Vacation is not real life. You eat whatever you want; drink beverages that easily have over 500 calories; and lay around doing nothing for hours (what reading?). Therefore, vacation is the perfect time for a no-strings attached, purely fun hook up with someone you honestly will probably never see again. Yet, a problem that arises: without your friends and/or a space you already know (a.k.a. not Whiskey or my friend’s house/dorm party), how do you meet someone you can get down and dirty with? Just like our packing list, let’s lay out the necessities in advance.
Tinder: I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Tinder is great. Tinder is even better, though, on vacation, as it enables you to peruse so many options from the comfort of your hotel/hostel bed. During an extraordinarily boring spring break with my family last year, I started chatting with Will, a recent college graduate and aspiring singer/songwriter. After a day or two of texting, he asked if I wanted to hang out. I invited him over to my hotel, where we went for a night swim and hooked up in a cabana. Mission accomplished, and all it took was a swipe right.
Clearly, I’m all about #throwbacks, with articles about the Renaissance of hand jobs and finger blasts. Something I am not in favor of bringing back, however, is the Age of the Obvious Hickey. Remember when hickeys were a true mark of pride? Your friend would come into school wearing a scarf that phe would then excitedly rip off to show you the purple bruise on their neck. What was the point of the scarf if you were just going to take it off or play with it until everyone in your Algebra II class saw what was on your neck? Regardless, by lunch time, everyone knew.
In college, a hickey can be a source of embarrassment, rather than a brag. “Is that a hickey?!” people will ask you in derision. Scarves or make-up are necessary in class or when meeting with a professor. Don’t even get me started on a visit to the CareerLab. Now, whenever I have a hickey, instead of feeling proud, I feel completely self-conscious.
This is a real hickey I received consensually, not a vampire bite.
Last week, I wrote about the hand job: a staple of the early hook up years, whose favor has gone by the wayside. But, what about vagina owners? I think they deserve some hand-love, too.
Since I moved out of my freshman dorm room, I have not discussed “fingering” whatsoever. As an obvious lover of foreplay, I, along with the support of my partners, incorporated it into the pre-sex motions. I failed to give it the “extracurricular” thought it deserved, as my mind was preoccupied with new sex positions and blow job techniques. During Nick Offerman’s lecture at Brown last semester, he talked a lot about how great his sex life is with his wife, Megan Mullally. Nothing stuck with me as much, however, as his discussion of “fingerblasting” her to orgasm. “I want that!” I thought to myself. Similar to the hand job, getting fingered has been seamlessly integrated into foreplay, but does not often get the chance to stand on its own. Furthermore, from my own experience, it seems to be a lot more poking and prodding than anything actually arousing. This is not a gynecologic exam; you’re not trying to feel my uterus. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it right, please. So, let’s get down to it after the jump: Continue Reading
Something truly shocking happened to me this weekend. I was in bed with my new phe, enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning make-out sesh, when phe asked me for something I was totally unprepared for: a hand job. I was dumbfounded. What were we, in tenth grade? Not only had I not given a hand job in literal years, I had been repeatedly told by friends/partners/Cosmopolitan magazine that receiving a hand job is completely unenjoyable for someone who has perfected the art themselves. Panicking at the thought of failure (as many Brown students do), I made a joke about something else and changed the subject.
Why was I so much more willing to give a blow job or do something kinky than give a good old-fashioned hand job? Back in the day (whenever that is for you), a hand job was a big deal that warranted hours of discussion with friends. Techniques, reactions, and personal emotions were matters that really needed to parsed apart. Now, brief handplay may be included in foreplay, but it is no longer the main event.
Which is why, when asked for a hand job, I totally freaked. After some introspection, however, I realized how ridiculous I was being. It’s not like phe was asking me to do something totally insane that I was unprepared for. I’m all about someone using their hands to pleasure me (more on that soon), so why wouldn’t I want to do this simple thing to make my phe feel good?
During many an afternoon in the Blue Room, I have heard Brown students talking about the muffins with the same excitement and pleasure in their voices as their most recent hook-ups. My mind could not help but wander. If the muffins were different sexual positions, what would they be?
Corn muffin = hand job. Seriously, what is the point of a corn muffin? I guess it does the job of satisfying your hunger, but there is little joy to it. Some could say the same about a hand job: takes care of business, but rarely great or memorable. You deserve an upgrade.
Blueberry muffin = missionary. Ordering a blueberry muffin shows little originality, just like the missionary position. Not that it can’t be satisfying, but there is nothing too special about it.
One muffin in a tin of 1,000.
Hi there! I’m Lana Del Foreplay, BlogDailyHerald’s new Sextion writer. I am so excited to take over this semester. Over the next few months, columns will cover everything from crushes to sex to love, with little anecdotes sprinkled in between to (hopefully) give you a teeny bit of insight into sex both at and away from Brown. Can’t wait to get down and dirty with you all.
During these snowy nights, I can’t help but wish there were someone snuggling up beside me to keep me warm in my twin bed. But without any currently viable options in the love department, I roll over and pick up my phone. What used to be a “hey, what’s up?” text to a romantic interest has been replaced with anywhere from five to 55 minutes of flicking through photos of people between ages twenty to 28 within a five mile radius. I see someone cute, take 20 seconds to look through all of their photos and read their blurb, and finally swipe right because I am bored. A match! Here we go…
As someone who has had over hundreds of matches throughout my tenure on Tinder (#notsohumblebrag), I have talked to many a phe I would not have had the
pleasure chance of meeting otherwise. I won’t lie: it is an amazingly modern way for singles to mingle. Now I’m not sure if it’s the people I am choosing or just the plethora of options on Tinder, but the majority of people I talk to are weird, to put it kindly. From the classic “you horny?” to the seemingly sweet “you’re cute :),” which turns into “I want to cum on your face,” it can be hard to tell who is a normal person and who is a psychotic nymphomaniac axe murderer.