Real Talk
// Cheetah Powers

I can’t believe that the Courier has a sex column again! Especially one written by me. Not that I’m unqualified (I am), but after following JJ’s heartfelt dating memoirs and Sarah’s meticulously researched advice for the past few years, one would expect their local campus sex columnist to be a) a writer, and b) having sex. Sorry.

This is the part where you expect me to segue into a disclaimer that celibacy is a personal choice, brought on by disillusionment with the dating scene and social ennui--because it’s definitely not my smoking’ hot looks and debonair personality that are holding me back from pursuing healthy sexual relationships with others--but I won’t. In fact, the conversation went like this:

“I definitely have something this time, doc.”
“Well, let’s take a look.”
“What do you think this is? It’s AIDS, isn’t it?”
“That’s a pimple. Actually, several pimples. I keep telling you to wear cotton underwear. Here’s some hydrocortisone cream.”

So I thought it would probably be a good time to take a break from stressing about sex and relationship drama in general, because stress is the number one cause of skin issues. Also, I just spent the summer sweating through a gruelling marathon of one-night-stands in Thailand, and I’m tired as hell. At least with masturbation only one person is ever disappointed. Jokes! Everyone knows that masturbation is always less disappointing than seeing another person naked.

So anyway, I don’t know about you, but there are few things I find worse than lying awake at night thinking about all the things that are wrong with your sex life. Why hasn’t he called? Does he not like me? Then why did he send me all those dick pics that time he was drunk? I don’t think I even like him anyway. Don’t I deserve better than some dillweed sending me dick pics? And what’s with this rash? Am I going to be forever alone? And so on. I would go so far as to say that it’s not our depressing jobs, bills, and drinking issues that cause us the most frustration, but our romantic entanglements.

Even my friends in healthy relationships seem to do a lot of bitching. They usually finish it up with a nice, encouraging, “You’re so lucky you’re single! You don’t have any of these problems.” Thanks, and if I were your significant other, I would have dumped your condescending ass long ago. But of course, I never say that. As Eccentric Yet Probably Sad Single Friend, it’s my job to offer witty yet calming advice, assuring people of how lucky they are to be swimming in the gene pool at all.

As long as we’re having sex, we’re going to be worrying about it. And that doesn’t make any sense because sex is supposed to be a universal de-stresser, isn’t it? But I digress. When all’s said and done, everyone needs a bitchy agony aunt in their lives to provide a bit of good-natured ridicule when your needy relationship B.S. starts polluting all the other, less hormonal, parts of your life. And that’s what I’m here for. After all, you’re not really reading this for the advice, are you?

Now let’s get to your fucking questions.

Why won’t my girlfriend let me put my finger in her ass? -- Shit Son

I don’t know. Maybe you have gross nails. Maybe she’s saving her ass for marriage. Maybe she fears for the safety and comfort of her ass and knows that this is the beginning of a long slippery ass slope that eventually ends in Costco-sized butt plugs and felching. Or maybe she just doesn’t want your finger in her ass right now, you know? You probably bring this up every time you have sex and it’s gotten to the point where it’s such a huge deal that neither of you can get over it. In all seriousness, it will probably be the downfall of your relationship. So I propose a win-win solution: you get to put your finger in her ass, and she gets to stick an object of her choice in your ass. It’s only fair.

I like a guy but I don’t really know what to do about it. He lives in another town and we only see each other occasionally through mutual friends, usually in a big group. I want to make a move but I just don’t see how it’s possible, because I’m shy and it just seems awkward. -- Afraid of Social Suicide

Yo A.S.S., you need to maintenance text that shit up! A maintenance text is when you text (or sext, if you’re feeling slutty) someone you may eventually, someday, maybe in the foreseeable future, engage in intercourse with. Because it’s so vague, it’s not embarrassing for anyone; if it backfires you can be like, “I only wanted to be Just Friends anyways.” But at least they know that you exist. So if by some fluke you ever run into each other in an appropriate situation (i.e. alcohol is a factor), then you won’t be some creepy stranger trying to fuck with them. Still creepy, but not a stranger at least. And with the rise of Facebook and Twitter, it’s become even easier to pointlessly interact with people with the sole intention of jumping them one day in the unforeseen future. Anyway, I’ve been maintenance sexting a whole harem for years, and I still strongly believe that one day it’ll pay off without ever having to put my crippling fear of rejection on the line. So you see, there’s no reason to ever get over your social awkwardness, because that wouldn’t be the real you. And nobody likes a faker!

Cheetah has worked on the graphics end of the Courier for nearly four years, but this is her first ever column. She will answer all your burning, itching, scabby sex questions, via text at 778-859-6036 or by emailing

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