Old Sex Story

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Old Sex Story
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How pretending to be a horse helped me explore my own humanity.


Adventures in being a queer bionic woman.


There's a lot to learn about yourself when you take your clothes off.


It was basically ComicCon, only sexier.


I didn't even kiss him until we were at the altar.


There are some things you just can't leave behind.


And why it's more important to be having these discussions than ever.


The psychological motivations may surprise you.


Fifty Shades of Grey is fiction, but the kinky sex in its pages is very real.


Including botched engagements and naked wedding-day selfies.


Sometimes, a girl just wants to finish.


The year is 2017 and we masturbate with the mini-computers we carry around in our pockets.


Can squirting be self-taught? I decided to find out once and for all.


It appears we're not as into cuddling and deep-kissing as everyone thinks.


"[There's a] guy who comes to my apartment Saturday mornings with bagels and lox. His thing is setting up the brunch spread and having sex before we eat it."


Unpopular opinion, I know, but hear me out.


"I felt like I wasn't entitled to be angry because I consented to having sex both times."


Bottom line: Don't sleep on these sex toys.


"I don't want to be the 'up the butt' girl!"


Sorry, but reverse cowgirl has got to go.


One writer investigates what a Killing Kittens party is really like.


Literally exactly what you think would happen.


A currently-pregnant former sex worker stands up for a currently-pregnant current sex worker.


Five pro-dommes reveal the inner workings of the job.


"I had to get over feeling like we need to do every single thing together as a couple."


By Lola B., as told to Rachel Kramer Bussel

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Her name was Rocky. She was my neighbor. I hated her guts. She was my best friend.

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Before moving to New York, I often imagined myself living in a sparsely furnished loft space, breaking bread with the Young Turks I regularly saw pictured in the Sunday Times. These were the mavericks who made their own rules and looked, as was the current fashion, as though they'd just been yanked feetfirst through a narrow pipe. I myself was not particularly young or Turkish and had no reason to believe that such people might seek me out. Still, though, these were the expectations that preceded a life in Manhattan. If success was too much to ask for, I was willing to accept a two-bedroom apartment and a couple of talented pen pals. When it became clear that even this was beyond my grasp, I settled for a cluttered one-bedroom and a seventy-five-year-old Italian woman, who ungraciously settled for me in return.
Our relationship was stormy right from the start, and had she lived far away, I probably would have called it quits after our first few meetings. As it happened, she lived right across the hall, and even when we tried, there was no escaping each other. We were neighbors for seven years, and not a day passed when I didn't wonder how I could love and hate her so strongly and equally. In the best of times, I was charmed by her unchecked rage and enormous capacity for cruelty. In the worst of times, she reminded me too much of myself, and I worried that I might have to choke the life out of her.
It was our first morning in the SoHo apartment, and my boyfriend, Hugh, had gone off to work. I was unpacking dishes when someone pounded on the door, shouting, "I know you're in there," and "Open up, you bastard." I assumed it was a policeman searching for the former tenant, and I looked through the peephole to find an elderly, extremely agitated woman holding a foil-covered aluminum tray. She was small, the size of a stocky ten-year-old boy, and she wore a soiled gray sweat suit that fit tightly through the chest and hips.
I opened the door, and the woman looked me up and down. She asked me who the fuck I was, and then, without waiting for an answer, she plowed ahead, saying that everyone called her Rocky and that she'd lived across the hall for fifty years, the implication being that she had seniority, that this was her floor, and that I could forget about the coup I was obviously plotting. The landlord was a man named Francis, and, according to her, the two of them were close. "I've known that Irish bastard since before you was born, and every day we talk on the phone. Capisce?" She removed her thick glasses and fingered the duct tape used to mend the stems. "Cause any trouble in this building and I'll kick you up the ass so hard I'll lose my shoe."
I looked down at her feet, trying to imagine one of her tiny, unlaced sneakers sunk to the heel inside my rectum.
"That's right," she said. "Get yourself a good eyeful, you bastard."
She spoke like one of the Dead End Kids, those fatherless East Side delinquents who costarred in a series of old Warner Brothers movies. She said terlet instead of toilet. She cooked with olive earl and addressed groups of two or more as "youse."
"Here," she said, handing over the foil-wrapped tray. "I made you some of my famous eggplant with tomato gravy."
I suggested that she shouldn't have gone through all the trouble, and she waved me off, saying, "I ate some last night, and all morning I've been as sick as a dog. Go ahead, take it."
She beckoned me close as if to share a confidence, then raised her voice, shouting, "Anthony, that old bastard next door, would die if he knew I was giving this to youse. His wife has the Alfheimer, so whoop de shit, right? She forgot how to put a fucking pot on the stove, so all week he's been up my ass, begging me for a plate of eggplant. He gets social security plus a $300-a-month railroad pension, and now he expects me to feed him? The cheap son of a bitch. I told him to stick it up his ass."
She'd begun a character assassination on another one of our neighbors when a door opened and an athletic young man stepped into the hall. He nodded in our direction, and Rocky regarded him coolly as he made his way down the stairs. "That bastard kept me up until five o'clock in the morning," she said. "Every time I laid down, I could hear him on the terlet, shitting his guts out." She pressed the palm of her hand against her mouth and blew against it, creating the sound of a sputtering motorboat. "Pluuuu, pluuuuuuuu."
I'm a real sucker for potty noises, especially when they're made by adults. Rocky's childishness was appealing, but the sight of her trumpeting cheeks was even funnier.
"See," she said. "I got you going. I made you laugh."
The pattern was set, and we would have essentially the same conversation every day for the next seven years.
"What, are you asleep? Get up, you lazy Greek bastard. I've got something to give you."
On an average morning, Rocky would call at around 7:00 A.M. and berate me for sleeping so late. If I explained that I'd been up until four, she'd claim to have been up until five, massaging her swollen leg or suffering another bout of colitis, the latter usually accompanied by such details as, "I shit six times, and I think I sprained my asshole." The coarser digestive problems were never traced to her caustic meatball quiche or famous spaghetti-and-baked-bean casserole but, rather, to a crippling foreign virus spread by a Chinese ConEd employee or a Puerto Rican cashier. Every day she gave me one of her foil-wrapped specialties, and every night I tossed it into the garbage can. It was wasteful, but there was no tactful way of refusing her gifts. She was always offering me something, and I always had to come and get it right now. After hanging up, I'd go back to sleep for a few hours, ignoring her second and third phone calls and knocking on her door around noon. "You ungrateful bastard, you," she'd say. "You're lucky I don't box your fucking ears." This translated to "Welcome! Please enter my home for refreshment and casual conversation."
During the time that I knew her, Rocky spent most of her waking hours perched on the radiator beneath her living-room window. This was the vantage point from which she patrolled our block, and very little escaped her attention.
On a typical day, it might be noted that the woman in 6B stepped out of a cab with a colored guy, that the newlyweds on the third floor tried to grill hamburgers on the fire escape, or that the super wasted half an hour washing his cousin's moped. If William tripped on the front stairs, he was obviously addicted to painkillers. Should Doris take a car service to Staten Island, it meant that she was skimming money from her mother's social-security check. Denial was futile, as, aside from being one of the country's foremost chefs, Rocky was also the smartest woman in the world. She observed those around her and reported her findings to the landlord, who lived several blocks away and couldn't have cared less. Espionage allowed her to feel important, and the tattling left her with a steady stream of enemies she could rail against in the downtime. As my mother would have said, she loved to stir the turd.
I told her this once, and she laughed, saying, "Stir the turd. That's cute. I like that."
I'd been receiving regular, unwanted wake-up calls for more than a year when Rocky phoned one morning, saying something I couldn't quite understand. She'd often boasted that she'd "taken two strokes," and, on hearing her slurred voice, I worried that she might have just taken a third. She met me at the door to her apartment, and I noticed that the lower half of her face was puckered and misshapen. It seemed there had been an accident, and she needed me to do her a favor. She'd been at her window, watching the street below, and when the super of a neighboring building had tossed a lit cigarette into one of our trash cans, she'd yelled at him with such force that she'd blown her lower plate right out of her mouth.
"Itch down in da shwubs," she said. "Go ged it."
I found her damp, plastic-gummed dentures lying in the dirt, unbroken by their five-story fall, and returned them to her, at which point she popped the unwashed plate back into her mouth and ran to the window, threatening to have him "whacked" by her friends in the mafia.
Looking around Rocky's sparsely furnished apartment, it was hard to believe she'd occupied the same three rooms since 1942. Unlike many women her age, she was not a collector. Sentimentality struck her as grotesque, and she returned all gifts to their senders accompanied by a brief anti-thank-you note, my favorite reading, "Dear Theresa, I've got mops better than this wig." The living room was furnished with a plastic-covered sofa that faced her only concession to extravagance: a tower of three television sets, stacked one on top of another. During the afternoons, she'd tune at least two of them to ABC, and on my days off we'd spend a few hours watching All My Children and One Life to Live. Or rather, I would watch them and narrate the activity to Rocky, who sat on the radiator with her head stuck out the window. Whenever there was a break in the dialogue, it was my job to fill in the blanks, saying, "Adam is planting a gun in Brooke's suitcase" or "Vicki is signing the divorce papers."
The romantic entanglements and petty betrayals reminded her of events in her own life, and she enjoyed speculating on what she might do were she buried alive or kidnapped on her wedding day. I never doubted that she could claw her way out of a coffin, but I felt she was definitely out of her league when it came to solving any sort of family problem. Her children had grown up sleeping on chairs in the kitchen and living room, and, from what I could gather, they couldn't leave home fast enough. She'd written off her son over a fifty-dollar debt, and only one of her two daughters was speaking to her.
When her youngest turned fifteen and started thinking of herself as attractive, Rocky had strapped the girl to a chair and dyed her hair the flat, gray color of an old nickel. "She thought she was hot stuff, trotting around in a skirt up to her pussy, but I showed her. I was the pretty one in the family. Me, not Flossie."
Flossie. The girl was doomed right from the start.
"Lots of funny things happen when you're a mother," she'd say. "I should write a book."
Why Rocky's Friendship Was Sometimes Taxing
When Rocky had no new battles on the front, she liked to chew on the old ones. Her favorite involved her former husband, a short-haul truck driver she'd divorced after the birth of her third child. "The bastard thought he was quick," she'd say. "But me, I was quicker. I knew he was fooling around, and I knew who he was doing it with. It was this girl named Jeannie Ferraro who lived over on Sullivan Street and thought she had nice teeth. She didn't think I knew nothing, see. She thought I was stupid."
This was the story's key phrase, and it was always followed by a brief pause during which the listener was encouraged to express a healthy degree of outrage. "Stupid, right? So one day I called her, saying I had a coat that didn't fit me no more, and asking her did she want it. It was beautiful, the coat. Fur collar, the best. So she trots over, and when she got here, I asked her to do me a favor and get me a dish towel off the top of the Frigidaire." Rocky would break here and demand that I assume the role of Jeannie Ferraro. "Go ahead," she'd say. "It's a different refrigerator, but I still keep my dish towels in the same place. Stand up and get me one." I'd turn, and just as I was reaching up, she'd grab me by the hair and slam my head into the freezer.
"That's what I did to her, only harder," she'd say. "I did it ten, maybe fifteen times, until her pretty little teeth were lying all over the floor. It left a dent in the Frigidaire the size of a melon, but what the hell. You might not believe it, but I was tough back then."
It was an okay story the first time I heard it.
Why Rocky's Friendship Was Sometimes More Than Taxing
I plugged in a fan one evening, and my lights went out. The refrigerator still worked, but everything else was blown. The super was away, and when I asked Rocky for the key to the basement, she refused, claiming I'd make a mistake and black out the entire building. It seemed unfair that I was paying $1,000 a month to live with no electricity, and when I told her so, she stuck out her lip, saying, "Not five minutes ago you said your refrigerator worked. That's electricity, ain't it?" This was the sort of technicality she loved to grab hold of and twist to suit her purposes. "First you say you got no electricity and then you say you do. Don't waste my time with your stories, Pinnochio. You've got your beer, so go home, you drunk liar." She saw that she'd touched a nerve and moved in to give it a few more jabs. "What, you think I don't know about you and your drinking? I see you sneaking your cans and bottles into the trash every morning, Mr. Fat Face. I know what you are."
In denying her charges, I became the liar she'd accused me of being, and that made me even angrier. We started yelling, and the argument escalated until this seventy-eight-year-old woman put her hands on my chest and started pushing me.
"Come on," she said. "Hit me, you drunk, you liar. You think you're tough? You think I can't kick your ass?"
In the end, I slammed her door so hard her clock fell off the wall.
We didn't speak for a month, but every time I threw out my cans and bottles, I could feel her watching. She knew my schedule and took to delivering food to the elderly couple next door, timing it so I could hear her in the hallway, shouting, "That Greek bastard would die if he knew I was giving this to youse. He thinks I'm his own personal chef, but fuck him. Let him starve. The pansy broke my wall clock, so he's not getting shit out of me."
I missed her, and it bothered me that she could so easily live without my company. When asked how I could ever have considered such a person to be my friend, I'd usually start with her tiny feet and work my way up, concluding with the story about her daughter's dyed hair. "See?" I'd say. "How can you not love a mind like that?"
I held out for as long as I could, and when I eventually knocked on her door, she opened it, saying, "You stupid bastard. Get your ass in here."
In the spring of 1996, our landlord died of what Rocky called "asshole cancer," and the building was bought by a real estate conglomerate. The new owners had no patience for her detailed surveillance reports and basically told her to stop bothering them. A representative confiscated her key to the boiler room, and that marked the beginning of the end.
When I'd first moved in, Rocky had been able to walk around the neighborhood and do her own shopping. Now, between one complication and another, she couldn't even make it down the stairs. Her oldest daughter paid to have an air conditioner installed in the living-room window, which effectively blocked her mother's view of the street and made Rocky's world even smaller. Desperate for a little action, she picked up the phone and began drawing fresh prey to her door. I felt sorriest for the deliverymen,
most of whom were recent immigrants unfamiliar with such phrases as "Stuff it up your fat black ass" and "You can't cheat me, you poncho-wearing bastard." When the drugstore stopped delivering, she phoned in her orders and sent me to pick them up. I'd return with her prescriptions and then wait as she examined the receipt with a magnifying glass. There was always some imagined discrepancy, and I'd be sent back to tell the hook-nosed, fat Jew bastard that he owed Mrs. Giordano nine cents. If I was lucky, I could make it back to the store before Rocky picked up the phone and demanded to speak to the manager. If, as was most often the case, I was unlucky, the pharmacist would greet me asking if I was the one looking for the hook-nosed, fat Jew bastard.
The son-of-a-bitching doctors put her on a new blood-pressure medication that so
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