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SheKnows is a part of Penske Media Corporation. © 2022 SheMedia, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

As much hype and attention as we give it, sex is just another normal function of the human body — which can only mean it has the potential to get pretty darn embarrassing. While everyone has had at least one sex slip-up before, these cringe-worthy-but-totally-true stories might make you feel better about some of your more forgettable sexual encounters.
“One evening after a few drinks, this younger boy and I were lying on the ground with our pants off and making out. We removed our undies and he starts moving his hips back and forth, slowly and then faster and faster,” recalls Laura. “His breath got heavier, and then he collapsed on top of me. Mind you, this whole time I just laid there in fear of saying something that would embarrass him because he was a virgin .”
“He looked up at me sweetly and asked, ‘How w-w-was it for you?’ I replied, ‘What? You were between my thighs.’ He laughed it off, but was super embarrassed. When we finally did get around to actually [doing the deed], it was fantastic.”
It was 1969 and Dana was a senior at UCLA. “My girlfriend and I were looking for a place to make ‘nookie’ since my roommate was in my room studying. It was a few days before classes started and the room next door to her room was still vacant, so we went in there and proceeded,” Dana explains.
“Then, there was a knock on the door. We froze. Another knock, then the sound of a key going into the lock. Room was pitch dark, so it was just sounds, but we heard voices out in the hall.”
“In a panic, I threw a blanket — or something — over my girlfriend, grabbed my pants and tried to pull them on as I headed for the door to keep it from opening. I got to the door with my pants just above my knees when the door opened,” he recalls. “Standing in the hall was this sweet young freshman girl with her parents bringing her to her new dorm room! The looks on their faces were priceless. I asked them to give us a few minutes — I mean, what choice did they have?”
“My wife and I decided to add a little spice to our love life by using some aerosol whipped cream. I got the can from the fridge and brought it to our dark bedroom, sprayed it all over her boobs and started to lick it off. It tasted funny and I thought that her skin chemistry was giving the whipped cream an off taste,” says John. “It kept getting worse, so I turned on the light. It was all green from mold. She started laughing hysterically as did I. It killed the mood for the night though. I had a queasy stomach all night long.”
John, who is ironically a marriage, relationship and sexual coach, shares: “My wife and I went out with some friends for bowling and beer. We both had a little too much to drink.” However, that didn’t stop him from initiating intercourse with his wife that night. “I was happily pumping away with a full bladder. I began to feel the urge to ejaculate (or so I thought in my half drunken stupor). The problem was that I was peeing instead of ejaculating.”
Eliza recounts a story from her first year in college. “I was with my boyfriend in his dorm room. His roommate was away for the weekend (or so we thought). I’m under the covers giving him a blow job and having a good time. I don’t even hear the key turn in the door or anything — all of a sudden I just hear his roommate talking.”
“I just froze. I didn’t know what to do,” Eliza recalls. “He’s just shooting the breeze with my boyfriend, and my boyfriend is trying to just play it off and is holding a conversation like I’m not even there. So I just stayed down there, perfectly still, waiting for him to go. He talks for what seems like is eternity (probably only two minutes). Then I hear him say, ‘See ya later… you too Eliza.’ I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.”
“I am the first to admit, I’m not a pro at giving head but I try,” says Trisha. “One night, I was pleasuring my new boyfriend and I removed my mouth for a second to breathe when all of a sudden he ejaculated — right up my nose. It felt like I was drowning for a second and I began choking. He thought it was hysterical — I was mortified by the whole thing. I spent the next half hour blowing my nose.”
Updated by Bethany Ramos on 4/1/2016
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Original reporting and incisive analysis, direct from the Guardian every morning
© 2022 Guardian News & Media Limited or its affiliated companies. All rights reserved. (modern)
In September 2000 my daughter was nearly 13 and had just started secondary school. She had always got on well with other children and worked hard. But after a couple of months things began to change. She started wearing lots of make-up. The school was a stone's throw away, but friends began calling for her as early as 7.30am. Next my older daughter spotted her hanging about in the local park with some lads from school who introduced the girls they befriended to older boys and men. I was very alarmed. Then she started missing certain lessons, sometimes whole days.
When she started disappearing overnight, I trawled the streets looking for her. I had no control over her. Sometimes she would say she was going to have an early night, then she'd turn on the shower and climb out the bathroom window. Once when she disappeared, I went through the park looking for her and asked a teenage boy if he'd seen her. I was horrified when he said, "Yes, all the prostitutes hang out by the bowling green."
I confronted my daughter. "That's not true," she said. "Those boys are my boyfriends."
As far as she was concerned, she was doing what she wanted to do and I was hindering her. Money didn't seem to be changing hands, but the girls were getting drink and drugs and mobile phones. The men flattered them into believing they loved them as part of a process of grooming them to have sex with lots of different men, some in their 30s and 40s. People ask me why I use the word "grooming" rather than referring to them as paedophiles, but most of these men haven't been convicted.
I felt as if my daughter was sliding away from me and I'd never be able to get her back. Every minute of every day became a nightmare. I couldn't eat, sleep or function properly, and I could see no way back. Every time she disappeared, I thought I'd never see her alive again. If a girl is over 13, she has to be the complainant in a case of sexual assault. Because this was happening outside the house, there was nothing I could do. The worst thing, as a mother, was not being able to prevent my daughter from being abused.
At the end of 2001, a year after her first disappearance, I put her into care. She didn't want to go, but I could no longer cope. My lowest point was the first time I visited her. Seeing her and having to walk away was unbearable. Everything exploded while she was in care, and I had a breakdown.
My nephew killed himself unexpectedly during this time. My daughter and I attended the funeral, and were both extremely upset. Afterwards, I took my daughter firmly by the shoulders and said to her, "You'll never know how many times I thought I'd be going to your funeral."
Then I walked away. She seemed to turn some sort of corner that day, and so did I. She started to realise what she was doing to herself and I could see for the first time that she needed me. I think I had to feel as low as it was possible to feel before I found the strength to fight what was happening to her and other girls.
I started campaigning with Ann Cryer, the MP for Keighley, for a change in the law to make hearsay evidence admissible in grooming cases, a change we secured last year. I'm proud of what I achieved and my daughter is proud of me, too.
After two years in care, she came back to live with me, went back to college, got qualifications. At times she feels down about what happened to her, which she now recognises as abuse. Last year Channel 4 made a programme about the grooming issue in this area and, although some white men were involved, the BNP hijacked it as a race issue: Asians exploiting white girls. I was furious because this is not a race issue.
The men live locally and we see them from time to time. They call my daughter names, and me, too, if I'm with her. I say to them, "I'm not frightened of any of you." My daughter calls out, "I've moved on with my life and it's a shame you can't move on with yours." Our relationship is better than it has ever been. We talk to each other and if she goes out with friends, she leaves a note on the fridge telling me where she's gone and when she'll be back. It's fantastic to get those notes.
· Do you have a story to tell? Email: experience@theguardian.com

(Image credit: Courtesy Hedonism II)

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(Image credit: Courtesy Hedonism II)
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When I tell people I'm going to a naked resort in Jamaica, they respond as though I've just revealed my salary or the details of my last menstruation. It's a long blink or a visible shift backward in their seat. Several ask, after a pause, "Are you a naked person?"
I don't know. What's a naked person? A naked person probably owns more beads than I do, just beaded necklaces every day. A naked person probably sleeps with crystals under her pillow to ward off negative stuff and leaves candles burning and pees with the door open. I think I'm naked the appropriate amount. I'm naked in locker rooms and in front of my friends when we're getting dressed and in front of sexy friends when we're not. A naked person? Me? It's relative.
I watch as they cram into the bar, probably casually touching their genitals to each other’s thigh areas.
But I decide to go to Hedonism II (opens in new tab) in Negril, Jamaica—a clothing-optional resort that bills itself as "the world's most iconic adult playground"—because they invite me and I'm devoted to having experiences. I'm a professional experience-haver.
At the front desk, the receptionist gets me a Red Stripe beer and asks if it's my first time to "Hedo," as everyone calls it. Yep! "So you're a virgin," he says with an eyebrow up. First time to Jamaica? Yes. "A double virgin!" Oh god. So this is where I am.
Guests on the beach raft before disrobing.
There are two sides to the resort: the prude side (where you can be naked) and the nude side (where you must be naked—a policy put in place to stop fully dressed creeps from coming over just to stare). My room is on the nude end, with a little deck that lets out onto the sand and the Caribbean sea, which means that my view will include the unadorned masses. A mirror on the ceiling captures me sleeping alone.
When I roll over in the morning, I'm greeted by two flaccid dicks and the dawn. My next-door neighbors, who are gay men or maybe just naked man friends, are strolling the beach together outside my sliding-glass door. I go to yoga (clothed) and breakfast (also clothed; it's a health violation otherwise). In the omelet line I meet the guy I sat next to in yoga. "That was really a great practice, huh?" he says, trying to engage. I nod and devote my entire gaze to the eggs. I'm not ready to make friends yet. What kind of people even come here?
Like a wuss, I start the vacation proper by reading in a hammock on the prude side. But then it starts to rain, so I rush back toward my room—at the same time everyone else on the nude side also dashes for cover. Forty to 50 middle-aged naked people are running to the beach bar for shelter. I stand on my deck watching the rain and their 80 to 100 butt cheeks all in a row as they cram into the bar, chatting and laughing and probably casually touching their genitals to each other's thigh areas.
It's around then that I start making some fresh observations about the human form. Men naturally have more muscular butts; their default is toned, even as they get older, which is so unfair. Most women just look like their torsos were sliced toward the bottom. We also all have the same roll of fat below our belly buttons, provided by God and Darwin to protect the uterus, and it casts a shadow over our crotch. For all the mental and financial and cultural effort put into maintaining the pubic-hair trend du jour, you can't even really see what women are doing down there unless you're at close range. Nature put in a portico.
When the rain blows over, I decide to wade into the proverbial waters of my own nakedness. I start by just hanging out on my patio topless with a bikini bottom on, which is easy. Topless is basically my preferred state of affairs already. Then I inch out further, past my deck, so I'm sitting on a lounge chair in just bottoms and a large, floppy, necessary-not-just-for-privacy-but-for-sun-protection hat. I am armed also with my favorite kind of book, a hefty 500-page novel about college kids coming of age. After sitting still for around four minutes, I rip off my bikini bottoms quickly, like I'm about to pee behind a tree.
No one so much as shifts their gaze. I'm naked in public by myself. There are beach breezes alighting on areas of my skin that have never felt breezes before.
I wade into the actual water, a turquoise sea that is partitioned off so people from nearby resorts can't make marathon snorkeling treks over to gawk. A little yellow plastic island floats toward a deeper end, so I swim out to it and then climb up. I lie on my back in the sun like a cat, or maybe a seal, in view of the entire resort or any low-circling airplanes. It's a kind of peace and relief I didn't know I could feel.
My deck also offers a private hot tub, and I'm sitting in the bubbling water alone watching the sunset with a champagne flute when a muscular man and his penis walk by. I'm admiring it when he pivots toward me and asks if I would like to get dinner with him and his girl tonight? A bemused "sure" falls out of my drowsy, sunburned face. What the hell have I just done? , I wonder as he saunters away.
I lie on my back naked in the sun in view of the entire resort. It’s a kind of peace I didn’t know I could feel.
Getting ready for this date resembles how I get ready for others: shower and blast Beyoncé and text my friends about what could go right and wrong. Dressed and wearing what I think is the right amount of makeup for Jamaican humidity, I head to our meeting spot at the bar, where a woman in a pageboy wig and a dress cut to her belly button comes up to me immediately and says my name. It's my date! We head to the Italian restaurant on the property and settle in. Come here often?
The couple tells me some things. They met while in a threesome—he was dating her friend and she stole him away but all three people are cool now! They've been together for eight years but aren't in any rush to get married. He has a school-aged daughter from a previous relationship, she has a son in law school. They've been to Hedonism a few times, not so much for the swinging but for the thrill of public sex and nudity. They ask me about my romantic life and career, and are more engaged in my answers than most dates I've ever had.
I feel extremely comfortable with these middle-aged people. They ask what I want out of the trip, and I tell them about my quest to find out if I'm a naked person, how I feel very comfortable being naked thus far. They agree: "That's why we asked you to dinner. We really admired your confidence on the beach. And your pubic hair situation." Sure.
At the end of the meal, I feel those nerves that I get at the end of any first date. How do I end this and is the person going to kiss me and do I want them to? But the couple announces they are going back to their room to fuck. It's casual, like someone begging off because they're tired. I wish them well and, fortified with four to six strawberry daiquiris, I attend the resort's Tuesday-night theme party alone: the Bare As You Dare Glow Pool Party. Black lights are lit and glow sticks are distributed and I take off my dress and dance around sans any creepers. This is fun.
My dinner companions fly home the next morning, which is kind of a relief. Were we going to be buddies at the buffet every day? I wake up feeling like the college party girl I never quite was, with glow-in-the-dark necklaces and blinking rings in my sheets and
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