I have a problem I suppose a lot of guys would like to have. My special naked lady friend likes cowboy sex—the rougher the better, the louder the better, and the sweatier the better. When I am in the viscous grip of my beloved, I prefer the slow, tease-me routine. I hear more and more that women seem to enjoy getting ridden hard and put up wet in a relatively impersonal way rather than the slow groove that allows me to concentrate on the whole women, especially in the full-frontal modes.

I am not a crybaby and do my best to accommodate her, but am I the exception or is she?

Bummerdude

When an Isaac Hayes–type luv-uh man such as yourself sinks his tender lovin’ hooks into an Atari Teenage Riot–style temptress, there’s bound to be a clash (and I’m not talking about my dearly departed band here). Lucky for both of you, there is more than one day in any given week. Which means you don’t actually have a problem but have more of a scheduling dilemma. I’ll solve it for you. You can have Slow-Groove Sundays, but you have to bust it out for your lady on Thrashcore Thursdays. She gets Fucked-Hard Fridays, while Sweet Soulful Saturday is all yours. Get my point here, fella?

Compromise is key

Oh, and who cares who’s the exception? What you want me to say is that she’s not normal, and I’m not going to say that. It just comes down to different strokes, whatnot. Just like how some people prefer salty snacks to sweet, she wants you to pound her like a cheap steak, not make sweet, sweet love to her. Her preference is not evidence of any new trend in fuck styles that I’ve been alerted to. (And believe me, they alert us sex columnists to things like that.)

Smegma. It even sounds gross, but who decided that smegma is more disgusting than, say, earwax? Especially the kind that turns orange because the person attached to the ear neglects to clean it. That is gross, but earwax itself is not. Smegma is not gross at first; in fact, it is very benign. It becomes gross in the absence of normal washing. A clean penis or vulva may have a bit of smegma—no big deal. There is a huge difference between new smegma and old smegma.

Smegma deserves to be cast in a new light. It is not dirty until it is neglected, just like any other bodily system. Do not mistake me; I really like my partner’s lips, hood, etc., to be clean, just like she likes my foreskin and head to be clean. But I am realistic, and I know the difference between the smegma on a clean body part and the smegma on a dirty one.

Regular Guy

I suppose I was asking for this when, in the Nov. 8 column (“Enough, Already!!!”), I announced I was “open to queries on the matter of ball sweat, smegma, and ‘fumunda cheese.'”

In the interest of dragging the topic out a little longer, let me tell you my favorite smegma story.

Back in high school, my after-school job was helping out at the local pharmacy. I’d ring up sales, answer the phone, restock the shelves . . . that kind of thing. Of course, being a horrible teenager, I also helped myself to fancy hair-care products and birth control pills.

My sister worked at our other branch, conveniently located a block or two away. If one store was out of something, we’d call the other to see if they had any, and then my sister or I would run it over.

One day I was feeling a little feisty and called my sis, who was possibly the world’s most naive teen.

“We need a case of smegma over here. Do you guys have any?” I asked.

My sister had no idea what I was talking about.

“What’s smegma?” she asked.

“Never mind, just ask Frank [her boss],” I said in an urgent tone. “It’s an emergency!”

What I couldn’t have known was that Frank was way across the store, helping an elderly lady select just the right kind of enema (or something like that).

“FRANK!!!! THEY NEED A CASE OF SMEGMA AT THE OTHER STORE,” my sister screamed.

Even I could hear the crash as Frank ran toward her, foaming at the mouth.

“Is that your goddamned sister?!?!” he screamed, making a lunge for the phone.

“What! What is it?!?!” my sister yelped.

I quickly hung up the phone and collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the absolute last word on smegma.

Want words of wisdom? Write Dategirl at dategirl@seattleweekly.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.