Sex on Tuesday

It’s an embarrassing and dangerous place; we've all had moments where we were thinking with our dicks instead of our brain.

I think I wanted to learn how to play chess once but, most importantly, I always wanted to "do more unreasonable things, like make plans on a Tuesday." 

Too often, I've looked back at a late-night DoorDash with nothing but disappointment.

I find special days incredibly stressful because I want so badly to have every second feel special, when in reality it's just another day. Anniversaries, holidays, birthdays: they always disappoint me.

Like all 15-year-olds do, my French beau and I eventually ventured past French kissing and together explored uncharted territory. This also sucked.

Before coming to Berkeley , I had kissed more girls than guys, and if we’re being honest, that ratio hasn’t changed much since. Kissing your friends is normal, or so 17-year-old me thought. Kisses are silly and meaningless, which has allowed my closeted self to kiss basically every single girl I’m close to, from dorm friends to sorority sisters. 

It seems strange for me to admit that I lack a definite answer of what counts as sex. After all, I write about sex, I’ve studied sex and I’ve certainly had a lot of it over the years.

I know you respect me in bed, I’d think. But do you respect me outside of it? Do you even know who I am, outside of sex?

It followed me off the streets and into the sheets, this desire to go along with whatever he said to avoid a disagreement, even at my own expense.

Every time we had sex, I felt like it pushed us farther apart rather than closer together. I loved this person — and he loved me — so why didn’t we love having sex with each other?