Monthly Archives: June 2009

More Firsts

As long as we’re on the topic of firsts, I may as well discuss a couple of mine. Well, I can’t say anything about the first blowjob I gave because I honestly don’t remember much of it. I know that I was 18. I know that it probably sucked (unintentional pun!).

I remember the first time I had sex. I was very upset. I was 18 and it was with my first ‘real’ boyfriend (the same guy who got the blowjob). Yes, I was old – an adult, even. I wasn’t holding out for ‘the one’ or anything like that, I just went through an extremely long ugly phase. Anyway, back to what I was saying – I was mad. It wouldn’t go in. We must have attempted it ten times. He was met with a wall; I was met with pain and embarrassment. I remember him stopping one time, telling me that he felt like he was raping me.

I cried about it a lot.

What the hell was wrong with me? It’s not like I didn’t want it to happen. I did, badly. I was 18, in love and ready to get it over with. I tried everything. Intense foreplay. Different kinds of lube. Near-excessive amounts of alcohol. Distracting myself. Concentrating.

When it eventually did happen, I was left with thoughts along the lines of, “That was it?” and “I guess it gets better.” Unfortunately, it didn’t. It took me well over a year (if not two) before I started enjoying sex. I cared about the guy I was with, but I don’t think I liked myself very much.

I was shy. I’d dim the lights in flattering ways, cover my boobs when I could, never let him get a good look at my ass. I was more preoccupied with what I thought he thought of me than with enjoying the moment.

Thankfully, things have changed. If any lessons can be learned from my experience, they are the following: don’t be bummed if it doesn’t go in (I looked it up and as much as it sucks, it appears to be pretty normal), use lube, lube & more lube, don’t expect your first time to be earth shattering and of course, love yourself.



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My First BJ

I’ve noticed that as my relationship with my boyfriend progresses, the amount of blowjobs I give decreases. I feel guilty but I have in no way attempted to rectify the situation. With time, we become lazier and lazier and that need to entice the other disappears as the relationship grows stronger. At the beginning, we dole BJs out like food stamps on Christmas, but once the 6-month mark is reached, their dick is left jonesing like a meth addict in rehab.

Do you remember how “hungry” you were for cock at first? Hanging out innocently on Mont-Royal and then suddenly you got the urge to suck his dick? Or the time he dragged you to the bathroom at a bar and you happily followed? Best of all, do you remember your first ever beej?

I remember mine like it was yesterday. It was my first year of college. I was 17 (I was a really late bloomer) and I was high and drunk (how typical). I still remember what I was wearing: these low cut bell bottom Mavi jeans, an ugly brown shirt that hung off my shoulders and a black velvety blazer paired with dusty pink flats (WTF was I thinking?). I was at a local hardcore/emo show at L’X to support my cousin’s band. I was such a loser. I didn’t really know anyone there and it was obvious. I ended up smoking weed and drinking Tornados with some guy named Simon from Hamilton (or maybe Sudbury, who knows?).

I somehow found myself grinding my ass on his dick while my cousin’s band was playing – who knew hardcore could have that affect on me? One thing of course led to another, and I ended up in the back of his tour van (also known as his mom’s Ford Windstar). After a feverish makeout session, his hands ended up in my panties. He whispered, “Wanna gimme a blowjob?” Naturally, I obliged. I was actually hesitant at first but then I figured that if I’m gonna have to do it one day, I might as well do it now.

My initial reaction was, “Ew, this fucking tastes like sweat” and then as it progressed, I was like “OK, this isn’t so bad”. After about 10minutes, I felt a warm, stringy filament of semen leak down my throat. The bastard came in my mouth without telling me! Not knowing what to do, I swallowed (I was kind enough not to spit; I would have felt bad ruining the upholstery). After an awkward exchange of phone numbers, I slid out of his van, grinning like a fucking idiot.

Not only was I happy, I even showed off about it the next day at school. I was the first of my small group of friends to have given a blowjob. Back then it was like, “Yay, me!” but now it’s more, “Oh God.” What’s even more embarrassing is that I was naïve enough to believe that he was actually gonna call me before he left for his Ontarian hometown.

In retrospect, I made a bad move. He might have had herpes for all I fucking know. And blowjobs in the back of a van? How stereotypically sleazy! I don’t think I regret it, though. You live, you learn.

-Maria D

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Scales Are Bastards

I am not one to complain about my weight. In fact, I don’t even think I’m allowed to complain about my weight because bigger girls automatically blow me off. Listen, bigger girls, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but no one is completely happy with their weight (except maybe guys). We’re all too bony or too fat or too misproportioned or too bow-legged or too small-titted or too whatever the hell else. 

I was luckily among the very few who managed to escape the society-spewed weight myths that bombard women daily. I never thought my body was perfect, but I was happily indifferent. I’ve never been to the gym. I’ve never even been on a diet. 

Still, I had problems with my weight, and I don’t mean the psychological kind. I became really thin at one point. I hadn’t done anything to provoke the weight loss. It just happened. When I looked in the mirror after showering, I was grossed out by the sight of my protruding ribs. I wasn’t ecstatic with how I looked, but I didn’t do anything to change it. Strangely, I accepted it.

A year later, my stomach worms or whatever caused my boniness subsided, and I looked normal again. I had curves and boobs and a non Skeletor-like face and I was happy.

That was a few years ago. I honestly don’t feel like I’ve gained any weight since then. I was under the impression that it had stabilized.

Well, my mom just came back from Toronto with a brand spankin’ new scale. I can’t remember the last time I weighed myself; it must have been around ten years ago. She asked me to try it out. I said, “No, go away” but she begged me. I gave in.

The scale said 130. 

That might not mean shit to anyone but it for some reason broke my spirit. I’m suddenly sad. Maybe society did get to me. Should I finally go on a diet? Should I Google thinspiration pictures? Should I “work out”? 

Of course, I will do none of these things. I am eating a pogo as I type this. Still, what I’m trying to say is that scales skew the way you view yourself. Our self worth should not be affected by the results on these damn contraptions; beauty isn’t determined by numbers. I feel at least ten pounds lighter than that thing said I am. I refuse to be bullied.



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Summer Bummer: Stinky Soles

Matthew McConohey (whatever) and Luke Wilson look like smelly feet. I don’t mean that they look like they have smelly feet; I mean that their faces look like feet that are stinky. I could almost smell an odour reminiscent of sour milk or vinegar chips seeping out of their pores and through the TV screen.
That smell is the smell of summer feet: feet that have been walking around in flats all day.

Hot FeetFlats promised a world of fashionable yet painless shoes, allowing for maximum comfort without sacrificing style. Well first of all, they’re not really that comfortable – the soles are usually so thin that they offer little or no arch support. The impact caused by your heels hitting the ground kills your back. Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that the backs of these little shits cause fucking blisters that make walking nearly impossible. I can deal with all that, nothing a little band-aid can’t fix. What really boggles my mind is the amount of sweat and stink that my feet can produce when wearing flats.

Sometimes they get so sweaty that my foot slips inside the shoe – it can make you trip! But the smell, that pungent odour that seems impossible to eradicate, is what bothers me most. Sometimes I smell them from under my desk, and when it’s really bad, I swear I could smell them when I walk. It’s like there’s a stinky cloud floating above my soles. I’ve sprayed perfume on my feet & shoes because a trainee had to sit at my desk for a day. Never do that! The flowery scent of perfume mixed with the saltiness creates this sickly sweet aroma that permeates the air and makes the initial stench even more noticeable. That was definitely an awkward moment.

I’ve also noticed when your feet are particularly sweaty, if you walk on recently varnished hardwood floors, you will leave foot prints on the ground. How gross is that? It’s like concrete evidence that your feet are disgusting pieces of shit and the ultimate turn off to the opposite sex. It’s even worse if you’re invited somewhere and your have to take your shoes off. I have, on many occasions, ran to their bathroom and scrambled to shove my foot under the sink to wash out the smell.

I wish I could give you advice on how to avoid smelly summer feet, but I’m still doing research. Dr. Scholl’s Foot Powder works for a few hours and leaves a minty cool sensation on your feet. However it may leave streaks on your clothes or make you look like you applied bronzer but forgot to put it on your feet. Canvas soles apparently help the sweat factor. Other than that, you could try airing your feet when no one’s looking – but that might cause the smell to go airborne.

-Maria D

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