I love rough sex—and that is perfectly acceptable.
I always thought it was imperative to be hard to get, classy, and sweet. I used to adhere to those mantras (well, not when I was bumping and grinding at Marquee in 2006. And 2007. OK, and 2008). But then I realized a truth: life is short—bone. And bone how you want to!
Now, let’s call a spade a spade– I am in no way kinky or experienced enough, really more of the latter, to like it truly rough a la whips and chains (I might be amenable to a light slap across the face, however). I’m talking about enjoying diet rough sex: a little hair-pulling, booty-smacking, sex-bruising, and the like.
I LOVE a good sex bruise. I got my first contusion of the sort in San Francisco, earlier this year. Unless you count a hickey I got circa 2001 from my high school boyfriend. My poor Indian mother thought I was getting in fights at school. Sorry Mommy, I’m not a bully, just a ho.
We will call him the Doctor. (He’s currently doing his MD/MBA at Stanford—undoubtedly one of the smartest smartypants I know.) We dated briefly in college and have kept in touch over the last ten or so years. By kept in touch, I mean hooked up. I was staying at the Ritz Carlton for work; perhaps it was the fact that we were in a luxe hotel overlooking the stunning SF skyline that made the Doctor act on his naughty impulses. If not the view of the city, perhaps it was the view of my ass as I greeted him dressed solely in my garter (have I mentioned I LOVE dressing up??). The hookup was a delight—tender, rough, and fun, all rolled up into one act. The cherry on top of this sultry sundae? I had a souvenir from our dirty deed! Every time I looked down (at my arm, neck, inner thigh…) I was greeted with a pleasant reminder of what once transpired.
I recently came back from a trip to see a separate boy in London (I’m so busy), and my only keepsake from the weekend romp was a giant sex shiner on my left arm. You would think I would be embarrassed of looking reminiscent of an abuse victim (a video chat with Mom led her to invoke God for help if I was secretly getting battered). But no—I freaking LOVE the bruise. It is perfect for show and tell. How was my trip, you ask? Well take a look at this baby!
I was taught to be virtuous and pure, and my (crazy) parents essentially ingrained in my head that sex is for sluts and I should do math instead of boys. But you know what—be authentic! Love sex! Love it rough! Or don’t! Just be me. I can still be classy and sophisticated (after all, I wear pearls) and like to get down and dirty. Ludacris said it best: be a “Lady in the streets, freak in the sheets.” Luda—you get me. So at the end of the day, I know what I have to do—keep it real!