Gigi Laurin

I don’t ever want to be reduced to how I look — sex just an excuse to see me with my top off, feelings nonexistent and dependent on how often I put out.

I walk a thin line between approval and being tokenized: the feminine “bi” girl, an ideal threesome candidate and sexual experiment.

Hookups and crushes frequently subbed in and out, dates to Yogurt Park and sexual escapades only short plays in a larger game.

No number of letters could warm the empty side of the bed. My “I love yous” failed to satisfy her; it was a task successful only between the sheets.

My first kiss should have been an innocent moment with the boy I spent my freshman year of high school crushing on. But instead, it released your memory.

Unfortunately, there isn’t enough room for two alphas in bed, and men always seem to be on top — their only exception being the cowgirl position.

He was close with a lot of his neighbors — the skin on skin type of close — as were many of us, both recipients and givers of the “welcome to the neighborhood” gift of fucking.

I did, in fact, find myself vulnerably confronting my religion — with a cross dangling above my face, connected to a chain around the neck of a classmate.

Antidepressants are an unrivaled cock block, but it does not have to ruin sex; getting in someone’s head is just as powerful as getting in their pants.

The back-to-school routine was simple: It was the shift from sunscreen to lube; bathing suits to lingerie; and summer jobs to blowjobs.