Men Tell All About Sex!

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“The best sex I ever had was on Skype”
By Davy Rothbart

I met Nikki in Sioux Falls, South Dakota—a mysterious, tattooed girl serving drinks at a smoky bar, reading in the corner during lulls in the action. I was in town only for the night, and I’m not one of those smooth guys who knows how to pick up a girl at a bar, especially the bartender, but we started talking. By the end of the evening we were making out by the pinball machine and heading back to her place.

Nikki was sexy, smart, funny, and sweet. The problem? I lived 14 hours away, in Michigan. All the same, we pledged to find a way to make it work. Over the winter we visited every month or two, but even as our feelings took off, our sex life was barely existent. There’d be a passionate weekend, then nothing for weeks. Getting to know someone’s body happens over time, upon repeat exposure. Distance wasn’t helping.

One night, as we were chatting on Skype, Nikki showed me a new dress and began to slide it off, an impromptu striptease. I was turned on, and when I told her so, she smiled and moved closer to her webcam, showing off some tattoos that snaked up around her thighs to her waist. She paused. “Hey, no fair,” she said. “If I’m getting naked, you are too!”

I felt bashful, but soon we were both lying on our beds, touching ourselves while the other watched—something I’d never even done in person. Afterward, we said rushed, slightly embarrassed goodbyes. But later Nikki texted me: “That was fun. Again when I get home from work?”

In the weeks that followed, our sessions became a thrilling daily habit. We’d play strip rock-paper-scissors until both of us were naked and then pounce on each other—virtually. Nikki asked me to guide her, to position her, and have her do things that I knew would get me off. Whatever sheepishness I had about communicating my desires in person melted away on-screen. And when I found myself struggling to know how to make her come (for all of Skype’s wonders, it’s not like I could go down on her over a webcam), Nikki requested exactly the view she needed. Soon, we could climax at the same time, or pretty close to it.

Thrillingly, the next time we were actually together in bed, real sex was that much hotter. Now that we knew our secret turn-ons, we could go to town on each other. It was some of the best sex either of us had ever had.

“Now that we knew our secret turn-ons, we could go to town on each other.”

Over time, we continued having Skype sex and found new ways to make our fun. But the limitations also grew frustrating. The screen would go blank. My roommate barged in. And the distance eroded our emotional connection. It was easier to share the highs and lows of our days with roommates and friends instead of each other.

In the spring Nikki admitted she’d developed feelings for a guy she worked with, and we broke up. But she remains a friend, and the power of Skype sex stays with me. Even now, when I’m first dating someone, I’ll initiate it when one of us is out of town. I’ve even had Skype sex with a girl while we were in the same apartment, in different rooms! There’s nothing like learning a few secrets and then sliding down the hall and putting that knowledge to good use.

Davy Rothbart is the cocreator of Found magazine and the author of the essay collection My Heart Is an Idiot.

“I turned down sex and lost true love”
By Benjamin Nugent

The first time I tried to write a novel, it was about Sara.* We were 17. I watched her from afar. I never had the guts to flirt with her, but I listed the colors of her scrunchies, tried to imagine what she was like eating dinner with her parents. I filled 110 pages. After high school, we barely knew each other. But many years later when she read about one of my books in the newspaper, she sent me a congratulatory email. I felt obliged to tell her the truth. “My first book,” I responded, “was about you.” My long-dormant high school self was screaming, “This is your chance!”

In the weeks that followed, we had lunch and exchanged emails about dreams in which the other appeared. No subject was off-limits: our ongoing quarrels with our parents, our teenage depressions, our exes. Finally we went to dinner, an official date. She invited me back to her apartment, where we made out on the couch. Then the girl of my dreams looked at me and asked if I wanted to come upstairs. I’d wanted to sleep with Sara for approximately 60 percent of my life. I said no.

It was the stupidest decision I’ve ever made.

Like a lot of dim-witted men, I believed that women like guys who don’t move too fast. I wanted to be with Sara forever. What was one night? We were both a little drunk. It’d be more special if we waited, I reasoned. I’d be a good dude and hold off till next time, which would be the grandest moment in the history of sex. She looked baffled, maybe a little stung. But it would be cool, I thought; I’ll call her in two days.

The next day I wondered if two days was too long, but my female friends assured me it was perfect. I didn’t tell them about the bedroom invitation; I was protective of Sara. Had I, I realize now, they would have advised me differently. “Women think guys always want it,” said one friend, later, when she knew everything. “So if you say no, we think you’re rejecting us.”

When I called, Sara was polite. She was packing for a trip to a nearby island with friends. I could swing by this island, if I wanted to, she said, in a tone of cheerful indifference. My stomach sank, but I figured we’d deal with it in person. I was too late. By the time I got off the ferry, a day later, she’d met a man by the ocean. I wondered if I could ask, “Wait, what about us?” But her tone forbade it. She was brisk, cold. A wall had gone up.

We hung out many times after that. We were flirtatious, but we were friends; Island Guy had won her heart. One afternoon we were having an epic phone call. She and Island Guy were fighting. I was walking in a park. “Wouldn’t it have been romantic if we’d gotten together?” she asked. It was nearly two years since I’d turned her down.

“You know,” I said, “I was in love with you.” As soon as I said it, it was obviously only half true. Was—yeah, sure. Suddenly my face was wet, and I was choking on my words. We talked about patience, about seeing how things went. She said she didn’t know where life was going. By this time, I’d moved away and had a girlfriend. “Keep me in mind,” I said, hopeful and ashamed. “I will,” Sara replied. I broke up with my girlfriend. Sara worked things out with Island Guy. To patch myself up, I wrote a novel about a boy and a girl who witness something terrible in high school and reunite as adults.

All I had to do that night we first had dinner was take her hand and follow her upstairs, and we might have had different lives. All she had to do was ask why I wanted to wait. But how could she have known? At least now, dear reader, you do.

Benjamin Nugent is the author of Good Kids, out this month.

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“I couldn’t orgasm”
By Anonymous

You’ve probably never thought about what it’s like for a guy to have trouble coming; I certainly hadn’t. And with good reason, since it’s generally agreed that the three certainties in life are death, taxes, and the male orgasm. But when I went on antidepressants a few years back, suddenly I often couldn’t get to the finish line at all. And even when I could, it took time, effort, and concentration. It took work.

You spend a lifetime learning how your anatomy operates, and then you have to relearn everything.

I had started taking Paxil for the obvious reason: I was clinically depressed. My doctor warned me that the drug had three potential sexual side effects. They were:

1) Loss of desire. This was initially the least of my concerns, since my libido had already disappeared along with my appetite and ability to sleep. But as the medicine began doing its work and my depression subsided, I felt my interest in sex returning. So I had dodged that bullet—check.

2) Erectile dysfunction. No problem there, either. Double check.

3) Difficulty achieving orgasm. Well, two out of three ain’t bad.

This new state of biological affairs (which I began referring to as “This is your penis on drugs”) wasn’t an entirely bad thing. Like most guys, over the years I’d learned to pace myself during sex, hoping to prolong things for both my partner’s sake and my own. Instead of holding back, now I could throw myself into the action with full abandon. In fact, I had to, in order to have any chance of finishing.

And when I did come, my orgasms took on new meaning. During my predepression days, coming was 99.999 percent “Yeah, woo-hoo!” But there was still that 0.001 percent part, which might be summed up as “Oh, rats—now the fun is over.” I always wondered if my partners felt the same way.

In my medicated state, however, the whole thing required so much effort that an orgasm felt like an accomplishment instead of an inevitability. My girlfriend and I could never be sure whether I was going to get there. So when I did, it was 100 percent a victory for both of us.

And those times when I just couldn’t scratch the itch turned out to be a fascinating learning experience. All those clichés of sex being “about the journey, not the destination” were true! There was this interesting role reversal. Suddenly I was the one giving all the standard reassurances (“No, really, I’m fine, it was great, no biggie”). There were times when I even considered a new option: faking it. I didn’t ultimately go that route—mostly because I’m a lousy actor, and after four years together, my girlfriend knew me too well—but it sure made it easier for me to understand why women sometimes do.

So the question became this: How were we supposed to know when we were done?

Me: “Uh, babe, I don’t think it’s happening for me this time.”

Her: “Oh, I’m sorry…”

Me: “Don’t be—I’m fine. Do you want to keep on going? I’m totally happy to!”

Her: “Actually, I’m starting to get a bit sore anyway.”

After a few months, I began feeling healthy enough to transition off the meds, at which point sex returned to normal. But as much as it was a relief to get my old body back, I had to admit my mind had been forever changed. I’d gotten to see how the other half lives. That girlfriend and I are no longer together, but the whole experience made me more empathetic. I’m going to come right out and say it: I think it made me better in bed.

The author is a journalist. His penis is no longer on drugs.