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.

The post Misplaced acne, bedbugs and stigmas appeared first on The Daily Californian.

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.

The post Let’s talk about consent, again appeared first on The Daily Californian.

For those of you who have successfully maintained a long-distance relationship at Cal, we applaud you. Seriously, bravo. (No, this isn’t sarcasm.) Long-distance relationships can be really tough, and we here at the Daily Clog know exactly what you’re going through. If you’re currently in a long distance relationship and are absolutely, without a doubt, in love with your significant other, we can tell you that we seriously have no idea how you’re doing it — but keep it up! But if you’re contemplating pursuing a long-distance relationship during your time at Cal, we’ve got a couple of things that you should probably keep in mind:

1. Time difference. You have to admit getting a text saying, “OMG, so glad I’m done with my classes today!” just as you’re waking up to the 8 a.m. ringing of the Campanile’s bells would get pretty annoying. Or imagine getting a text that says, “Good morning, sweetie. How’s your day going?” when you’re drunk off of your a$$ down frat row somewhere.

2. When describing Cal to significant others, they’ll be like, “WTF?” As a Cal student, you’ve probably tried to explain things about Berk to some friends who don’t go to Cal and ended up saying, “Sorry … I can’t explain it. It’s a Berkeley thing.” You probably felt like a pretentious douchebag, but you couldn’t help it! It is a Berkeley thing. Imagine trying to explain to your significant other that you couldn’t hear them on a phone because a homeless man on Sproul was angrily preaching to you. And how would you even begin to explain what a Berkeley co-op is like? “Oh, the needle disposals? They were just next to me on the wall while I was peeing! Don’t worry! I’m fine!” Please, be honest with yourself, and imagine what that sounds like on the other end.

3. You’re going to get jealous of your sexually experimental Cal friends very quickly. Here at Cal, we can guarantee that you will make a very diverse group of friends. Of that group, at least one will probably be sexually adventurous and will tell you about the awesome sexcapades that he or she has had. When that happens, you’re bound to grow envious of the amount of action they’re getting compared to you. You could read the Daily Cal’s “Sex on Tuesday” column and attempt to live vicariously through the numerous column writers, but you don’t need us to tell you that it won’t be the same as the real thing.

4. Berkeley love is fun. There are countless fun activities to do around Berkeley, and if you’re in a long-distance relationship, you don’t get the privilege of sharing those activities with your significant other. Think about how fun it would be to lie out on Memorial Glade together, wait forever in line at Ici or ride bikes through campus together while holding hands (only do the last one if you’re coordinated enough).

5. Give some Bears a chance. We’ve got about 36 thousand students at Cal, and within those 36 thousand students, the probability that you’ll find someone physically and emotionally attractive to you is pretty high. That cute girl in your political econ class whose favorite movie is “The Darjeeling Limited” and whose favorite band is Pink Floyd? You can’t have her. That hottie that in your Math 1B discussion who shoots you that alluring grin when you walk into class every Tuesday? You can’t have him. Unless you have already found “the one,” you may be missing out on finding whoever that person is. And that person may very well be a Bear.

If you’ve ever been in a long-distance relationship at Cal, what are some problems you’ve had? Let us know in the comments!

Image source: procsilas under Creative Commons.

Contact Gabrielle Nguyen at gnguyen@dailycal.org.

The post 5 things to consider before you pursue a long-distance relationship at Cal appeared first on The Daily Californian.

In the first semester of my freshman year, I took a philosophy course that not only piqued my interest in the major but taught me something very important. One day, I walked into class to find a documentary playing on the topic of primate social behavior. My favorite of the species discussed was the bonobo, an ape that promotes peaceful behavior by using sex as a tool.

I will admit it felt odd watching these pink-lipped apes go at it onscreen. It went something like this: Two males look like they’re about to get into a fight, when two females show up and offer their backsides. To my surprise, both males abandon the tense situation, approach the females and decide to have a mini-orgy instead. In less than a minute, everyone’s done, and there is nothing to worry about but sunbathing and some friendly grooming.

Along with chimpanzees, bonobos are our closest living relatives in the animal kingdom, and some experts say they’re the smartest apes in the world. Now, I’m not here to give you a lecture on primate sex. But seeing that video flipped my notion of sex on its head.

Until that point, I thought sex was about love and connection in the midst of rose petals and candles, with a romantic song playing in the background. Of course, I’m not saying sex isn’t or can’t be those things, but the bonobos taught me an important lesson: Sex can be for more than just sex.

So, when it came time to take the final for that class, along with three other classes, I decided to use a little bonobo wisdom as a study tool. I wasn’t sleeping with anyone at that time, so I did the next best thing and masturbated during my study breaks. Let me say that not only is orgasm a great motivational tool, but also I found myself (a person highly prone to freaking out during finals season) more relaxed than usual.

Some may argue that using sex as a tool cheapens it. There’s this distinction in the philosophical world: doing an act as an end in itself versus doing it as a means to an end. For example, this is the difference between giving money to a homeless person simply to be kind versus doing it so people around you notice and then praise you. The latter seems less genuine and (at least for Aristotle and Kant) less preferable when it comes to moral actions.

But we’re not operating in the lofty moral realm here; we’re just trying to get through dead week and our dreaded finals. What better stress-management technique than a quick romp between the sheets?  This time of year usually correlates to a few less-than-ideal states: high stress, poor sleep, poor health and low self-esteem (why yes, this is the fourth day I’m on campus in sweats and a Cal shirt). Lucky for us, we have a panacea for all our problems.

Sex is great for stress relief and even lowers blood pressure. It’s been shown to boost antibody levels, which ensures that you won’t catch the dead-week sniffles that are going around. Next time you’re lying in bed trying to sleep and can’t get your brain to shut up about protein structures, have a quickie. Sex releases oxytocin, which promotes sleep, ensuring you won’t crash during the brutal three-hour exam that your professor promised would only take one. Plus, will you really care if you haven’t eaten anything other than energy bars and Red Bull all day if you’re getting some tonight?

I think on some biological level we must know that sex is useful as a mean to other ends. The bonobos are a living testament to that. I’ve noticed this in my own life as well. During one particularly volatile relationship, my ex and I would get into huge fights, and I’d find myself strangely aroused afterward. Make-up sex is common enough that it has its own moniker in our society. Granted, it may be a way for people to avoid dealing with larger issues (it certainly was in the relationship between my ex and me), but I think we crave make-up sex in part because it allows us to foster a connection with someone after a fight that inevitably drives us apart.

There’s nothing wrong with using sex for its physical and mental benefits. Humans invented the wheel to get us from point A to point B, and sometimes we use sex to get us through multiple late-night cram sessions. We’re just being resourceful.

So as you’re scrambling to write that 15-page research paper that’s currently a blank page in Microsoft Word, promise yourself a sexual treat as a motivational tool. Instead of trying to sell the one remaining seat in Main Stacks on Craigslist, take a break, remember what the outside world looks like and have a couple of orgasms. Finals are coming whether we like it or not, so we might as well come along with them.

Contact Elisabeth Bahadori at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @lisabaha.

The post Sexual healing appeared first on The Daily Californian.

The single life is amazing. Nobody to answer to, no one else’s needs to take into account when making big decisions. You can have sex with whomever you want, and if you get bored of one partner, there’s nothing stopping you from moving to the next. It gets glamorized as an endless string of parties, the slow montage of sensual men and women, each beckoning to you with the promise of pleasure.

Sure, it has its merits, but what I don’t understand is why some single people go so far in embracing singledom that they end up bashing relationships. Too many friends of mine have told me they avoid relationships because they seem boring or uninspired. Maybe being with one person is too serious at this stage in our lives, or maybe relationships appear to offer less fun when compared to the revelry of flying solo.

But are things really that simple? In my experience, being in a relationship means that you’ve found someone who likes you as much as you like them. A relationship doesn’t seem too hard to find, but dating in Berkeley is surprisingly difficult. Allow me to rephrase: Dating in general is surprisingly difficult. You go through the standard conversation of getting to know each another — hometown, major, music taste, other interests. In order to actually get a sense of each another, you have to invest a big pretty big chunk of time in the other person. And then, more often than not, you find the “but.” She laughs at all your jokes, but you guys have diametrically opposed political views. He’s a really sweet guy, but there’s no chemistry. They have X, but you want Y.

The person you actually like enough to start a relationship with usually becomes the person closest to you. As the intimacy grows, so does the realization that your partner finds all the different versions of you attractive — the 8 a.m. grouch, the inner pouting child, the sassy flirt. You’re just as likely to get laid hanging out in pajamas on a lazy Sunday afternoon as you are dressing up and going out to a bar. Easy, frequent and (hopefully) good sex — you’ve hit the jackpot.

Not to mention you can try all those kinky things you’ve been curious about. In my experience, trying new things comes with erotic excitement, but it also happens to be stressful. When you’re in a relationship, you have a person now who knows what gets you off, whom you trust, who’s willing to experiment. Imagine asking a one-night stand to indulge your foot fetish or use anal beads on you. It’s much easier exploring new things with a boyfriend or girlfriend, with whom there’s a sense of emotional stability and safety.

For me, the major attraction of single sex is the novelty. Who doesn’t like flirting with a complete stranger, enjoying not only the attention but also the chance to discover their turn-ons and quirks? You get to play cat and mouse, and you fall into bed together, eager to explore. There’s the thrill of having sex for the first time with an unfamiliar body that responds to your touch in a completely unique way. That first time may not be seamless, but it sure as hell is fun.

I’m by no means saying relationships are perfect. They’re stressful and messy, and you and your partner might end up isolating yourselves from the world. Sleeping with the same person makes it easy to fall into a sex rut. You end up doing the same positions in the same order, because they’re familiar and you’re guaranteed to get off on it. Your sexual dynamic goes on autopilot, and you stop surprising each other. It happened to me, and I didn’t even realize it until I found myself eyeing every male within a 20-foot radius. Luckily, the situation was easily remedied by pouncing on my partner later that night and making sure to mix things up.

In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I enjoy my time being in a relationship more than my time being single. I’m drawn to the opportunity to develop an increasingly deep connection with someone, to have them be intimately entwined in my goals, dreams and fears. I guess you could say I’m attracted to the romance of it.

Maybe it’s a reverse case of the “grass is greener on the other side” mentality. We feel like we need to defend whatever lifestyle we’re currently in at the expense of devaluing the alternative. Or maybe the people who argue there are “types” are right.

I’ve always scoffed at that idea, that some people are just predisposed to prefer coupledom or singledom. But really, we change so much over the course of our lives (or even the few years we spend in college) that it seems hasty to divide everyone into a nice, neat binary.

Whatever the case, we should strive for happiness in our personal lives. If you find playing the field and single sex better, by all means, stick to that. But keep in mind that doesn’t make being in a duo any less fun.

Contact Elisabeth Bahadori at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @lisabaha.

The post In defense of relationships appeared first on The Daily Californian.

There are unspoken rules about having sex with someone. Whether it’s a one-night stand or the second year of a relationship, they’re pretty much the same: Don’t be selfish in bed. Make your partner feel good. Respect their boundaries. These are all pretty self-explanatory. When it comes to orgasms, however, the etiquette seems to be all over the place.

For example, I once dated a guy who couldn’t make me come, through no fault of his own. This was at a point in my life before I’d had my first orgasm, and I thought I just couldn’t. When our conversations turned to my lack of orgasms (as they often did), he focused on how frustrating it was for him. He’d gotten plenty of girls off before, but I was a tougher cookie to crack. Apparently, I made him feel like less of a man and sexually incompetent. Each time he went down on me or we had sex, my mind could focus on nothing else but trying to come. Rather than relaxing and just enjoying the sensations down below, I would get stressed out and find it even harder to get aroused. Needless to say, his little “pep” talks did more harm than good.

I hope I never run into a guy who does the same thing. Although now I don’t have the same troubles, it’s a common issue for a lot of women. Every one in three women has difficulty reaching orgasm, and three in four can’t come from sex alone. What finally worked for me was experimenting with a vibrator and making sure to try by myself when I didn’t have to worry about another person. Once I got comfortable actually having orgasms, it was much easier to train my body to respond to fingers, a tongue and sex itself.

Before my battery-powered orgasmic breakthrough, however, I never faked it. The thought seems silly to me: Why pretend like you’re coming when you’re not? Doing it to stroke your partner’s ego isn’t a good reason at all. It just leads your partner to think they’re getting you off when they’re not, and they’re not very likely to change what they’re doing. It was definitely uncomfortable replying “no” to the question “Did you come?,” but it helped in the long run. Great sex comes in part from honest and clear communication.

I always find it cool when guys operate with a “ladies first” mentality in mind. With heterosexual sex, men get aroused faster than women do, so there’s an issue with timing. Women on average take 20 minutes to reach climax. A man’s orgasm usually means the sex is over, so if the guy gets off first, chances are she won’t.

One of the most vital pieces of information for me is knowing when my male partner is coming. I was once going down on a guy who gave me a “courtesy tap,” thinking I knew what that was. I didn’t. The unexpected orgasm caused a commotion that involved getting come up my nose. I spent the next few days smelling semen. Super fun.

The best way to avoid that, I think, is for guys to verbally communicate that they’re about to come. It may seem weird announcing it in the middle of a blowjob, but whoever’s going down on you might want to know so they can prepare themselves. It’s just good manners.

What totally fails in terms of sex etiquette is when guys get really aggressive about having their partner swallow and push their partner’s head down. Not cool. Not to mention they might hit their partner’s gag reflex and end up with vomit all over them. I’m pretty sure that’s a situation everyone wants to avoid. The spitting versus swallowing debate is one that should be had when both people are capable of speaking, not midejaculation.

There’s also the matter of condom etiquette. In my opinion, guys should always have a condom on hand if they think they’re going to get laid. Yes, their partner should have condoms, regardless of their gender, but it’s always nice to see a guy come prepared (no pun intended). There’s nothing more disappointing than getting hot and bothered with a guy only to find that neither person has a condom.

Last but certainly not least, there’s the matter of the O-face. Most people look a little dorky when they come, but some people’s reactions are just strange. My favorite is the girl from “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” who moans in a low monotone and then declares, “I just came.” Her total lack of reaction to her orgasm is hilarious. But really, laughing at someone’s O-face totally undermines the pleasure roller coaster ride they just took.

It feels sort of silly and outdated to talk about etiquette (or even use that word, at the very least), but I do think being mindful of other people during sex makes sense. If it can help prevent someone’s orgasm-trouble shame or a come-up-the-nose debacle, I can rest easy. This way, we spend less time worrying about what we’re doing in bed and more time just doing it.

Contact Elisabeth Bahadori at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @lisabaha.

Correction(s):
A previous version of this article incorrectly attributed a scene to the film “Wedding Crashers.” In fact, the scene is from “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.”

The post Bedside manners appeared first on The Daily Californian.

The semester is almost drawing to a close. Finals loom in the distance, and so does the thought that I have a year left before I’m done with college. Rather than worrying about post-graduation plans, I’m freaking out over Berkeley memories I haven’t yet made. The one in my thoughts most recently is the naked run, a co-op-organized event in which students run naked through Main Stacks toward the end of RRR Week.

I’m sad to say I’ve never even witnessed a naked run in person despite being here for almost six semesters. Blame it on the fact that studying in the library during Dead Week makes my anxiety levels shoot up and my otherwise nonexistent claustrophobia emerge. It’s grown in my mind as an event of complete liberation, a short moment during which you feel the air on your skin and shake off the finals stress that gnaws at you while you study.

I also imagine it as a moment of human connection, when we can all come together and take an honest look at one another. Nudity has such strong ties with vulnerability: We’re born nude and after that are usually only nude around people we’re physically intimate or very comfortable with. Public nudity serves the rare (and much-needed) purpose of showing us that we’re really not all that different, provides a time to realize that the “perfect” bodies in TV shows and magazine ads aren’t the norm.

Last semester, someone on Facebook posted a link to a video of the naked run. It was a shaky minute of naked people streaming by, less the glorious revelry that I imagined and more of what it actually was: a quick distraction from writing papers, cramming for finals and generally wanting the semester to be over. A couple of days later, jittered out on coffee and clutching my blue books, I walked past two guys near Wheeler. One asked the other if he’d seen the naked run, and the reply he got was, “Yeah, too much bush.” On a campus where tattoos, piercings and neon-dyed hair is common, I didn’t expect to encounter closed-mindedness about physical appearance.

But it seems like a lot of us still have the media’s idea of beauty in mind. Even if the majority of us don’t look like the supermodels we’re trained to admire, we still feel it’s appropriate to hold others to impossible standards, especially when it comes to public nudity. It’s almost as if we feel like we have a right to only see “beautiful” bodies. This has been on my mind lately, in part because of the show “Girls.” Lena Dunham’s frequent nudity on the show seems to have started as much commotion as the show itself has.

When I first saw her naked, I was confused more than anything. My brain just wasn’t used to seeing women who looked like that on a television show. She wasn’t a toned Victoria’s Secret model look-alike, with a size-two body and perfect boobs. Instead, I saw a woman whose body had quirks and weird proportions. She looked real. What was she doing on TV?

Last week, I read a piece by Margaret Cho about being asked to cover up in a traditional Korean spa, where nudity is encouraged to the point of being mandatory. The reason? Her numerous tattoos were offending other spa visitors. She was surrounded by naked women but ostracized simply because her body was adorned with art while theirs were not.

It saddens me to know that we live in a world in which the human form can be construed as offensive or distasteful. Obviously, there are cultural norms and laws in place regarding nudity, but outside of that, the naked bodies we see should come with little surprise and even less judgment. Instead of fat-shaming or otherwise criticizing, maybe we should admit that it takes a lot of courage to be naked in public. At the very least, just because you may find someone’s body less than aesthetically pleasing doesn’t mean you should vocalize your thoughts.

By the time I graduate, I expect the naked run to be checked off my bucket list. To be honest, it’s still completely romanticized in my head. I imagine running in slow motion to Wagner’s “Flight of the Valkyries” while pages of notes flutter down around me dramatically. This scene is full of its standout characters: the 200-pound guy wearing a Daft Punk helmet, the pink-haired girl with a Spongebob tattoo on her left buttcheck, the skinny guy in Converse high-tops.

It won’t matter if the people around me can grace the covers of GQ and Cosmo. I won’t care how much the boobs bounce or the junk jiggles. What will matter is that a bunch of Berkeley kids got together during the worst time of the semester to scream and run and enjoy the simple art of being butt-naked, no matter what the butt in question looks like.

Contact Elisabeth Bahadori at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @lisabaha.

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A beautiful woman walks down Shattuck at night in a skintight red dress and black jacket. Her high heels click against the pavement when, out of nowhere, she is attacked by a rapist. Was she asking for it?

A 16-year-old high school girl from Steubenville, Ohio, drinks at a party. She starts to feel sick and passes out. Two football players use this as an opportunity to drag her unconscious body from one party to another. They rape her, urinate on her and live-tweet the whole thing while their friends watch and laugh. Please tell me, was that girl asking for it?

A former Steubenville NAACP leader thinks she was, calling the victim “drunk and willing.” Women are constantly scrutinized and blamed for violent crimes that are committed against them because of their clothing, their personal choices and their alcohol consumption. Society teaches us: Don’t lie, don’t cheat, don’t steal, don’t murder. But when it comes to rape, the message is clear: Don’t get raped. Rape is an act whose responsibility, time after time, falls on its victims, not on its perpetrators.

We have to wonder why. Is it the media, which unfortunately uses the female form as an object? Turn on the TV, and look at how many half-naked, writhing women you find in commercials for cars, for beer, for food. The media tells us we can have the woman just as easily as we can the new bacon double cheeseburger. It’s all there for the taking.

Women can’t win in this world. There seem to be only two positions open to us. The first is the role media creates, in which women exist only for the pleasure of men, to be walking, talking sex dolls who never say “no.” If we reject this objectified role and demand to be treated as people, with freedom to choose what we wear and sleep with whom we like, we get labeled as cockteases and whores. Female liberation exists only within the confines of patriarchy.

All of our choices, then, become tied to sex. What we wear, what we drink, whom we smile at are all just open invitations for men to exercise their physical dominance over us. I wish I didn’t have to say “men” and “women.” It saddens me that rape is also a gender issue. Yes, female rapists and male rape victims exist, but the majority of rapes involve a male aggressor and a female victim. It is disempowering for us all that women are portrayed as wanting to be maimed sexually and that men are portrayed as insatiable beasts, incapable of rational thinking and unable to control their sexual desire.

I’m sorry to the man outside of BART who tried to start a conversation with me. It was late, and what I gave you in return was no eye contact, no “hello” back. My fingers tightened around the pepper spray in my pocket. I’m sorry to the men who have good intentions but are treated like criminals simply because they’re male. That’s not fair.

But it will continue to happen. I will keep ignoring any man who talks to me late at night. I can’t be the nice person who I am when one in four women will be a victim of rape or attempted rape by the time she leaves college. I can’t help but be on guard when I know that 50 percent of rape victims who come forward are accused of lying. I will not feel safe in a country in which the media mourns the damaged football careers of two rapists and not the poor 16-year-old girl whose life they ruined. I can’t sit back and relax when only 3 percent of all rapists end up in jail. I am a woman, and let me be honest: I am terrified.

My fear grew when I found a website called avoiceformen.com, a self-proclaimed anti-feminist website that runs articles whose topics include why women are the only ones who can stop rape and how women actually enjoy being raped. Part of their sick, twisted logic is that women often like rough sex and that some have rape fantasies, so rape is OK and should be encouraged.

Let me make myself very clear. Enjoying rough sex is not asking to be raped. Even having rape fantasies is not asking to be raped. There is a monumental difference between playing out a fantasy with a sexual partner you trust and feel safe with and being forced to have sex against your will. Making excuses for rape does nothing but perpetuate rape culture and encourage rapists.

For those of you who think women are “asking for it,” you’re right. We are asking for something. We are begging, pleading, demanding a world in which we feel safe and respected. We’re asking to be treated like decent human beings. We’re asking for an end to rape and rape culture. When will you finally listen?

Contact Elisabeth Bahadori at sex@dailycal.org or follow her on Twitter: @lisabaha.

Correction(s):
A previous version of this column incorrectly stated that one in four women will be raped by the time she leaves college. In fact, one in four women will be a victim of rape or attempted rape by the time she leaves college.

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