun — thankfully. But because of my memory’s inopportunely timed vacation, I earnestly can’t recall all the people I made out with that time. It was likely that at least one of these persons didn’t want it, that I made them feel uncomfortable, but perhaps they didn’t have the agency or forthrightness to say no.

Saying no is hard whether or not substances are involved. Your partner is really into it, and you figure it’s easier to go with the flow than to be honest. You go with the kiss. That night, that was all I did. But sometimes that kiss goes into a little something further, and you feel trapped because you felt like you “led” your partner on. You’d feel like a terrible asshole to stop now.

I’ve been there. A year or so ago, halfway through knocking uglies with a partner, I realized I really wasn’t into it. But I felt guilty for letting things get so far and didn’t know how to escape. I figured that it’d be easier just to plow on through though I was finding no pleasure in the experience. Result: a pretty shitty time, for both me and my partner.

Consent is messier than it seems. Most consent practices are nonverbal — a lusty smile, a suggestive touch. Most would assume that they’ve never violated anyone’s consent. “I mean, I was into it — weren’t you?” But therein lies the slippery slope. Nonverbal nudges can be misconstrued, and without overt communication, one party might be surreptitiously holding back on expressing their discomfort. Such dishonesty to yourself and your partner(s) will likely hurt all parties, though, either via damaging your relationship or by just leading to a terrible romp.

It’s important to remember that a violation of consent need not include sex at all or even a kiss. It simply means that someone has done something to invade your physical security in some way or form that was not wanted. It’s a moment in which you no longer felt comfortable or safe in your own skin.

Consent is holistic. It doesn’t refer to just getting or receiving permission at the beginning but also maintaining that consent throughout the entirety of whatever you’re doing with your partner(s). If you feel your consent is being overridden at any point in time, speak up! “I’m just not into this.” It’s OK, I promise. You can give permission to your body and take it away whenever you like.

Many think that asking for consent would ruin the “mood” or irrevocably dam the flow of things, but I think asking for consent is one of the sexiest things you could do. It shows your thoughtfulness and respect for your partner — what could be foxier? There’s also more than one sultry way to ask:

“Would it turn you on if I…”

“Do you want me to … ”

And, of course, the simplest “Can I?”

Remember, anyone can violate consent, including you good Samaritans. So let’s open greater communication so all parties can leave each sexual romp feeling satisfied.

Contact Vi Nguyen at sex@dailycal.org.

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