SeX sTyLeS

So this week, butterflies — I’m talkin SeX sTyLeS.

I’ve been HIGHLY sexual lately. More than EVER in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been going through a shitty stage and when everything sux — professionally and personally — at least you still have sex to look forward to — plus it’s a great way of releasing frustrations and distracting yourself from your failures.

SIDE NOTE: Sex is awesome and as far as I surmise, it’s kind of the purpose of life anyway, so who gives if I’m failing in every other aspect of my existence. I rather be poor and pathetic and “getting it,” than rich and successful and completely dry and bored out of my libido.

OR: maybe I’m just over-the-top-insane, “THE CLIT WILL REIGN” out of control HORNY because I’m in my sexual peak. I’m enjoying boinking more than alcohol, fast food, hot wings, German chocolate cake etc. I want it from behind, the side, on top — whatever way AS IN every way – ALL THE TIME.

That said, I’m not doing it with random strangers or anything. I stumbled across a sexual partner. We met by a graffiti wall. Very romantic (well it is if you’re a hipster; not that I am. I’m more of an accidental hipster — temporarily). He’s not really someone I would imagine for myself (in life), but let me say when it comes to sex and form, the man has style — and stamina. We managed to do it eleven times the other night. I didn’t know that was even possible.

During the course of my history, I’ve found that sex is different with different men. Like a quiet accountant type who doesn’t lift weights (even though he probably goes on morning jogs) will probably have a very different technique to someone who works in construction. I imagine. I’m not into builders — or accountants. It’s just an analogy. Example: The accountant may be subtle, the construction dude not so. Unless the reverse happens as is so typical in life thanks to its attraction to irony and the accountant becomes a tiger in bed, whilst the construction guy strips off his macho persona revealing a pussy cat underneath. Meow.

You can’t type-cast when it comes to a person’s style in bed. My only point is that everyone has their preferred method and stereotypes can be deceiving. Example: A year ago, I had a fling with this hot former-submarine military guy. He was a work-out freak with an amazing body. But he was very potato chips plain, “minimal participation” in bed. If sex were a musical form, he was like reggae, but bad amateur reggae. I prefer dance, pop, techno — something more upbeat.

Personally, I like to be man-handled. None of this smooth operator, shifting back and forth missionary-style at a consistent pace and rhythm whilst the sounds of soft unintended moans harmonize with the squeak of bed springs. Unless it’s naturally going that way and we’re genuinely falling in love, sex should not be choreographed. Sweeping my hair out of my eyes and playing Marvin Gaye in the background for the sake of illusion because I’m a girl and I just need to be loved – even if it’s a lie — is not cool dude. I’m a realist,  motherfucker!  I live in a city with a majority “asshole” population…aka. L.A. I don’t need to be shielded from the truth. Besides, I like it rough.

AND: I’m a post-feminist movement female who has been forced into the workplace since the age of fifteen. I’ve suffered through corporate meetings and powerpoint presentations; I’ve worked in the car industry, a forklift company, the military, a commercial real estate office etc. over the course of the 30 plus jobs that I’ve had because equal opportunity is AWESOME (I’m kidding. It has perks). But when it comes to sexual activities I don’t always want to be an equal. I like to be dominated. Not that I don’t have my power moments , but ya get my drift.

When I first moved to California, I briefly dated this very brilliant, but nerdy (as in trendy-nerdy) producer, who I had awful AWFUL sex with — it was gentle and slow. I think he was aiming for it to be spiritual or something, but it wasn’t. So it was silent and mechanical and even though we weren’t entirely sober, its like we were both hauntingly aware of the fact that we were  doing it.  I think he was nervous, which made me nervous, which just resulted in awkward robot sex. Three failed attempts and it was time to eject. Eww. Memory deletion – compute.

At least he didn’t give me instructions. That’s the worst. Move to the left, do this weird thing with your tongue, open your mouth. STOP. Sex should come naturally. We’re not learning how to play the violin. And it should be in the moment. It’s not a Word Document; there’s no template.

I like a man with endurance. I mean the quickie is what it represents – I’m about to explode and I need to get off now NOW. I’m not undermining. It serves its purpose, but if you’re constantly only getting quick and hurried bursts of sex, you’re not doing it correctly. That’s like a preview. It’s like watching a trailer instead of seeing the actual movie. Not to mention I’m a woman and I’m not capable of getting off in ten seconds. Let’s not forget the value of foreplay. There’s no need to launch straight into it. Even space shuttles get a countdown before they take-off. A good lead up adds to the anticipation, which makes the climax all the more explosive.

Ultimately, whatever your style, it’s important to do it with confidence and to be comfortable with the person you’re doing it with.
…

ADD TO THE DIALOGUE: What are your thoughts, methods, preferences in style?

About the Author

Lola Berlin has taken drastic measures in the quest for love including getting married in Vegas, faking her own death, and drinking blood -- only one of these is true - the Vegas part. In hindsight she should've faked her own death instead. Disillusioned and repulsed by the LA dating scene, she has found blogging a reasonable distraction from stalking her former lovers and contemplating murder motivated by unrequited love. You can follow Lola on Facebook