It’s okay to like it rough

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 cbruiseount 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!

Snoozefest sex

Silent sex is boring sex.

Let’s be real– I am a girl and I LOVE talking. When I am with a man, all I want him to do is verbalize what he feels, what he believes, what he ate for dinner, what he thinks of my shoes, what he worries about at work, what kind of laundry detergent he uses. EVERYTHING. (I get it, I’m a crazy girl.) And for me, communication is just as important in the sack.

Until recently, I had never hooked up without a little chit-chat. Now, I probably indulge in a little more dirty talk than is commonplace amongst my over-educated and under-sexed peer group, but I don’t always require raunchy communiqué during the act (but I do love it!). But, I need SOMETHING to work with. A simple “give it to me baby” or even “do you like it like that” would suffice.

The other night, I thought there might have been a silent film playing during sex—because I could hear it.

We will call him Pepe. Pepe and I have known each other for about eight years.  We had been hooking up for about that time, on and off, vast majority off. Yet, we never sealed the deal. In the years past, no number of dinners at fancy restaurants, drinks at trendy bars, or even a brief Italian and Swiss holiday, could get me to take off the chastity belt. Suddenly, this year, Pepe casually mentioned I looked pretty at a recent Garden Party, and I basically threw my panties in his face.

The sex was fine. But it was QUIET. One of my favorite things about sex (besides that I am having sex!) is that it keeps me present. That’s probably why I love communicating with men—I am so genuinely interested in what comes out of their (bozo) mouths that I don’t think about anything else in that moment. Throughout my daily routine, I am incessantly ruminating—either about my career, my family, or the latest drama on Real Housewives (Did Vicki really have a threesome??). But during sex, all I can think about is how much I love this penis inside me (or my mouth) right now.

quiet zone

However with Pepe, the silence was almost deafening. I remember thinking hmm, maybe I should breathe heavier?? Or let out a slight moan? Would that make it better?He’s giving it a good effort, I don’t want to make him feel bad. And I think I am liking it? What color should I get for my next manicure? Oh wait, let me arch my back– that might help.

We only did it that one time, but Pepe and I are still friendly. We even carpooled to the Hamptons a few days later. But the experience made me realize how much I love a good tête-à-tête. Maybe because Pepe and I never had that much to say to each other outside the boudoir, we had the same issue when finally inside it. So note to self—gab on!

My first one night stand

I always thought you need to really feel connected to someone to truly enjoy sex. I presumed chemistry was a rarity in this world, shared only with a select few.

Then I boned a rando, and I freaking loved it.

Going from only sleeping with (two) boyfriends, to a one night stand was quite the leap for me. In my rager-filled youth, I rarely had the urge to do anything more than make out with a stranger. A little spit-swapping and feeling up on the dance floor used to hit the spot and then I’d usually just peace out and spend the night with my true love–pizza. But suddenly, a new curiosity emerged: what would sex with a stranger be like?

Superman

I assumed it would be awkward, gross, painful, brief– standard fare. No, thank you. I don’t know if I hit the one night stand jackpot but my experience was nothing like that.

Let’s call him The Greek. He was a handsome lawyer with luscious locks and Clark Kent eyeglasses, who I met at a cocktail party for the Apollo Circle at the Met (the only way I was convinced to become a pricey patron of the arts, was the guarantee of countless open bars). Over cocktails, we chatted about the Punk to Couture exhibit and eventually migrated to the Four Seasons with a group of our friends to keep it classy. I don’t know when I decided that he was the Chosen One, but I could feel myself not being able to resist the temptation to finally discover what this whole hit it and quit it behavior was all about.

I suggested we leave our nice friends and head to our respective homes. “We can share a cab and make out a little if you want,” I nonchalantly suggested as if carpooling and french kissing were natural partners. The Greek was amenable.

We hopped in the (not long enough) ride from midtown to SoHo, and I straddled him. Oh yes, I love a good makeout slash straddle session in a taxi. It’s surprising, sexy, and pressing my butt against the backseat TV is better than watching it. When we first got in the cab, I told the driver we were making two stops, going to my Tribeca apartment second. (I’m SO hard to get). But as I ran my hands through that beautiful head of hair, it was at that moment I decided– this is it, we are going all the way.

All of a sudden, I had a thought– is this safe?? Wholly unfamiliar with all one-night-stand protocol, I pulled back from our liplock and asked The Greek two pivotal questions:

1. Are you going to serial kill me?

2. Do you have STDs?

After I felt comfortable I was going to emerge from this undertaking alive and disease free, I was ready to get down to business. And down to business we got. The night was just SO FUN. I remember falling asleep that night and thinking OH MY GOD- WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN BONING RANDOS ALL MY LIFE??? I suddenly understood why everyone was so slutty.

Then the morning came. We parted ways, and like the little bozo I am, I thought this clearly wasn’t a one night stand. I mean who wouldn’t want to have sex like that OVER and OVER again?? I patiently waited for him to text or call me. (And, maybe we will fall in love??) All day at work, I was beaming with the joy of just indulging in the most ravishing and unexpected night I had encountered in a long time.

Well, he never called. But the best part of having a one night stand for the first time at age 29, is that it is OKAY. I wasn’t devastated, I wasn’t appalled. I was zen. I still loved the sex we had. I would have happily re-boned, but alas, this was a lesson. Good sex is out there, not just with people I love. What a twist!!