Why I Don’t Like the Missionary Position

I feel like this rather sexually explicit post requires some sort of disclaimer. I searched for some kind of rules regarding this, and couldn’t find any. But here we go:

If you’re under 18 years of age or it’s illegal to read sexual material in your country, please skip over this post and find a less explicit one. Also, I’m sorry if this offends your sensibilities.

With that done…

This is awkward to say, but then again, I think sex is awkward. What’s awkward about it?

  • There are body fluids involved.
  • The noises that are made from flesh squelched up against other flesh and moving. Sometimes hilarious, sometimes mortifying.
  • Some orifices are close to other, more unpleasant orifices.
  • Very few of us with full times jobs or study and other well developed interests are actually super-fit all the time with toned abs, waxed legs and believable skin tones.

There’s probably others, but I will say this: porn has given its audience completely unrealistic sexual expectations. Probably the biggest point of contention: very few girls want to try anal, and even fewer like it.

Another bone I have to pick with porn is that the things that are arousing on screen are most definitely not sexually stimulating in real life. I once asked P to try a little spanking. I ended up laughing my head off.

However, when it comes to the missionary position, which is the most basic one, I find I avoid it where possible. It’s strange, but I have thought it over and determined why I don’t like it.

  • The last inch hurts. And especially when getting close, attempting to avoid inserting the last inch of Tab A into Slot B is seems nigh impossible.
  • Even if it didn’t hurt, I have no idea what to do with my face. Expressions that come to mind are encouraging (as in, “You’re doing great!”), feeling it (as in, “Yes, right there.”) and “I love you.”  But they all seem contrived and insincere. 
  • Running and regular stretching afford a certain flexibility, which on the best of days, is a forehead to kneecaps with unbent knees. However, this is slightly different during sex. And not exactly comfortable.

Look, sometimes I talk during sex. After all, there’s certain logistical details that need to be worked out. You know, what limb goes where, your leg is falling asleep, I need to pee, whatever have you. Sometimes, I laugh too (and not just at trying spanking). Is that normal? I don’t know.

I was petrified at the thought of saying, “I don’t like doing this part of sex with you.” But I steeled myself, thought of how to soften the blow, and said it (nicely). Surprisingly, P was ok with it. After all, there’s heaps more positions to do instead. And really, it needs to be good and comfortable for everyone for it to be fun.

What is normal anyway?

Except for watersports. That shit is not normal.


Them’s flirting words…

I don’t drink coffee. I used to, but found I prefer tea. At least I can sleep with tea. If I’m sleepy during afternoons where I need to study, I take caffeine tablets (100mg) and quarter them with a pill cutter so it’s not so strong. Evidently even roughly 25mg is too much since I couldn’t sleep last night, from 2-3:30am. I tweeted that I couldn’t sleep and the next thing I know, I get a text message from the ever persistent M.



Uhhh….. Alarm bells are going off like crazy. Don’t say I’m adorable! I’m sleepy, dammit! I need sleep for the two long labs and lectures I had today. I replied with a high-five smiley and didn’t reply to his texts.

Why can’t we just be friends?! I swear I’m not leading you on!!!!!!!!!!!

We’re going to have to talk. ARG.


This blog was meant to be a place for me to write down crazy things that happened so my relatives and friends could read it. Then I looked at my stats and found out they didn’t read unless I told them I’d posted (sensibly). Then I decided I’d write down things I’d prefer they didn’t see, like a diary. With this in mind, I’ve made a new category: Confessions. This may be haphazard as far as categories go; it’s not like I intentionally plan my weekend around regrettable acts. Although, I did plan a pub crawl for me and L who is leaving the city for good. Thank goodness that break-up was easy. Anyway, time’s a-wasting!


Confession #1: I thought vagina dentata was a real thing. According to wikipedia, it’s a supposed condition where a woman has teeth in her lady envelope and is central to cautionary tales against rape. And the source of inspiration for an anti-rape device.

However, I was most firmly disabused of this notion by the medical doctor in my study group today. At least he was nice about it. Let’s pretend it never happened, like most of high school.

Confession #2: Normally, I snack on crackers while I study because they’re plain and cheap. But one day, I decided, no, it needs something more: Nutella. After a midsemester on Monday, I came home, opened up the jar, and saw that I’d eaten 75% of a 750g jar of Nutella over 1.5 weeks. Oops. At least I didn’t eat it with a spoon. Which I have done before.

As for the midsemester, I didn’t do that great, but I am consoled that other people who did study heaps were unhappy about random questions. Why would I ever need to explain “primordial juices” to a patient??

Confession #3: I dreamt I had a threesome with P’s best friend and his wife. Twice. It was so naughty, but good. The thing is, I felt so guilty, even in the dream! Crazy. I have no idea why, but I nearly told P about it during sex. Why? I don’t know. Thankfully, I restrained myself. Even I know a topic like that is a mood killer.


Ok! And we’re done! Let’s never have another embarrassing thought or incident, ok?

The C Word: Children

My parents always made sure we ate dinner together since we were little. It was a time when everyone at the table had a chance to share what had happened that day. It was probably mundane and dull for them, but those experiences added up to a certain kind of closeness. In a family with four children with 6 years between the oldest and youngest (poor Mum), a variety of personalities, and different activities (again, poor Mum who drove us around!)… it was actually quite nice, looking back. Now, two of my siblings are married, with the third wedding scheduled for this summer.

This wedding and naturally, conjecture as to who would be the first to produce a grandchild has been on my mind of late. I mean, really, with uni on and my dad here, it’s not like I have much to talk about. (Discussion of autonomy in my life with my parents alive is a wholly different post.) So, grandchildren. I posited the first child would come from L&C, whose wedding will be this summer. One sibling is frightened of episiotomies and tearing, and the other has career constraints. I have accepted the opinion that there is no good time to get married and/or have babies.

Something of note was the topic progression at dinner. Mind you, just me and Dad. So, it goes: siblings -> wedding -> married siblings -> grandchildren -> my status as unmarried -> grandchildren (again) -> grandparents -> desired number of grandchildren -> realistic number of grandchildren -> age -> mutagens that affect eggs -> age to have children -> relatives without children -> adoption -> surrogacy -> Bertold Weisner: a scientist who replaced sperm samples with his own and fathered approximately 600 children.

Right. That’s not awkward.

Yes it is.


P knows I want children. I love kids. I will readily admit I am clucky. I have some babysitting experience with a range of ages, from barely out of diapers to about year 6. I’d like to think I’ve seen not just the pleasant afternoon visit side of them, but the snotty, wailing, peeing-themselves side too. I know that while I don’t quite have rose-coloured glasses on, there’s still more I have yet to see and experience.

But there aren’t any prerequisites to having babies, aside from introducing an egg to sperm. I mean, just look at all the teenage girls who pop them out easy as anything! Case in point, one girl in my friend R’s graduating year who said,

“Oh, I’m not going to uni, I’m going to have a baby and go on the dole.”

Lovely. I would like to say I do support socialised medicine, I just don’t support entitlement and taking advantage of the system.

Despite my cynicism and frustration, I want kids. I’ve said it to P before. P said, “Why do you want kids? They’re just a prop for you, an accessory.” Paring away the prickles of the question, what are my reasons for having children? I didn’t and don’t actually have an answer.

  • It’s not to give my parents grandchildren (though free babysitting would be nice.)
  • It’s not so that I won’t have to go into a nursing home when I’m grey and wrinkly (though that’s not a guarantee anymore.)
  • It’s not for social acceptance.

What about the reasons do I have? They are small and fragile. Some people would readily interject, “That’s stupid. You’re being selfish. You have unresolved issues.”

But so what? Why can’t my answer be: “because I want to”?  Who ever said you needed approval from a selection panel made up of all and sundry to procreate? This isn’t defending a PhD thesis.

I don’t have original rationale for why I want babies. P doesn’t even want children. It could be a deal-breaker for us. I know P likes children. I mean, hello, if P didn’t, P wouldn’t have a job! But working with children and having children are completely different. This will have to be a discussion, probably spread over multiple occasions. Just having the discussion isn’t enough. There must be logical and pragmatic conclusions.

I wonder if there’s a handbook or something out there. Probably.

Bedtime, ahoy!

Picture an Inspirational Montage.

Megan: Yeah, Annie wants to have a little pity party. You’re an asshole, Annie! You’re an asshole. I’m Life, is Life bothering you? You better learn to fight cuz Life is .. I’m Life and I’m gonna bite you in the ass!! It’s not me! Turn over! I’m trying to get you to fight for your shitty life and you won’t do it. You just won’t do it! Stop slapping yourself. Stop slapping yourself! I’m your Life, Annie! I’m your shitty – oh! …. Nice hit. Alright, I’m glad to see you got a bit of spark in you. I knew that Annie was in there somewhere.
[…] You’re your problem, Annie, and you’re also your solution. […] Come on, bring it in, there’s the Annie I knew was there. And you gotta wash your hair, you gotta wash that hair.

Oh dear. I wish sometimes I had someone who would come tell me they were Life and bite my ass. Or, you could picture a montage of the drab, boring parts of your life set to inspirational music. Well, we make do with what we have. Library ho!!!!

Wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle, yeah!

Huzzah!!!!!!!!!!! I am completely exultant.

I was at P’s place last night, and despite it being only a week away in Melbourne, P was very affectionate, verbally and physically. And I got presents! Well, I like them. I can understand why most people, even other dentists or dental students, would think toothpaste, toothbrushes, mouthwash, and retractors might not be the best present, but they’re conference swag!

Sidebar: Swag in the proper sense of the word, like goodies they give away. Not the one that’s an abbreviation for “swagger” and has that has superseded “epic” and “literally” in excessive usage. Oh and “yolo”. *shudder*

Anyway, bottom line: IT WAS SAID. I was teasing, talking about the fit and cute tutors in a histology lab, and we were joking about why would anyone be doing a degree in anatomy (P: there’s no money, me: they’re too attractive). I can’t remember the exact lead-up, but this happened:

P: You know, I love you for more than your body and –

me: (interrupting) Wait. Wait, what? … You love me?

(pregnant pause)

P: I’ve gone and freaked you out, haven’t I?

me: No, no. I’m happy… But what about what you said last year? (when P said they weren’t sure they’d ever been in love)

P: Well, I know that when I don’t see you, I miss you. And when I see you, I’m happy.


P: (as if to carry on) ..It’s ok –

me: (interrupting with a kiss) I love you too.

Aha!!!!!!!! Houston, we have contact!!! Wheeeeeee!!!!!

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about broaching the topic of having children at least three times after, but I held my tongue. It’s a new thing I’m trying, restraint. Instead, I got a bit of practice saying “I love you” a couple of times later that night. Yes, I’m immensely happy, even this morning after. To me, that was better than any movie. Suck it, The Notebook!

That’s all.


Lovesick? I’m sick of it, alright.

If anyone has read far back enough, you might have seen a post about M, wherein I had no idea how to respond when M said they were in serious like with me.

Ok. We were ok for a while. It wasn’t awkward that I turned M’s affections down, no, because we weren’t in the same city anymore, just the same country. Since the incident, M has flown from Sydney back to our hometown and got international texting.

Now, it must be said: M is very nice. M is also a bit young. Like 19 years old young.

However. HOW. EVER. I have counted 100 texts that I’ve received over 5 days. AUGH!! It’s driving me mental!

I realise that being nice is not truly possible if I wish to maintain my sanity and SPACE! I have given as little of a response as possible, sometimes none at all since theoretically, the less material M has to work with, the less there is to talk about. Alas and alack, hints are steadfastly ignored. M makes do with what little I give.

Ways to decrease M’s attentions:

  1. Avoidance. I could continue to give as little response as possible. I doubt this will be successful as after 5 days, M remains quite persistent.
  2. Be blunt. I could say quite plainly, “Go. Away.” Cold, but potentially effective. Like John Lyly wrote in Euphues, “The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war.”
  3. Diversion. “I’m with someone else.” This could work, but given how determined the texts have been, this line could precipitate a confrontation.
  4. Play matchmaker for M with someone else. Not a bad idea.
  5. ???

I don’t want to be cruel since I was also so painfully earnest in my crushes when I was that age. Whatever I choose will have to be some compromise, firm but kind in setting boundaries. If I were on the other side, that’s what I’d want.

FYI, 3 more texts in the time it took to write this. GAH.