BGA Febuary edition

b a e d h T g o e o d h T e r v a a g e e h T

ANYTHING BUT A FAKE ORGASM There is good sex. Bone chillingly, amazingly delicious, the kind of sex that makes you think you've fallen in love. And then then there's, well, the complete opposite of that. The kind of sex that makes you ghost people, the kind of sex that makes you contemplate if anything is even going on, the kind of sex that makes you fake orgasm. We all want the perfect, written-bywomen, smutty sex that porn thinks it portrays. We want the screaming and orgasms and moaning, the pain and the pleasure.

Most of us can agree on that, But let's be real: most of us, if not all of us, have had at least one more than slightly disappointing interaction. Why does this happen? In theory, all parties involved in consensual sex should want to have screaming, speak in different languages orgasms, and should want to give those kinds of orgasms in return. But, if not an orgasm, at the very least, an enjoyable experience. Now that I think about it, the same issue occurs within dating: men, women and everyone in between have struggled at one point or another in this hell hole twenty-firstcentury app-infused cesspool that is modern dating.

Time after time, I've come to question how this continues to happen to me; sometimes, if I'm lucky, it only keeps me up at night for a couple of hours. Other times… well, let's not discuss such ugly moments. Dating, especially at this point in time, is nothing less than a circus where no one truly knows how to perform the tricks. But I digress; I've told myself that these experiences are to further the plot line, another story to laugh about over dinner with friends. But is this truly enough to make me feel better about everything? Or am I just succumbing to the eventual death of my sex life? Well, dear readers, let's get one thing straight: I am not one to shy away from talking about the good, the bad and the average. And my hope for this is that there are some of you out there who won't shy away either, or at least some of you who will find some joy in the fact you're not alone, some joy in the fact that there isn't a right or wrong way to have sex, date or love and that at the end of the day, we all have had good and bad experiences. Now, without further ado, let's get into this in proper story-time fashion.

WHY OH WHY? Now, kind readers, this is a tale for the storybooks, well maybe not the storybooks, but at least the backlog issue of a people's magazine.

One would assume, as one does, that a second date couldn't possibly have such a terrible outcome that if you talked for hours on end on the first date, you would somehow have something to talk about when you next saw each other. I'm sorry to be the one to burst your bubble. That is just not the case. I'll set the scene for you. I'm sitting at a coffee shop working on a two-thousand-word assignment due over the weekend when I look down at my phone (as one does when procrastinating coursework) and realise it's half past eleven, and I have a second date to get to across town. Now, the first date with this man went well. We sat in a coffee shop I didn't really like, and I had two of my friends sit next to us and watch the date unfold; we gave each other an amicable hug at the end (not how I usually would like to end my dates, but as the saying goes potato, tomato). We then talked about music and other things over the phone—a perfectly acceptable outcome in my book. So, back to the story at hand, I left the coffee shop. yadadada, walked across town, cussed at the disgusting amount of people, made sure not to trip over myself, the usual. I stood in front of the restaurant, this small Indian place in the heart of town, I'd never been, but I'd heard good things, and it was supposed to be inexpensive; in the back of my mind, I did wonder how romantic Indian food was for a second date. But ladies and gentlefolk, I was delusional and up to try anything at least once. So, innocence in hand, I walked in

Before even making it in, the smell slammed into me; now let me be clear: I'm all for spice and nice and everything in between, and had it been any other time, any other person, any other experience really, I wouldn't have minded the extremely spicy scent of the restaurant. But I was caught off guard. It didn't matter, though; my date was sitting at a table right in the middle, so I slapped a smile on my face and made my way in. I sat there and sparked a conversation as to how late I was and apologised. He smiled in the thoughtless way men do. And I eased in for the next thirty minutes of my life.

Yes, caterpillars and butterflies, you heard me right, this second date at this Indian restaurant lasted a sum total of 30 minutes. Now, I'll spare you from listening to me ramble on about each excruciatingly minute interaction and sum the whole date down to the fact we probably only spoke for five to seven minutes in total.

Now you might be wondering what happened, why was a second date so mind-numbingly bad, Why oh why did he choose an Indian restaurant? Why oh why did he walk me to the crosswalk? And why oh why did we hug before parting ways? Well, honestly, I'd love to know the answer to all of those questions, too. How does a seemingly average guy, well, not completely normal? He did tell me he had eaten dolphin before and done a considerable amount of shrooms in the forest. But, apart from that a relatively normal guy who had given me a reasonably good normal conversation to begin with. How does that turn into what could possibly have been one of the most average dates I've ever been on? Nothing good, nothing bad, just nothing at all, really. So, gentlefolk, I've come to the conclusion that sometimes dates are bound just to be average.

And hey, at least now I'm not dating a dolphin eater, so bonuses.

POLYAMORY FETISH DISASTER Welcome back, my butterflies and caterpillars; boy, do I have a story for you? Throughout my dating journey, I've considered myself to be a fairly open person; I've used labels like Polyamorous and Bisexual and even evaluated if I was Pansexual. I've thought that monogamy was never going to be my thing. And then I've thought the complete opposite. I've experimented and tried several things (if you know what I mean (wink wink)) Now, I have been asked what polyamory means on dating apps, had people tell me it's cheating, said my partners don't have self-respect, and people that match with me argue about my life choices. And mostly, I placate and unmatch or have a conversation. P.s don't let some random person on the internet or in real life tell you how to love or Fuck.

I am used to this kind of behaviour; at this point in my life, it's a simple chuckle at the audacity.

I, however, had never experienced someone who had fetishised polyamory to the extent that my date had. I'll let the story speak for itself. I'm alone in my apartment; my roommates are gone for the night, and I am bored.

So, I went on a dating app as one does, and matched with someone as one does. We sparked conversation. He was funny enough and seemed nice. He had asked me about my being polyamorous and mentioned something about how hot he found it. As you'll come to understand, I am terrible at seeing what's right in front of me; sometimes, I wonder how I survive in my day-to-day life; that, however, is an existential crisis for another time. So I laughed it off and probably said something flirty. I flirted my way into a drinks date. We met later that night and smiled in the pleasant way strangers going out on a Bumble date do. And headed to the bar. He was shorter than I was granted I was wearing two-inch heels, and I don't care enough about that to truly mind; he was also severely sunburned. But he was nice, at least I thought he was.

Although throughout the night, He couldn't stop talking about how much older he was than me.

He couldn't stop saying how it turned ME on to be on a date with such an older man. He couldn't stop talking about what a turn-on the fact I was polyamorous was to him. He couldn't stop focusing on the fact that he found it hot to see me date and fuck other people. He practically purred at the idea. He also went to pee seven times that night And had about five drinks. He also kept consistently trying to kiss me On the lips, On the neck, and on the hand. It was odd; it was a weird interaction. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know what to say. And now, looking back on it, I wanted to slap myself and tell myself to get the fuck out of whatever situation I had put myself in. But I was frozen. . Maybe this is just me, gentle reader, but I was lost. I feel like women are often taught to be friendly and smile through it, but could I really be nice to a man who had made me feel completely uncomfortable and unsafe? Apparently, to my disdain, I could. So, he walked me to a place near my house and attempted to kiss me again; I did so to end the night.

And then, head slung low in shame and disappointment, I walked into my empty apartment. I sat on my couch and wondered what his thought proc ess could be in order to say the kinds of things he had spoken so freely. All I had wanted was a drink and an orgasm, and once again, I was back to square one, and I questioned what kind of Tetris hellscape I was victim to. So, this was, in fact, a bad date, and I am, in fact, still horny and alone.

FACE TIME ROMANCE FAILURE So I have mixed feelings about this one; picture this: a man that I had been talking to for months, one that I was very much excited to go out on a date with, one that I had drunk called and had him walk me home at night, a man that in all forms I was ready to do the dirty tango with, is a complete and total disappointment, apart from the fact that he looked very different from his picture. Hey, I didn't mind because he didn't look like a before-and-after shot of himself, which is a win in my book, but he kind of just looked different, especially after I had imagined what he would be like; feel like. I'll give you a clearer idea as to what I mean. He was cute, with a nice smile, fluffy brown hair, and good conversation. He lived about an hour away from me, but trains existed, which wouldn't be a big problem. So, I had been talking to him for months and thought it would be good; I desperately wanted it to be good (as much as I hate admitting it), and I did. We followed each other on the gram, as you young folk call it. He didn't have many pictures, but the ones he did have were cute, and now that I think about it, the same ones on his dating profile should have clued me in a bit. But again, as established before, I was delusional, and I still am.

And I ignored the flags, so many that there were, one would think, I had walked entirely blind and deaf to the conversation. I had just been misguided in the way most, if not all, of us are. I was misguided and horny. I mean, I had FaceTimed the man, and he still managed to look like his pictures, so how much of this was my fault? So, we had tried many times to meet up, but things fell through; I'm a busy person (laying in bed and watching TikTok counts as busy), and he had a job and a life well. And in the end, nothing aligned quite right. Except for Halloween

Now, gentle folk, I know what you might think: all good decisions happen during Halloween. But the skies aligned, the heavens split, or some odd saying like that. And as fate would have it, my FaceTime hunk was coming into town for a party.

That meant we would finally meet in person, so I shaved everything! And put on tights and a skirt!

And I actually managed to look slightly put together, different from my standard bedrat attire. But that's a whole other issue. I met him at a coffee shop; yes, I know I'm a creature of habit, but what can I say? At least if I am at a coffee shop, I know the coffee will make me feel alive, unlike some conversations I've managed to trap myself in. I got there first, and he managed to get there 10 minutes late, but I'll chalk that up to the trains. He also managed to show up with a dead phone and asked me if I had a charger. So, he looked different; I still smiled and laughed at the jokes and tried to convince myself the smell wasn't emanating from him. It was a mixture of tobacco, mint and bad life decisions. But I was so excited, so I let it slide; in hindsight, I let so much slide. I could have been an ad for Gillette at that point because I was so smooth gliding.

But we talked, and I could barely understand what he was saying, with his accent and the fact he mumbled his damn words. But I shook my head and tried my hardest. And then everything fell apart; I have to say I think, no, I know. That his downfall, dear readers, was the fact he had to take a smoke, well I'll give him credit; it wasn't the fact he went for a smoke, it was the fact he came back stinking of Tabaco and then proceeded to stick his finger into his mouth and rearrange the chewing tobacco he had placed in his back gums, then removed said finger and rubbed it against his pants, to remove what one could only hope to be excess spit. Now, my lovelies, I'll sum up the rest of the day for you; he asked me ifwe were going back to my place. I said no, that I was busy and needed to buy a book; he accompanied me to said bookshop, and I the n procee ded not to buy a book and just left. We hugged goodbye, and then he immediately pulled out a roll and started smoking again. Legend has it he's still standing there wondering why I didn't take him home, smoking all his worries away. And all of this to say, my loves, that sometimes we will have dates that feel like they have crushed our soul, sometimes we will have moments that make us contemplate all our life choices, and sometimes we will have times where we ask ourselves when the last time out date showered. And this, my dudes, was, in fact, a bad date, but it'll be okay, we move forward just the same

CAN YOU EDGE YOURSELF INTO OBLIVIOUN? There are moments in life that make you wonder if this plane of existence is real. Bad dates make me contemplate whether I'm stuck in a hellish version of the matrix, one that is determined to remove any shred of hope I have for a normal, drama-free dating life, and if not a dating life, at least a good sex life. But time and time again, I've been stolen from earth-shattering, mind-blowing orgasms. Time and time again, I've been made to feel like the twenty minutes spent on my finish line is a burden to my sexy time partners. And then, by the end of the night, it's the awkward I'm sorry I couldn't make you finish tango. And honestly, I'm over-excusing mediocre performances, I'm over-apologising for taking too long to cum, and most of all, I'm over having people edge me until I can't think straight and then being made to listen to a half-assed apology as to why they couldn't get me there. At this point, the night would be more enjoyable if you gave me a foot massage and a vibrator. We could watch movies until I could illusion myself to think that the happily ever after onscreen was actually going to happen to me. I am horny and alone, and someone should really make t-shirts for that. I have come to question if I'm somehow the problem, and maybe I am, but that can't be the whole answer. I can't be the only piece in this masochistic puzzle. Go to therapy, be better, happier, eat right, lose weight, and smile more, And I'll get to cum more often; and somehow, bad performances and bad dates won't exist anymore. And let's be honest, if I have to change myself that much, if someone can't make me cum now, if someone can't love me for who I am (or who I'm struggling to be), then are they worth wanting in the first place? The question is, am I desperate enough to honestly want my mouth around their cock, when they can't properly return the favour? I have to think, I want to believe, that I can't be the only problem.

KINKY AND OVERWHELMED I’I'm back, gentlefolk. Did you miss me? Oh, who are we kidding? I know you did. I know most of my dates do not seem to have a happy ending, but let me reassure you: it's all part of the learning process. Boy, I have a lot to learn, if you can't tell from my extremely humorous retellings of my embarrassing dates. I'm not one to shy away from talking about sex, love, romance, or a lack thereof.

There is one thing that I want to talk more indepth about, though. Yes, you guessed it right, Kink.

Now, I have so many thoughts and so many questions. I mean, we all know about choking, spanking and spitting. I would categorise most of that as an excellent start to getting into Kink, a first look at a non-vanilla sex life. And if you disagree, well, I mean lucky you. But let's be realistic: there isn't exactly a guide to any of this; there isn't a how-to-degrade-someone 101 handbook as practical as that would be. There is so much out there, so many terms I've had to look up and teach myself what they mean. There is so much to take in. So many levels of self-reflection and self-evaluation, and so many men that like to be called daddy, that I question whether they are kinky or just saying it for the fuck of it. And is Daddy even kinky anymore? I'd say it is, but how do I know at this point? I've had partners tell me a list of kinks so long I could spend all day just looking up what everything entailed. And I can't help but feel slightly overwhelmed, slightly out of my element. But I look around at all these people claiming to know what they are doing

KINKY AND OVERWHELMED I look around at all these people claiming to know what they are doing. And I wonder how they learned all of this. How do they know exactly how to praise someone, or love someone, or properly fuck someone? Can you do any of that when you've never really known or been shown how to? Can you give someone aftercare when you've never truly received it? And I think I've come to the conclusion everyone is faking it. Yes, practice makes it better. But what if all you've practised was wrong? I've had people talk to me about dominance and how they could take me (like I could ever be tamed, but people love to dream, and who am I to crush such pretty dreams), but then act nothing like that in real life, I've had people tell me they could drain me and make me beg for more and then not deliver, Ive had people edge me until I was on the verge of tears and then not be able to bring the mind-shattering orgasm back, I've had people practically fetishises this body and then falter to worship it properly. And can you really do any of that if you don't even know where the clit is in the first place?

What if everything you know doesn't always work for your new sexy-time person? Please don't misunderstand me, readers. Within these moments, there have been good experiences. But what if everyone just admitted they have no fucking clue what the other person wants.

Vaginas and penises and everything in between are not some one size fits all; that's what custom sex toys are for.

It's not like once you've reached level 10, you magically have the key that unlocks unlimited orgasms for everyone. (If only) Everything is complicated, and no one makes it easy by just telling the truth. Sometimes, I can't help but feel like we're all running around blindfolded, hoping not to slam right into a pole or oncoming traffic.

And all of this to say. I'm done lying about knowing everything, done pretending I have a single clue what I'm doing. So, I suggest we learn together; I need someone to help keep me accountable after all.

COVEN OF SCORNED WOMEN A LESS FUNNY RANT I have learned through trial and error that dating is much harder than my teenage brain had thought it would be. I thought I'd get romance and stories I could fawn over. I felt that it would all be fun and light and not at all time-consuming. Someone should tell my younger self to get off whatever drug she was on because the reality is dating is hard, life is hard, and sometimes you'll meet people that don't make it easy to have much hope. Dear reader, I am also very aware of the fact I am not a simple person either and have made my own mistakes, so let's be completely transparent: no one and I mean absolutely no one, knows what they are doing. And that's alright, but we can't just give up (if only it were that easy). I am forever questioning how any of this works. That is especially true with sex; does anyone know what's going on? Or is it just me? I feel like I'm forever trapped in questioning how to do sex well and wondering if there is a good way to do the sex. I've often wondered if sex is even worth the struggle. And I've come to know that good sex is definitely worth it. Bad sex, however, is much more questionable. Do I genuinely want to know any of this? Or have I been taught that this is how it works, this is how love and relationships work?

I think at this point, I'm going to become one of those people that starts to ask Quora or those how-to-do blowjob pages for advice (don't lie to me, We've all been there). I pull up Urban Dictionary so much that I think they know me by name, and I still feel like there is so much I don't know. I know how I must sound. We are all going through it; you don't need a reminder, but my point is You're not alone (oh, I hate myself for saying that; anytime anyone says that to me, I scoff because it's a load of bullshit) Let me rephrase that You feel alone, you feel lost, you feel broken, and maybe you are. Perhaps you just need a shower and some ice cream, Or maybe you just need people to stop telling you it'll be ok Because, honestly, lovelies, Sometimes it won't be ok; sometimes life sucks. But I know you know that. I know you know all of this (look at you being all smart). My point here is I understand. Trust me, And for these little moments, in these words, You may feel a little less alone, and that's all I can ask for. And if you don't, then fuck, I messed up somewhere and should just go back to writing about my dumb little dates. Hopefully, that brings you some joy (I've always liked hearing people's failed experiences; I know, I know, how sadistic of me, but what can I say.) _thebadthegoodtheaverage