Sex in the First Person

"It was amazing," I said.

"Really? Better than regular sex?"

I looked at her. Something in me dropped. "What do you mean?"

photo: Shawna Enyart

"You were just in my ass. Didn't you realize?"

"Uhh . . . " Great. Nice work. Biggest watershed in my sexual career, the culmination of a decade's worth of masturbatory fantasies, and I missed it. All those years of ogling ripe peaches gift-wrapped in denim, thinking nasty thoughts. Thousands of women bending over, reaching for the bottom shelf, leaning, arching, just beckoning to be penetrated from the rear. And finally, when the moment arrives, I seize it, and yet somehow miss it. Had I assumed that anal sex would have to be served up doggy-style? Had I been distracted by how she seemed to like it harder than usual? Was it some strange anatomical gift she possessed, to be equally penetrable in both orifices?

I found out that an integral part of anal sex is knowing that you're having it. Even something as distinctly carnal as sodomy takes place predominantly in your head.

—Ryan Nerz

Chubby Chaser

From the back he looked like a woman—full hips, even a little bit of cellulite. If it is possible for a man to be Rubenesque, he was. Because he was terribly self-conscious about his weight, I never told him that he was not my first fat boyfriend. He was certainly the fattest. People cringed when they saw him walking down the aisle of airplanes: "Please, don't sit next to me." When I was with him, they looked at me as if to say, "Look, it's King Kong and Fay Wray." What was it? He was the opposite of agile. In fact, in bed, we were limited to two positions in which his tummy didn't come between us: me on top and me with my heels on his shoulders. But our limited menu was more than made up for by the fact that I found the contrast of his gruffness with the vulnerability of his pale, quivering flesh absolutely irresistible. His presence was almost entirely alien: something other than the human body, both more and less earthly. He did stand-up comedy in his spare time, and when I went to see him once, he did a bit about chubby chasers. At home we got into a huge fight. "I can't believe that you would insinuate that I'm a—whatever you call it, a chubby chaser."

Over the course of our relationship, he lost about 70 pounds. At his lowest point, we broke up. A few months after we had pulled the plug, we had a go-over-it dinner; he ran his fork over his entrée, a simple green salad. The last time I saw him was the cab ride home, when he put his arm around me and said tenderly, "If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even know what a chubby chaser was." "Confession," I said, squeezing a handful of flesh on his belly, which I loved, and which, in spite of his weight loss, was still pillowy and spilled over the waistband of his pants. "I knew what that was. Even before."

—Shannon Welch

Lost Vegas

We skipped the Grand Canyon 'cause it cost 10 bucks to park (then spent the money in a frenzy at Pizza Hut), so it wasn't like we were being extravagant or anything. But it was to be our first time (and my first, period), so we booked a room at the Luxor in Las Vegas on the first night of our first cross-country road trip—hilarious, we both agreed—and raced each other into the closet-sized marble shower to heat things up. This was good: tender and hot and soft and giddy and soapy and hard.

Then to thick white towels, furtive half-laughs, the closet-sized bed—and considerably less hardness. "Nerves," she sighed warmly. "A fucking goddamn cliché," I hissed. Take two: certainly wet, slightly firm, increasingly tetchy. So we took an intermission, walking down the Strip giggling—she a study in ease, me an easy study—then pausing for $27 French toast. Like a damn Disney dad, this is what I remember now.

Checkout was at 11. We tried again at dawn's early light, and it was good again: slow and meaningful and, surprisingly, nothing like the particular Ginuwine song I'd expected. Then the phone rang; no way we're answering that shit. Then a knock at the door; we'll reuse the stupid towels. Then banging on the door connecting to the adjacent room, where three security guards were preparing to bust it down because I checked us out on the TV and it's already past 11 and this is Vegas and I guess only dead people try to lose their virginity before noon on a beautiful day at the end of summer. Hilarious, we both agreed.

—Mikael Wood

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