Like all good things in life (namely, sex), this blog must now come to an end. It seems rather silly to be writing a blog about the sex life of a single Exeter student when I am now loved up and living in London. Alas.
This blog has ultimately served its purpose from my Declaration. In the space of one crazy year, I have managed to have sex, blow off (sometimes literally) the fuckboys in my life and find a perfect gentleman whose penis incidentally looks like the Empire State Building. I don’t think I could have done any of that without this blog making me see that sex can be funny and that it doesn’t have to be the serious and scary act that American high school TV shows led me to believe.
But I’m not quite finished yet. Before I go, I want to draw attention to something rather puzzling that I noticed a few nights ago whilst having sex with my boyfriend.
The sex itself was fantastic. Usually, I would let him take full credit because I am no certified Sexpert. But now that I think about it, I have learned to do things with my hips that any Olympic athlete would rate a solid 7/10. Let’s just say, I’m quite a fan of being on top.
So the sex was going well. But then after a while he, you know, “finished”. And then he pulled out of me faster than a hand out of a cookie jar. It was, to use my favourite phrase, an “ejaculation and evacuation”. He seemed to have completely forgotten that I was still turned on and nearing climax, because suddenly he was too sleepy to talk or do anything other than sleep (OK, he did give me a cuddle, too).
Unfortunately, Drunk Me decided to take this lying down (literally) and I just lay on the bed in silence, getting rather upset whilst he slept soundly next to me. It just doesn’t seem right that we should have sex and then, when he finishes, for the act to be over. In the past, when I’ve finished first (I told you he was good), I then lie on my back and he continues until he’s finished too.
Now, I know that guys can’t do that – once they’ve finished, they can’t go again for 10 minutes or so. But he could still have done something else to me. Or he didn’t even have to drive my car himself, he could have just kissed me whilst I drove my car – that would have been hot too. It just felt like my pleasure wasn’t important to him, and I suddenly realised that sex is actually a rather selfish act when it, ahem, comes down to it.
I wanted to leave you with this story because it reminded me of the purpose of sex, something I realised whilst writing this blog. The point of sex is to have fun (well, that and making babies). If you want to have sex with 3 different guys every day for the rest of your life, then go for it (although that could result in a UTI, so stock up on cranberry juice). Don’t let anyone judge you for your actions and don’t judge yourself. Sex is about connecting with someone and caring about their needs, to an extent, but it is also about finding out what you enjoy and doing it.
So on that note, this blog draws to a close. May your lives be filled with love, laughs and multiple orgasms.
The Exeter Girl