According to a pamphlet I found in the bathroom of the library downtown, there's a lot more going on in sex than you may have guessed. For instance, did you know you can do it different ways? And with someone else? It's quite the circus. Grab some popcorn and a clown!
In my limited sexing, I've enjoyed a few of the different fruits the Humptree has to offer, but there's a lot out there, and some of it seems like it was made up just so someone could say they did it, with little consideration for the practical and, dare I say, sensual benefits of such a maneuver. Let's take some time to go over some of the sexual repertoire that just doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense, and see if we can't figure out why.
(Everything Cosmo told you about sex is bullshit. Buy the Cracked De-Textbook to learn more.)
I can only assume upright sex was invented as a way to shame the weak and enfeebled who are incapable of holding up an entire second person while engaged in coitus. I struggle to keep my mind on not embarrassing myself during most sexual encounters. The added stress of keeping another body aloft would be far too much, and the end result would likely be my severed dingle and her greatly bruised ass with my foot in it.
I don't feel like there are many upsides to sex in this position. It's possible the woman enjoys some kind of lofty, weightless feeling, being tossed about like a sack of potatoes, but as a guy who could probably hump a sack of potatoes if I were so inclined, I'm not seeing the benefit. In fact, I just went to my kitchen, grabbed a bag of potatoes and held it close, and no, nothing. Even if I had put my dick in it, I feel like it would have been a loss for me.
As far as my brain is able to help me recall, this was the third sex position I was aware of. I knew you could be on top, I knew you could be behind, then somehow I knew you could gobble each others' hogs. I'm sure I picked it up in a conversation in the schoolyard, or maybe in an errant porno magazine I had gotten my hands on. Whatever the case, the 69 is a staple of sexing, and I challenge you to find someone who does not have at least one sad 69 story. It may be as popular as hell, but every sex advice website lists this as a "least favorite." It's like the Nickelback of humping.
The problem with 69ing is entirely logistical. On paper it sounds awesome -- you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, then later we lick crotches. High-five! But in practice, you're kneeling and squatting over faces, things don't line up right, you miss your mark and have breathing issues, one of you forgets to hold up your end of things, a stray teste in the eye detaches a retina, and the list goes on. It's really impractical, reversing the natural order of things for the sake of some monkey shines.
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Now, sure, if you and your partner are of a similar size and complementary shapes, this may work out like gangbusters. When you ease into a 69 a golden light may flood the room and a soft, warming hum may fill the air to comfort you both and egg you on in your oral machinations, but likely most people fit together like a bulldog trying to get into a chihuahua's sweater.
Of all the yard tools in your grandparent's shed, do any of them evoke fewer sexy feelings than the wheelbarrow? Is "barrow" a word you want associated with your personal lubricants? And if the name isn't bad enough, it's basically the same manual labor you'd be engaging in with an actual wheelbarrow, only now there's a penis in it. If you went to Home Depot and found a wheelbarrow with a dick in it, you'd not buy that wheelbarrow, because now, for all intents and purposes, it's a dickbarrow, and no one wants that.
The wheelbarrow presupposes that the man feels the need to do some lifting whilst doing his thrusting and the lady is so good at doing pushups that she's OK with holding one for the entire duration of a sexual interlude. It's work for both parties on top of the physical exertion you normally enjoy during sex. Now, maybe I'm a pathetically out of shape man-lump (there's no maybe about it: I'm like a sentient beanbag chair), but I can't even begin to imagine doing simulated yardwork while having sex. It starts with wheelbarrows, but where does it end? Pruning? Post-hole digging? Rototillers? My god, the testicular bruising would be unheard of.
They call this position the waterfall because, like the beautiful natural phenomenon it is named after, it will kill you. If you're unfamiliar and unable to discern the logistics based on the diagram, allow me to elucidate. The woman waits patiently on the bed for the man to shed himself of any sense of self-preservation. Then he crumples himself like a crash test dummy over the end of the bed, ensuring his sex bits stay rooted on the mattress while the rest of his body collapses like a drunken fool forever caught during his spastic solo time to shine on a mid '70s episode of Soul Train. His head rests on the floor so he's able to see what he did wrong in pursuing this position.
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The woman is allowed to have probably a solid several minutes of hobby-horse riding thrills before the man's ass slides off the bed and sends her crashing onto his already impaired carcass below or, assuming your sheets have a bit of texture and aren't letting you creep away so easily, she gets the same thrill she'd get if she sat on a pickle. The man, at this point, is likely blacking out from his blood having no idea which head it needs to settle in, but at least there will be some back cramping and maybe the ever-elusive ass Charley horse. Try massaging that one out without people looking at you funny.
This seems like it makes sense at first, because who among us doesn't get all horned up by the smell of chlorine and the threat of stewing in tepid urine? Pool parties are fun, after all, and when you're in a pool, odds are you're at least half undressed anyway, so it's like an invitation to sexy times.
The terrible reality of pool sex is far removed from the sexalicious fantasy. To start with, if you were going to rank lubricants, chlorinated water would be near the ass end of the list, above root beer but below Sriracha. The other issue deals with the ebb and flow of tides. As nasty as it is for you to groinally ingest pool water, so too is it nasty for you to hose down that pool with your internal squirtings. As an impartial third-party swimmer, I can say with absolute certainty that if I were swimming along and ran face first into a semen barge, I don't give a fancy fuck how much chlorine is in that pool, I'm going to shout obscenities like a drunken sailor stubbing his toe. No one needs to play Marco Polo amidst your love jellyfish.
Logistically, this is also a letdown because basically you're just having sex standing up again, which we already know sucks, but now instead of potentially just losing your grip and falling, maybe you drown your partner. Plus, when switching over to any of those fun-time mouth maneuvers that are so popular in the sexplay these days, you're going to be met with a mouthful of clammy, cold pool-waterlogged flesh that, yes, probably is tainted with pee.
I assume this position was invented by a man who hated his wife or by an exuberant Amish man who really loved his wife in the way he loved his work and switches religiously between this position and the ol' "barn raiser." It's a thin line, I'm sure. The gist of this position is that you're using the woman the same way you'd use a butter churn, which is basically a skinny barrel in which you plunge some manner of stick (in this case your dinky) over and over again to turn cream into butter. Of course, in the sex way the barrel is a vagina and the cream is, you know, sexing. If you somehow make actual butter, please see a doctor.
There are some issues with this position, not the least of which is that it requires the woman to take her entire weight plus the force of man-thrusting on her neck. Why would that be appealing? Also, so the man isn't left out of the discomfort, his penis needs to be entirely vertical and at the 6 o'clock position, which is just about the opposite of where it should be at any given time. The penis, contrary to some beliefs, is not a Mr. Potato Head appendage.
Once you're in position and the woman has blood rushing to her head and her breathing somewhat obstructed, you just start pogo-sticking her for all its worth in the hopes that, somewhere down there, you're not stepping on her face and she's really digging your moves.
If you were to name an animal that you equate with sex, you'd be something of a pervert. But then, if you picked the spider, you'd get the extra special notoriety of being super weird and gross at the same time, because spiders are the opposite of sex.
Grossness aside, in sex terms the spider seems to be what happens when you and your partner get in the crab walk position and smash your genitals together. Once you're locked in place, I guess you just vibrate and hum, or continue butting at each other like mountain goats trying to establish superiority. At some point Tab A and Slot B mush in a mutually satisfactory way and you disengage, or your wrists and knees grow tired and you collapse in a heap of dissatisfaction. Time will tell.
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For whatever reason, polite society has come to accept the inclusion of dog references in sex, and horses too. You can be hung like a horse and few people are offended, just as if you request a rousing bout of doggy dancing. But none of us have graduated to the point of being really turned on by a partner coming close and breathily saying, "I wanna fuck you like a spider." Honestly, my first instinct would be to presume she's going to kill me when it's over, and I'm not ready for that. Even if it's really good.
Making sex into a weird game of Twister seems kind of like you're going against the grain anyway. I'm all for trying new positions, but if the position makes you grunt before you even start having sex, it's likely not going to be worth it. Plus, what are the benefits of a position that, once again, requires the man's wang to at best be pointed south-southeast?
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