"Oh my gawd! I could just die!"

The sad (or happy) truth is that the queef is as much a part of sex as bunnies are a part of spring. They pop up and wiggle their little noses and frrrp in that cute way they do and it's enjoyable. We should love those flappity little air bunnies. And we would if anyone had ever let us know they were going to be joining us.

"I hump better than you do anything."

At the moment I seem to have outed myself as a dude who has no sexual stamina, but I don't feel that's a fair assessment. What is fair is saying that people in porno seem to eat sandwiches laced with amphetamines and Viagra all day every day so that all they can do is just thrust madly at something, and once a director applies an orifice to their wang, they call action and the ensuing hour pretty much takes care of itself. I'd happily have sex for an hour straight if I could, but I'm not even convinced it's humanly possible, and not just because I'd have an aneurism and die on the poor girl at the 40-minute mark, because I think at 30 minutes her vagina would be squealing like a worn brake pad at the end of a high-speed chase.

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Pictured: Some kinda metaphor or whatever.

Of course, you can have a sensual, sexual time that spans an entire day if you so desire, but you need to realize it's a lot of stopping and starting. You're going to need water nearby for when you get dehydrated, and maybe a fan or the AC on if it's warm out so you don't knock yourself unconscious after the insane workout you're about to get. If you're doing the sexing right, it's going to get sweaty. Way sweatier than in porno, and way, way sweatier than sex scenes in Hollywood movies, which must all be filmed in meat lockers.

Once you hit your stride, it's a hell of a workout, and sure, you can go for a long time, and I'm sure my fortitude is shamed by ubermensch all around the world, but damn is it surprising when you get into it and realize it's like trying to do all the parts of a triathlon at once. So maybe it's a good thing that Ron Jeremy is out there to ameliorate the situation and make it seem like there's at least one guy who needs to eat a sandwich in between thrusts besides those of us not fortunate enough to find our niche making vaguely unsettling pornographic movies.

You can never understand just what this means until you've walked into a room right after someone has had sex. In an intellectual way, you can probably wrap your head around the idea of sex stank -- you have two people sweating and mashing their genitals together, that's got to create some kind of musk -- but it's as close to reality for you as the chupacabra is. Someone can tell you about it, but come on. That shit ain't real, is it? Oh, it's real. Real clammy and kind of thick.

The issue with sex stank is multifaceted. For one, you won't notice it nearly as much as everyone else will. It's like spray painting in your basement -- eventually the fumes start cooking your brain and you don't notice it anymore. But if someone else walks in, they'll reel backward in terror as the humid beast grapples with their olfactory bulbs like a wrestler made from ass sweat.

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"I am the great El Swass!"

You have to appreciate that a serious sexual situation is going to have fluids that are born deep in your insides just rolling out over your thighs, sluicing through your ass crack, and settling on your bean bag chair. As the humidity rises, so too does the funk in whatever closed space you're working in, to the point that, when you open the door, it's like discovering an ancient mummy's tomb and the curse is being set free. So remember that if you're trying to be discreet and/or anyone else is likely to enter your room in the next five hours or so, because they're going to know and very likely be able to ever so slightly taste it at the back of their throat.

This one's for the ladies. How you doin'? I can't say I know for sure how a woman imagines her first time, if it's some kind of stereotypical Molly Ringwald clusterfuck of a situation with lots of flowers and sexy music and like a four poster bed or some such, but I like to think that's what most of you pictured back before it really happened. Also, if your first time was anything like my first time, it was a motel room with RoboCop on TV in the background and the heavy scent of sausage pizza in the air (naturally before the scent of stank mixed with it to make hot Italian stank, which is its own monster for another article).

To clarify the point I'm about to make here, this only occurs when you're not using condoms. If you're the safe sex type, you may have yet to experience this, but my keen sense of observation tells me it's a treat. I'm talking, of course, about the spillway. That slow, creeping ooze, like the Blob easing its way out of the alley next to the movie theater to consume panicking victims on the street.

It stands to reason that what goes up, or down, to the side, whatever, has to fall victim to gravity eventually, but it's doubtful any of us considered this before that first time. And then it happened, like a pudding cup that sprang a leak, and since the sex is all over, it just seems like a nuisance at that point, dribbling away and making you scramble for some kind of tissue or errant T-shirt to plug the gap until you can get to the bathroom.