Why you should care
OZY’s Eugene S. Robinson addresses queries from the love-weary in “Sex With Eugene.”
EUGENE, SIR: I am trying to convince my lover that variety is the spice of life. There are lots of ways he could think I mean this, but I told him that I meant he could vary the speed of his thrusting. I don’t know if he is trying to delay orgasm or what, but once we get going, it is the same speed from beginning to end, and a lot of times the only way I know that he’s orgasmed is when I feel the semen. On the one hand, at least he doesn’t come too quickly. On the other hand, I don’t think good sex should feel like a marathon. Since I’m not penetrating him and I have already told him to try to change, are there gentle ways you can think of to help him work some speed variations in his repertoire? —Nancy
Dear Fancy Nancy: Gentle? GENTLE?!? You mean kinda like if you were speaking to a small child or an elderly person? Listen, I’m all for certain kinds of couth and for kindness as a guiding principle, but if I am about to get hit by a car, I think I’d be OK with you shouting that I’m about to get hit by a car, propriety be damned. Likewise, your man — let’s call him Sluggo — has thrusting-rate monotony issues, not fashion sensibility issues. By which I mean, if you told him his shoes are ugly, to quote The Dude, that might just be, like, your opinion, man. Not saying you’re not right, just saying you could be wrong here.
But with regard to the rate of thrust? I’m fully buying into your take on account of you describing how something feels to YOU, and this is something if he’s invested in this relationship that he should want to know as much as I want to know I’m about to get hit by a car. To hell with niceties. See, right now he’s thinking it’s “nice to have” and not what it sounds like, which is a “HAVE to have.”
So once you’ve told him, without anger or frustration and not in bed but in some unloaded venue like maybe over dinner, I’d suggest pairing your sex with music. Like an audio coxswain, you’ll find music not only sets tones but it sets rhythms, and those rhythms change. The first movie I remember that laid this all out there was 10 with Bo Derek and the piece of music was “Bolero.” This can/should/might work for you. Make it fun, because it should always be fun, and let us know how it goes. Good luck!
Bad Decisions 101
EUGENE, SIR: I went to a sex worker. Not something I do a lot, but I did, and while I was there, I started having a hard time getting the condom on without losing my erection, because, I can admit, I was nervous. She didn’t bring any condoms and I only had three, and by the time I had ruined two on two different tries, I really started to panic. So since I was hard enough to get inside of her but not hard enough to risk the last condom, I just stuck it in without a condom. I thought once I got hard I’d put it on. But she didn’t check. Anyway, we had sex, and I forgot and wasn’t thinking and came inside of her. I can’t imagine she’s doing this job without being on birth control, but if she were to get pregnant, what am I liable for? —Name withheld by request
Dear Papa Roach: Everything. It’s not like Planet Prostitution is someplace other than a subset of Planet Earth. So the question is and remains: What are you liable for whenever you don’t protect you and her from the sometimes inevitable biological outcome of your sperm mixing with the eggs of any woman who is taking the time to have sex with you? If she chooses to keep what will grow into a kid, you’re on the line to be financially responsible for this kid the same as you would be, no matter who you were having sex with. That is to say, her job has very little to do with your fiduciary responsibilities when it comes to fatherhood.
And see, I didn’t even get into the questionable arena of unprotected sex with professionals, the consent issue (did she “consent” to unprotected sex with you?), and/or the moral ramifications of paying someone for sex! Here’s a bonus too: There are condoms available that are easier to get on than what we could call the “old style” condoms. They have tabs — imagine them at 3 and 9 on a clock face — and are both superthin and easy to slide onto a semi-turgid tool.
So, protect the future from your ill-advised decisions. Use them. Thank me later.
The Hate Mail Bag
EUGENE, SIR: How do we know that your advice is worth anything?!?! Having a penis doesn’t make you a f*cking expert. Try shutting up and come back to us maybe after you’ve learned something. —No Name
Dear Dr. Phillipe: How do you know that when you buy milk, it’s actually going to be milk? Look, this column’s official name is SEX WITH EUGENE, and anyone writing in or reading what’s been written is safe and secure in the knowledge that they will get both sex and Eugene sans any claims of efficacy. So, depending on how you measure worth, it’s worth quite a lot (in which case, the advice probably helped you) or it’s worth nothing (the advice did NOT help you), and you knowing this has everything to do with your ability to understand anything hereby related to either sex or Eugene.
And with one point I disagree: Having your penis doesn’t make you a fucking expert, clearly. In my case, though, that’s exactly what it makes me.
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