The foulest, most disgusting sex I ever had was sex I never quite got around to having. I’d been involved with this guy off and on for a few months, and though we’d fooled around a lot, he’d managed to steer clear of actual penetration. Then, one enchanted evening . . .

We’d been out having cocktails (apparently he more than I) and decided to go back to my place. I had been primed, ready, and raring to go for months, but he had been resistant—some nonsense about a live-in girlfriend, plus a mutated sense of morality that allowed him to put his hand, but not his penis, up my skirt. His girlfriend had finally dumped his cheating ass, so I figured I was finally going to git me a piece! Excited does not begin to describe my mood.

We got back to casa de Judy and immediately begin ripping off each other’s clothes with reckless (and drunken) abandon. Suddenly he stopped and excused himself to the bathroom. I figured he was doing some weird guy thing in there, so I popped into the kitchen to fix myself a refreshing glass of ice water. I heard him lumber out of the WC and plop himself down on my bed. By this time, I was sporting a naughty little number and was ready (so ready!) to roll. As I sauntered back into the bedroom, my nose immediately detected a smell, and not a good one—more like an odor. Much to my annoyance, I noted that loverboy was now passed out face down on my futon, legs hanging stiffly over the side. The smell grew stronger as I got closer; it was a foul, yet somehow organic, stank.

It couldn’t be, I thought to myself. But as my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I looked down at his boxer-clad butt and saw a sight that no woman should ever have to see: a puddle of poo creeping its way out of his shorts and onto my sheets!

I tell this tragic little tale because of an e-argument I’ve been having with a friend in Germany. I told him that I’d just had sex for the first time with somebody I really liked and how upset I was because it was pretty bad. It wasn’t horrific like the incident described above, but definitely not remotely enjoyable for either of us. This was troubling, and I was looking for advice. But instead of advising me, Jan claimed that there was nothing worse than bad sex, that even disgusting, grotesque sex was better than garden-variety bad sex. He went on to tell me about a woman he’d been involved with: “She’d wheeze and grunt like a pig when we fucked,” he wrote. “Cottage cheese would drip from her vagina, and she had this smell like burnt rubber.” Strangely enough, he kept fucking her for months and confessed that he actually found their dalliances hot. He would’ve kept going, except that his shrink told him he was actually punishing himself by putting it to her.

Unlike Jan, I couldn’t find anything about this guy’s lack of hygiene (or sphincter control) remotely exciting, and I was (and remain) completely repulsed. Plus, I don’t have an overwhelming desire to punish myself—I’m wimpy that way. It was days before I could bring myself to confide in anyone about the poopypants episode. And when I finally did, the friend I’d so carefully selected to bare my soul to laughed so hysterically I thought he was going to hyperventilate.

In an attempt to make myself feel like less of a freak, I solicited other people’s repulsive sex stories. You’d think that within my aberrant social circle, somebody would have some incident that would come close, right? Wrong. My friend Dave came up with a couple of contenders, one involving an especially randy mongrel that liked to join in on his master’s sexual escapades. Then there was his lady friend who engaged in a retaliatory puke on her one-night stand after he yakked on her. My friend Dominique choked on her husband’s dick on their Mexican honeymoon and left him with a lap full of predigested taco. Charming and perhaps a little yucky, but puppy hijinks and a little bit of vomit hardly compare to a man’s shitting himself in my bed!

Sure, sex is tons more fun if it’s a little dirty (operative word being little). But getting sweaty and maybe doing somebody pressed up against a gritty warehouse wall is a far cry from cottage cheese cunt or shit-stained sheets—at least for this girl! And while regular old bad sex is pretty sad, it can always be improved upon. Bring it on.

Comfort Dategirl with your most disgusting tale (or just ask her a benign dating question): Write dategirl@seattleweekly.com or Dategirl, c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.