Sex

Like all 15-year-olds do, my French beau and I eventually ventured past French kissing and together explored uncharted territory. This also sucked.

Before coming to Berkeley , I had kissed more girls than guys, and if we’re being honest, that ratio hasn’t changed much since. Kissing your friends is normal, or so 17-year-old me thought. Kisses are silly and meaningless, which has allowed my closeted self to kiss basically every single girl I’m close to, from dorm friends to sorority sisters. 

It seems strange for me to admit that I lack a definite answer of what counts as sex. After all, I write about sex, I’ve studied sex and I’ve certainly had a lot of it over the years.

I know you respect me in bed, I’d think. But do you respect me outside of it? Do you even know who I am, outside of sex?

It followed me off the streets and into the sheets, this desire to go along with whatever he said to avoid a disagreement, even at my own expense.

Every time we had sex, I felt like it pushed us farther apart rather than closer together. I loved this person — and he loved me — so why didn’t we love having sex with each other?

The implication stands naked in front of you. Across countries and cultures, women cannot have a life detached from a dick. It’s a fantasy, a wet dream.

I need to feel that electrified spark between us, the high I can only get when our bodies are intertwined. I’d rather lose myself than lose him.

What if I’m actually straight? This thought — that I might have been wrong in claiming “queer” as an identity — haunted me.

In light of the overturning of Roe v. Wade, are we really surprised that the government has viewed femininity as a political weapon rather than a state of life?