The Worst Kinds Of Sex Partners

If you've ever been with someone like this, you know the problem right away. Having sex with a person like this is like going to the best burger joint in town only to lick mustard off of a napkin. These people don't like sex, don't want sex, or don't know how to sex, and all of those are valid, but don't have sex if that's how you feel!

In so many words, the dead fish is precisely what you think -- a person who lies there and takes your nefarious ministrations with no enthusiasm, effort, or participation. They're basically a sex doll that maintains body temperature. If you've never experienced this, count yourself lucky, because you've avoided the existential fear of basically knowing what necrophilia is like.

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There's nothing wrong with not wanting to have sex, but if that's the case you should probably do you and your partner a favor by not having sex. When you engage in the act and then pull off your best impression of current-day Lenin, it's disheartening for the person who probably has some vested interest in getting you to at least grunt once.

A good friend of mine informed me that her experience in this particular field of sexual what-the-fuckery was mostly related to the presence of foreign objects, which is to say an ex-boyfriend decided to go-go-Gadget their sex life with some extra attachments she was not aware of ahead of time. As she put it, she thought she landed funny on the TV remote, but instead it was actually just her man producing an impromptu vibrator from the secretive folds of the couch on which they were debauching each other.

When asked how that affected the entire sexual experience, she told me it ended pretty much right there, because, "Imagine you're cooking dinner and then, when you're not looking, the person you're cooking dinner for slips a completely unwanted ingredient into the pot, ruining the whole meal."

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Here's some nerd trivia for you -- in the Green Lantern comics, if you're not aware, the Lanterns actually cover the entire color spectrum. If you endured the terrible movie, you know Yellow Lanterns exist and power their rings with fear. But there are also sinister Red Lanterns, zombie Black Lanterns, kind of lame Indigo Lanterns, and so on. And by his damn self in the universe is Larfleeze, the tusked space donkey that is the Orange Lantern, whose powers are based on greed. I hope I made it sound suitably ridiculous.

DC Comics

Like greedy Larfleeze, there are a few tragically misguided sexual misanthropes out there who will try to steal your soul with a cosmically powered ring. But there are even more of them who will just kind of use you as a giant, human Fleshlight. And trust that this is not a problem exclusive to one sex, as it seems humpological avarice crosses gender boundaries with ease.

I like to think this kind of person was artisanally crafted by a mix of impatience, poorly written porn, and maybe a tight schedule that prohibits giving any scenario your all. The result is a person who expects you to go to town, so to speak, and then once you get there, find your own way home because they have to get to sleep or go get their tires rotated or whatever.

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Because I'm a cultured and multifaceted sort of cosmopolitan fellow, I follow the odd adult film star on the ol' Twitter. And when you do such a thing, you may notice an amusing affectation of porn fans -- their propensity to repeatedly and earnestly post messages to stars about how they would bang them like screen doors for 12 straight hours. While expressing your sexual vigor and stamina seems like a good idea, does anyone truly, and I mean literally here, want to be plowed like a field of soybeans?

Everyone surely enjoys a little dynamic and spirited round of hide the pickle now and then (or, for you pickleless lovers, a bit of the old squish the pudding skins), but let's keep everything in the realm of good taste and physical well-being. At some point you're going to create the same situation you get with poorly lubricated engine pistons, and that's a cracked block, or at least something that rhymes.

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No one needs to break, tear, rip, chafe, or otherwise bruise their bits during sex, unless of course that was the point to begin with, but don't confuse me with tangents. For old-fashioned boinking without any BDSM flavor, you shouldn't need to wear football padding or have to be iced down at regular intervals. But despite this, some people seem to think they can use your body like a bouncy castle that they didn't put the safety deposit on, which is just inconsiderate. Remember: Always ask before you try to push someone across the room.

I don't want to sound like I'm saying you should hide your desires, but let's use some tact. You need to be able to read your audience and gauge reactions. For instance, when an ex of mine took it upon herself to tell me she once porked a family member, the look on my face should have indicated to her that maybe it was time to end the conversation and back away slowly, maybe blame the whole thing on a case of accidentally ingesting bath salts. Instead, she proceeded into the topic of scat. Hey! Good thinking! Incest goes best with poop, I hear.

You need to ease into fetishes like a warm bath. A warm bath filled with poop and relatives you have sex with. It's not the sort of thing you just jump into and certainly not with a blindfolded partner. It takes the fun out of sex when you go from turned-on to terrified that quickly.

As is wont to happen every so often when you're a little inebriated and a little friendlier than is altogether reasonable, maybe you start buying drinks for a young lady who enthralls you not so much because she's charming and funny and pretty but because she introduces herself by mentioning how she wants to put your genitals in her mouth. Please don't judge; I'm sure both of us were not at our best.

Anyway, drinks were had, a cab was called, and before you can say "Herpes can be cured with rubbing alcohol, right?" we're back at her place. A brief shuffle-struggle of removing clothes and walking to where her bed was and we were half-naked and ready to engage in completely irresponsible coitus. Until I took a trip south.

Normally, I'm a giving sort of fellow. Happy to! I like to share the joy and make sure we're all pleased as punch at the end of our time together. But on this occasion, as I was venturing to the promised land I apparently made a wrong turn at the Bog Of Eternal Stench, and David Bowie's codpiece was nowhere in sight to save me.

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Now, I get that if you've been out dancing or whatever, you're going to get a little warm, mayhaps a little musky, and that's fine. I'm not expecting anyone to smell like a fresh-picked daisy inside and out. But I do expect you not to smell like a middle-aged trout that lives in a hospital biohazard bin.

The smell I was confronted with was how rock-bottom would smell if lifelong losers had an olfactory reaction to that moment when they realize they've wasted their entire existence. It was the sort of thing you don't actually think exists until you're confronted with it yourself, and then you're not even sure if it's really happening or if somehow the mattress you're on was accidentally stuffed with dead otters.

Needless to say, my initial reaction was not one I thought through very well, as I literally and for the first and only time in my life reeled back in abject panic. You know that scene in horror movies when a grisly monster hand appears and grabs the hapless victim's wrist? I reacted like that victim. Just unbridled fear and revulsion. I even gasped. And that's all fine and good out of context, but in context it was a full-grown man saying something along the lines of "bwaaaghh!" and leaping back with enough force to fall off the bed and into a dresser.

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As you might expect, my new friend was unamused, which really is a shitty reaction to have. You ever catch someone in a lie, and when they're still trying to sell the lie they act all indignant and angry at you, as though you're the asshole for not believing them, when in fact you were totally justified? That's how this played out. It's not my fault her crotch was where hope chose to die, so how am I responsible for being grossed out by it? Run a cloth over that beast before you let strangers pet it.

So yeah, she tried to punch me and called me a fag a few times, as I recall, but all things being equal, I'm happier to be considered a gay guy with standards than a straight guy desperate enough to dip his spoon in that expired gulch of foul stew. So please, have a care for yourself and others; take regular showers.

For more from Felix, check out The 5 Worst Excuses People Actually Gave For A Hit And Run and 7 Insane Obituaries You Won't Believe Are About Real People.

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