4 Sex Lies Everyone Needs to Stop Telling

If we're all adults here, and we've all participated in a game of X-rated apple bobbing, then we've tasted the juices of another, and that shit is not from Minute Maid. And this isn't even to say oral sex is gross -- not at all. This has nothing to do with rug munchery or wang polishing, two delightful pastimes we should all be happy to partake of. It's the deception, the grandiose lie we think we can pull off on another human being, like we're selling a car after tampering with the odometer. We all know what's supposed to happen, so don't shit in my boot and tell me it's a comfort insole. I don't care if you're Scarlett Johansson or the Queen of England; your gobbledygooker is going to taste a certain, perfectly acceptable way, but it ain't Skittles. Likewise, I'm not busting out a Jamba Juicery, but dammit, we know that. We all know that!

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You are now picturing the Queen's gobbledygooker.

You lying about what you taste like is like telling people you have the Mona Lisa at home. It's literally knuckles-in-poop stupid and no one with any sense is buying it, so stop selling. You want to spice up dirty talk and entice someone, then tell them your magic clam predicts lotto numbers or something. It's about as confusing, but at least it requires more time to puzzle out than some fly-by-night line about Fruit by the Foot.

General Mills
"There's nothing artificial about my flavoring, baby."

Penises are the ultimate sideshow act. They need a barker, and that's the rest of the body surrounding the penis, to drum up interest. Who wants to see a grisly penis all alone? Tuberous, floppy, errant flesh folds here and there, a limpid coating beset with harrowing veins and a dangly sack holding two ominous objects that could be anything from eggs to very still toads. A lone penis is as off-putting as tongue-kissing Joe Biden.

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Or just having him come within 500 feet of you, really.

The penis' hype man, which is me, or you, or anyone who owns the penis, has to sell the penis. He has to make that faceless serpent into something appealing. So you start building a penis biography. A record of great penile achievements. Your penis can count to ten in eight different languages. Your penis once owned Elvis' car. Your penis can make jams, jellies, preserves, and marmalade at reasonable prices in a myriad of exotic flavors. Your penis wins knife fights. And inevitably, you come up with one solid tale about your penis that everyone gets to hear: "Oh, by the way, my penis is about two hectares."

No one has a two-hectare penis, and not just because that's a massive measurement of area, more suitable for farmland than dickland. It's just bullshit. So are 90 percent of the 12-inch dongs on the Internet. And 11-inch, and 10-inch, and so on.

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Those numbers are only accurate when you use the centimeter part of the ruler.

The Internet has a million answers as to average penis size, but livescience.com tells me the Journal of Sexual Medicine conducted a survey of over 1600 men and determined that the average size of the erect male dongle is 5.6 inches. So are there 12-inch horse wangs being dragged around out there? Yes, but for every one of those dudes, there's a guy out there whose penis is so small that it's actually a cavern with enough suction power from the breeze therein to hold up a piece of paper.

We all know dicks aren't 12 inches long, but for some reason, when you're in the hype man role, it seems like a thing to tell a lady. The more street-smart hype man will ease this back to nine inches, because obviously 12 is fake -- that's big enough to kill someone in the next room. Nine inches is entirely plausible, probably. Except, as we can see, not really.

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"Five and half inches, three-quarters on a good day, nail if I'm being honest."

Everyone needs to be happy with a 5.6-inch dong or the world is just going to stop working. If that shit is average, that has to be your standard of acceptability. And the hype man needs to know that and be OK with it. Say it's six inches -- no one's checking those last few hash marks on the ruler. Be cool with what you have and stop trying to be a man-donkey.

Ladies, you don't get away for free here either, because man, what's with boobie lies? Damnable boobie lies. First, let's agree that every boob is wonderful, unless it's one of Grandma's flapjack titties. That's uncool. But you're not my grandma, and so I want you to be happy with whatever you have going. There's no need for the stuffing and the pushing and the squeezing materials that make the boobs all deceptive, unless -- I'm willing to allow that this can just be a thing you folks do when you want to be feeling good about the way you look -- you're not going to outright tell me you're packing canary melons in the pantry when you're really just balancing persimmons on a rack of lies.

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And no, you don't taste like a persimmon either. Shut up already.

Don't think it happens? Oh, it happens. Many a man has been left misty-eyed when he planned to conquer both peaks of K2 and ended up scaling Mt. Pimpletit instead. It's just a matter of courtesy. Two people with actual, average-sized human body parts can still have a great time together. I assume. I wouldn't know -- I'm lugging a firehose around.

Likewise, after the hype man or hype woman has sold you on the size of the jiggle thrills you'll be getting into, it's time to sell you on the endurance game. "I can lick your lollipop for three straight hours." "I can ride your pogo stick for a week." "I can butter your croissant and purple your nurple until you pass out from glee." And for whatever reason, our brains are hardwired to want to believe these outrageous claims, even if every other sexual encounter we've ever had combined hasn't added up to the length of time promised.

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"If I count the 57 minutes of crying, then he really was a 60-minute man."

Now's a time when we can toss in a caveat to save face. Don't get me wrong, I'm no minute man in the hump closet, but if you want me to do any physical activity for an hour straight, from sex to jogging to using a stair climber, I'm going to need to do a bump or two to get my head in the game. But if you want me to manage for a solid 15 minutes, then shift position, grab a Capri Sun, turn on the AC so I don't pass out, then resume? I can keep that shit up all day. I just need frequent pauses. Many, many pauses. And I bet a lot of other people are like that too, but no one says it. Isn't that alluring, in a way? It's still a solid work day of sexing -- we just have a panzarotti break worked into it. That's not unreasonable.

It's nice to tell someone they're the best and all, and the word itself is kind of nebulous and subjective. I think the best ice cream for a sundae is vanilla, while some people like triple butt fudge spaetzle caramel peanut butter cup swirl with pistachios and pork bellies. Whatever. Saying it sets up a lot of pressure and a lot of doubt in a person, because really, you're making a comparison, and few things are more stressful than being compared to others. If I'm the best, what's the survey sample we're using? What if only one other person ever did this for her, and he was having a stroke at the time? What if 1000 guys did it?

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And what if they all wanted to kick my ass for being way better at sexing than them?

Obviously, it's possible you actually were the best at what you were doing, but this shouldn't be relevant anyway. Isn't that just needless ego stroking amidst other things far more important than your ego being stroked? And worse -- say you're not really the best, and the next person you attempt to debauch is so put off by your fumbly, stumblebum efforts to please them they either burst out laughing or demand you stop to preserve what little dignity can be salvaged from the situation.

Few things are worse than a sexual encounter that has to end early because you're not nearly as skilled as you thought you were. I once had to cut off a singularly spectacular moment after trying to crotch-parkour a lady to Pleasuretown, only to bust my bed frame and sprain my ankle in the process. You want to be the guy who does that? Who lunges so ineptly at a muffin that you break your goddamn ankle and the bed, and have to get her to help you downstairs so you can go to the hospital because you're a moron? No, you don't.

For more from Felix, check out 4 Things Kids Never Learn (Because Parents Teach Them Badly) and 4 Unpleasant Things Nobody Tells You About Being in Love.

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