We’re All Sexually Confused

Ok, so apparently it’s not just Bruce Jenner. It seems that we’re all sexually confused, at least according to Google and Seth Stephens-Davidowitz.

You may not have heard that name before so let me introduce Mr. Stephens-Davidowitz. He’s an economist and former Google data scientist who has made a bit of a career out of analyzing Google searches and then writing New York Time op-eds on what he finds. Most recently, he’s turned his attention to sex. “Are you confused about sex?” he asks in his most recent piece, “Searching for Sex.” Then he answers his own question, “I certainly am.”

Not these kind of butts.

Not these kind of butts.

Apparently, all the numbers and statistics and percentages and bar charts (which are all lovely. I encourage you to go over and read the piece. It’s interesting, even if you come away with the idea, like I did, that it’s not particularly valuable) only made his brain hurt, which didn’t surprise me at all, as it is the exact same experience I had in Calculus freshman year. Here’s an excerpt:

In 2004, in some parts of the United States, the most common search regarding changing one’s butt was how to make it smaller. The desire to make one’s bottom bigger was overwhelmingly concentrated in areas with large black populations. Beginning in 2010, however, the desire for bigger butts grew in the rest of the United States. This interest has tripled in four years. In 2014, there were more searches asking how to make your butt bigger than smaller in every state. These days, for every five searches looking into breast implants in the United States, there is one looking into butt implants.

Fascinating stuff.

These kind of butts.

These kind of butts.

I belong to the skinny white girl demographic so I didn’t need to Google “how to get a big butt”–I’ve long known that it won’t happen for me without surgical intervention. Not that I ever wanted a big butt, despite knowing all the words to Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” and teaching them to my little sister  (which got us both punished, and I didn’t get to go to the seventh grade dance, where I was sure Bobby Anderson was going to kiss me as we swayed to “Baby Got Back” “I Will Always Love You”).

In addition to searching how to make our butts bigger, we also want to make our penises bigger. And by “we” I mean “men.” In reviewing his data on Google searches, Mr. Stephens-Davidowitz posits that women don’t really care about penis size.

Do women care about penis size? Rarely, according to Google searches. For every search women make about a partner’s phallus, men make roughly 170 searches about their own.

Mr. Stephens-Davidowitz jumps to the (perhaps revealing?) conclusion that since women search the phrase “pain during sex” a lot, that means they are more concerned with their partner’s huge member hurting them, than with it being too small. As a woman, I’d like to tell Mr. Stephens-Davidowitz that I have experienced pain during intercourse a few times, and there are lots of reasons why this might happen, and I’ve never had sex with a guy who I thought was “too big” (but I’d like to give it a try).

Bloggers know too much about the weird stuff people Google because we see the sorts of searches that send them to our blogs. Lots of folks find  Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please by searching “good places to have sex in public” because a couple of years ago I wrote a post titled “The Best Place to Have Sex in Public (without getting caught) Is to Have Sex in Private.”  But you don’t even have to be a blogger to imagine what some people are out there Googling. Just spend any time at all on the Internet, and you’ll soon realize it’s mostly populated by a bunch of hormonal thirteen year olds. Now, I remember being a hormonal thirteen year old, and if we had Google back then, I’d probably spend all day asking questions about my breasts and my butt, too.

Royalty-free stock photos, including the images in this post, can be found at freeimages.com.

How The Learning Channel Helps Me Keep My New Year’s Resolutions

There’s is nothing quite like an episode of Hoarding: Buried Alive to get me to clean out my refrigerator. Perhaps you have not seen the show, so let me explain that Hoarding: Buried Alive on The Learning Channel TLC is another one of those reality television shows I watch that makes my husband question why he married me.

I made you go see Amores Perros, but you made me go to the symphony, so we're even.

I made you go see Amores Perros, but you made me go to the symphony, so we’re even.

“Do you remember when we were dating and you used to talk about poetry and art and drag me to all those foreign films?” he asked.

“Shh! She’s having a melt down over throwing out a used cotton ball!”

Anyway, keeping my fridge cleaner is one of my New Year’s resolutions. I’ve been trying to get my family onboard with my organizing and decluttering, but so far I’ve had only limited success.

For example, one night, over dinner, I approached them with an idea. “I’ve been thinking about all the clothes each of us has, filling up the closets. Why don’t we each pick one outfit we like best, and get rid of all the rest? Think of the space we’ll free up!”

While I think I got my family to consider the idea, the plan ultimately fell apart when my youngest burst into tears trying to choose between her “Everything is Awesome” sweatshirt and her Elsa and Anna hoodie.

“Why is she crying?” my older daughter, who has taken to watching reality shows with me, asked. “It’s not like we’re asking her to throw out a used cotton ball.”

As I scrolled through the listings on TLC, I found that there are shows that I don’t even have to watch to get me to keep my resolutions. For example, there’s one called My 600 lb LifeThe title alone keeps me training for the half marathon I hope to complete in 2015.

Last night a new show premiered that should help all the folks who resolved to get married this year. It’s called My Husband’s Not Gay, the most deceptive title since Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare. The entire premise of the show is that the husbands are, actually, gay. For reals. Otherwise it would be a show about a bunch of married heterosexuals, and who wants to gawk at see that?

I guess I’m not surprised there are women who marry gay men knowingly (and I’m definitely not surprised that TLC would broadcast a show about them). I had a friend in college who found herself repeatedly attracted to obviously–at least it was obvious to everyone else–gay men. It got to be a joke that any guy she thought was cute had to be gay. Anyway, I do understand why some women might prefer this sort of arrangement.

Sex toy.

Sex toy.

I do wonder, however, what it’s like to be partnered with someone who doesn’t (and never did) desire you. For me, I was never able to connect with a man emotionally that I did not connect with physically. I’ve been married awhile, my relationship has weathered its share of storms, there are plenty of nights when I’d rather watch the Hoarders: Buried Alive marathon rather than swing from the chandelier with my husband, but I wonder how long my relationship would have lasted if I had married a man who never wanted to swing from the chandelier with me.


Royalty-free stock photos, including the images in this post, can be found at freeimages.com.

London Calling


Let’s hope he got paid a whole lot of money for this picture.

If you wander into my office, you may notice a blank US passport application lying on my desk. Up until now, the application has mainly provided me with the opportunity to engage in fantasy: when I get stressed, I take a look at the application and imagine myself jetting off to some damp and dreary exotic locale where the natives speak British English an indecipherable language and eat Marmite curious foods. Usually, I’m shaken out of the fantasy by the realization that I’ll have to get a photo taken for the passport and I’m waiting for a good hair day.

But my hand (and my hair) may have been forced by a new exhibit at the Wellcome Collection in London. The exhibit is called The Institute of Sexology: Undress Your Mind and it promises to combine several of the things I love most in life: a musty museum, scientific research, and sex. From the Wellcome Collection’s website:

‘The Institute of Sexology’ is a candid exploration of the most publicly discussed of private acts. Undress your mind and join us to investigate human sexuality at ‘The Institute’, the first of our longer exhibitions. Featuring over 200 objects spanning art, rare archival material, erotica, film and photography, this is the first UK exhibition to bring together the pioneers of the study of sex.

How could I not go?

Free baby-sitting boxes.

Free baby-sitting while you enjoy the exhibit.

The problem, of course, is my very Irish, very Catholic husband. I’m afraid he might run out of places to avert his eyes at an exhibit full of carved ivory penises and ersatz vaginas (from the Kraftt-Ebing display, naturally).

If you knew my husband, you’d know that he would insist, against all evidence to the contrary, that he would have no problem with the exhibit, but what about our two school-aged children? Surely this exhibit would not be appropriate for them. 

But he would be wrong.

You see, the good people over at the Wellcome Collection have provided an entire “learning resource for teachers” over on their website to accompany the Institute of Sexology exhibit and it’s full of lots of fun pre- and post- visit activities, such as

 Divide your class into three groups (A, B, C) and give each a flipchart and pens. Get each group to write down all the words they can think of for A) male genitalia, B) female genitalia and C) having sex. Have the groups then swap papers and circle in different colours the words they think it is OK to say  1) in the classroom, 2) round the dinner table, 3) in the playground, 4) in the bedroom, 5) in the sexual health clinic and 6) in a research questionnaire.

As I read this, I’m trying to think of what sort of sexual words would be appropriate to say “round the dinner table” and I’m coming up short. (Breast, maybe, if I’m serving Chicken Kiev?)

(On a side note, early in my professional life I worked as a corporate trainer, and I am horribly familiar with the disasters that can unfold when you give a group of people free access to flip charts and pens, even when you’re just brainstorming ideas to support the “strategic plan” and not talking about sex.)

So maybe my family isn’t ready for a trip to London, if they’re busy herding schoolchildren into museums full of wangs (not appropriate over the dinner table) and hoohas (appropriate anywhere, from this blog to the State of the Union address) over there.

There are still plenty of wangs and hoohas I haven’t seen yet here in the good ol’ USA.

The Institute of Sexology exhibit at the Wellcome Collection runs through September 20, 2015.


The black and white photo appears under a Creative Commons Attribution Licence (attribution the Wellcome Library). Royalty-free stock photos, including the other image in this post, can be found at freeimages.com

Where Funny and Sexy Intersect


A smart fuck.

I’ve been thinking about nudity.

As I sit here on a cool autumn morning, it’s apparent to me that evolution is the reason why so many of us are uncomfortable with nudity: the prehistoric dumb fucks who liked to run around in their birthday suits died off from exposure before they could reproduce.

So perhaps discomfort with our naked bodies is embedded in our DNA.

Or perhaps it’s part of the long shadow cast by our Puritan forebears, sort of how we still eat turkey and pumpkin pie.

Is this outfit too revealing?

Wait! You can still see some skin! Let me put on a ski mask!

Yet I don’t think human beings have abandoned their naked desires. Witness my experience with my two daughters: I have one child who figured out how to undo the tabs on her disposable diaper early on, and thereafter delighted in flashing her goods indiscriminately. My other child stayed in diapers a while longer because she was unable to grasp the concept that a product called Pull Ups could also be pulled down. For that reason, it’s no surprise to me that my toilet training impaired daughter, now a pre-teen, is rejecting certain clothing as “too revealing.”

“Too revealing?” I asked as I put the scoop-neck (scoop neck!) blouse back on the sales rack. “Where did you even learn that expression?”

I’m blaming one too many family trips to Amish country because she didn’t learn it from me, a woman who stopped getting dressed in the laundry room (that’s where all the clean clothes are!) only when we got our driveway repaved and sweaty, tar-covered men could see right in the window.

So as a species we seem to be conflicted about nudity. On one side we have folks who like to send their nakie pictures out over the internet, and then on the other side we have some other folks who are shocked and mortified that people do this.

I’m thinking all these thoughts as I read “Sex and the Theater: An actress bares all onstage” in the Washington Post over the weekend. It’s a great read in which an actress, Rachel Manteuffel, discusses her feelings about appearing nude in a play, Campsite Rule, written by humorist Alexandra Petri.

I wanted this role, for all the reasons above, and one more: I am interested in exploring where funny and sexy intersect.

Where funny and sexy meet. And have an orgy.

Where funny and sexy meet. And have an orgy.

As you might suspect from reading this blog, I am also interested in the point where funny and sexy intersect. And I’m very much in favor of funny and sexy intersecting as much as possible, over and over again, rhythmically, in all sorts of positions. In fact, back in my salad days, the #2 determining factor in whether or not I got naked with a guy was if I found him funny. Of course, the #1 determining factor was whether or not he found me funny.

In the end, the production of Campsite Rule went on without any nudity. The director decided dirty bits swinging and swaying around the stage would detract from the play’s dialogue, so everyone stayed covered (for the most part. The sheet covering Ms. Manteuffel’s breasts did slip during one performance).

I’m sure my turtle-neck wearing daughter would approve.

Royalty free images, including the ones in this post, can be found at freeimages.com. 

Yes Means Yes

During my brief foray into the corporate world, I had an older colleague who shared the wisdom that it’s always easier to seek forgiveness than to get permission. I’ve been thinking all these years that was a clever bit of advice until I read about the passage of California SB 967 and now I’m thinking it’s always better to get permission than to go to jail for rape.

California SB 967, which Governor Jerry Brown signed into law last month, states that schools will be denied public funding unless they adopt policies regarding sexual assault to include the affirmative consent standard, and a bunch of other stuff (requiring prevention and outreach programs, detailed victim-centered protocols, comprehensive training of staff). Of course, the reactionaries on the right (are there any other kind?) have focused on the affirmative consent standard, and not the fact that the effect of the law is to withdraw public funding from universities that fail to establish these policies, not run around and arrest people who have sex with women who don’t respond like Molly Bloom in James Joyce’s Ulysses.

I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

But I want to know, what’s so wrong with affirmative consent? What’s so wrong with making sure we’re all on the same page before we whip out our dirty sexy bits?

A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou. And a Dumpster.

A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou. And a Dumpster.

Believe me, I know how blessed my life has been in that I have never been the victim of sexual assault, unless you count that guy who put his hand on my ass while we shared a cigarette near the Dumpster behind the Stop N Shop where we both worked that summer. Would it have killed him to ask, “Hey, can I put my hand on your ass?” Would that have ruined the “romance” of the moment?

I guess the idea of asking permission isn’t so foreign to me since I married a guy who asked, after a spirited make out session on his living room sofa, “Do you want to go upstairs?” before proceeding further.

In fact, maybe that’s why I married him, because he asked.

So what’s wrong with asking permission? Perhaps some folks are uncomfortable admitting they’re thinking about sex, or they want sex. Perhaps they’re afraid to put words to their desires.

Still, part of me can’t help but think that people who aren’t willing to ask for permission are the ones who know they won’t get it.

Royalty free images, including the one in this post, can be found at freeimages.com. 


Fewer Sexual Partners. Bigger Weddings. Happier Marriages?

This many.

This many.

If you ask me how many sexual partners I had before I married, I’ll probably awkwardly casually put my hand up to my mouth and mumble through my fingers some number between “three” and “thirty-three” depending on how good your hearing is.

And if you ask me about my wedding, I’ll tell you I got married on a Friday afternoon (I left work early) at the county courthouse in front of the district judge. The judge’s secretary was called away from her desk to act as witness. Her phone rang in the middle of the ceremony and she whispered, “I’ll just let that go to voicemail.” Afterward, my new husband and I went to dinner and then he went off to work a 16 hour shift and I went off home to bed.

Those two factors (the number of sexual partners prior to marriage and the small size of the wedding) have destined my marriage for eventual failure, at least according to the researchers at the University of Virginia and their study, “Before I Do: What do premarital experiences have to do with marital quality among young adults?”

“We’re doomed!” I told my husband.

“You’re right,” he agreed after scanning the research findings. “If only we’d known about this earlier, we could have already divorced.”

I nodded. “Instead, we’ve hung on to this sham of a marriage for years!”

“Look here.” He pointed out a paragraph in the study he found particularly interesting.

In our sample, only 23 percent of the individuals who got married over the course of the study had had sex solely with the person they married. That minority of men and women reported higher marital quality than those who had had sex with other partners prior to marriage. We further found that the more sexual partners a woman had had before marriage, the less happy she reported her marriage to be. This association was not statistically significant for men. [emphasis added]

Or maybe this many,

Or maybe this many.

“So now you know the reason why I’m always bitching about you not replacing the toilet paper roll,” I said. “It’s because of all those guys I slept with before I met you.”

He shook his head. “No, you missed the other part from their research.” He quoted from the article. “‘This association was not statistically significant for men.’ Don’t you see? I could have slept with a different girl every night, and still we would have a happy marriage.”

“So my slutting around before we got married is what will cause our children to come from a broken home?”

“I’m afraid so.”

After positing these outrageous (and headline grabbing) claims in the first few sentences, this study, like so many of these studies, then takes it all back in the next few sentences.

It could be that these underlying traits or experiences, rather than the behaviors we analyzed, explain the associations reported here. This objection applies to most research that is not based on randomized experiments. We cannot prove causal associations between the personal and couple factors we explore and marital quality. [emphasis added]

Let me explain what they’re saying here: We had a hypothesis (Big Weddings and Fewer Sexual Partners Lead to Happier Marriages!) that our research did not prove (We Don’t Have a Clue Why Some Marriages are Happier Than Others!), and yet we published this paper anyway.

Given the fact that the researchers with the National Marriage Project at the University of Virginia admit their study didn’t prove much of anything, I guess I’ll just ignore it and go on focusing on the number of sexual partners I’ve had after I married, rather than before.

Royalty free images, including the ones in this post, can be found at freeimages.com.

The Letters That No One Needed To See

I never wanted to think about U.S. Presidents having sex.

When our disastrous glorious forty fourth president, Barack Obama, was elected and his wife became the First Lady I remember reading an anonymous comment posted somewhere that at least now we have a couple in the White House who we, the American people, can imagine having sex.


I think I’m working on the Octomom’s car!

At the time I read the comment, I wondered what sort of person had been longing to imagine the President having sex. Long time (even short time) readers of this blog will probably think that I am exactly that sort of person, but, honestly, I only want to think about, let’s say, James Franco having sex. Or that cute auto mechanic with the perfect white teeth who rotated my tires (“No charge,” he said, smiling) when I brought my Mom car luxury SUV that seats nine in for its annual safety inspection. (“Wow, you must have a lot of kids!” he said, his smile fading as he looked past me.  “Only two!” I felt compelled to respond in an effort to regain his attention. “That’s hardly any at all! And they’re small.” I put my hand out and held it very low to the ground to indicate how tiny my offspring are. “Really, you barely notice them.”)

So I never wanted to think about the Presidents of these United States having sex. I wanted to think about him (or her) solving the latest Mideast crisis, or the latest debt crisis or the NCAA Bowl Championship Series crisis. I don’t want to imagine her (or him) naked and sweaty and saying stupid stuff like, “You look shorter naked.”

But how am I supposed to not think about Presidents having sex now that we have the private letters of Warren G. Harding to read? From the New York Times article, “The Letters That Warren G. Harding’s Family Didn’t Want You to See.”

The correspondence is intimate and frank — and perhaps the most sexually explicit ever by an American president. Even in the age of Anthony Weiner sexts and John Edwards revelations, it still has the power to astonish. In 106 letters, many written on official Senate stationery, Harding alternates between Victorian declarations of love and unabashedly carnal descriptions. (While Phillips’s notes and some drafts of her letters have been preserved, her actual replies were not.) The president often wrote in code, in case the letters were discovered, referring to his penis as Jerry and devising nicknames, like Mrs. Pouterson, for Phillips.

Four score and seven years ago, I had a boner

Four score and seven years ago, I had a boner

After reading that article, it’s all I can do to make it through the day without thinking about having sex with a President. I’ve been thinking about French kissing George Washington and his wooden teeth, wondering how Teddy Roosevelt really got the nickname “Rough Rider” (in my mind, it has nothing to do with the charge up San Juan Hill), soaping up with William Howard Taft in his custom-made-for-fat-Presidents bath tub, and feeding Jimmy Carter peanuts while we’re both naked. And every single one of the wartime presidents would have to endure my discussion of military strategy in post coital pillow chats when all they really wanted to do was roll over and go to sleep.

I guess we should be thankful that modern technology has all but banished letter writing to the dust bin of history. At least now the American people will be spared reading about the intimate details of some future President’s private life.  Now if we can just get politicians to stop taking dick pics . . .

You can read more about Warren G. Harding and Jerry the Penis in The Harding Affair: Love and Espionage During the Great War.

A portrait of President Harding.  No portrait of Jerry exists, thankfully.

A portrait of President Harding. No portrait of Jerry exists, thankfully.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG. The photo of President Harding comes from whitehouse.gov.

If You Ban Sex, I’m Going To Take My Ball and Go Home


My leftovers will look deceptively edible!

A deal at any price!

As an American, I’ve found it hard to get aroused excited about the 2014 FIFA World Cup, currently being held in and around Rio de Janeiro.  Oh, wait. I better take a moment to explain to my American readers what I’m talking about: the World Cup is this global soccer football soccer tournament held every four years.  A really big thing in other places not located in the United States.  It really is.  I know, I can’t believe it, either, but I’m not shitting you, it’s a very big deal.  I even saw a huge pile of US team jerseys for sale at Costco this past weekend that I, along with all the other shoppers, ignored as we headed off to buy the 42 pound bag of Scoop Away cat litter and the 128-piece Rubbermaid food storage set.

1998163_full-prtEvery so often, I’ll come across a World Cup news story that is so unusual that it piques even my American interest. For example, I was particularly startled by this story, US Team Defeats Ghana. After reading that headline, I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.  Yes, the United States team, led by their captain, Clint Dempsey, managed to win its opening match on Monday!  My red white and blue heart swells with national pride. On the flip side, how depressed is the entire nation of Ghana right now?  I mean, they lost to the Americans.  The Americans!

I’m not sure why Americans, who are exceptional at every thing else, suck at soccer football soccer. Perhaps it has something to do with what you have to do to be good at it. From cbssports.com:

Mexican national team coach Miguel Herrera wants his team thinking about football during the World Cup, not sex.

As such, Herrera has banned his team from having sex during the upcoming World Cup in Brazil.

You can't even get to first base in this game!

Ooooooh. Now I understand why they never score.

And the Mexicans went out and beat Cameroon, 1-0, last Friday. Then the Mexican team went on to play one of the tournament’s favorites, Brazil, to a tie on Tuesday. Those of us here at Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please can only hope that their powers of abstinence are waning. And if the Mexicans lose their next match, I’m calling a victory for sex.

Go Croatia!

You can catch all the exciting World Cup action televised on ABC and ESPN/ESPN2 and streamed on WatchABC and WatchESPN.  Or you can watch paint dry.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.  The image of the happy lady with all her lovely plastic containers comes the Rubbermaid website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.  The 2014 FIFA World Cup Brazil official poster is used in accordance with the guidelines published here.


Sex The Americans Style

I’ve been watching a lot of sex on television lately, and it’s almost all doggy style.

The other day I was binge-watching, which is the the way I consume almost all of my television in the 21st century.  I’m sure when I’m older I’ll bore regale my grandchildren with tales of how once there was a time when there was absolutely no sex on television and the entire family would gather together in the living room each evening to watch shows that were only broadcast once, or at least not again until summer reruns.

Yes, I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be sounding just like that really old guy in line behind me at the supermarket who noticed I was buying a six pack of Coke Zero and decided to share this scintillating fact from his youth: “Back then you could get a Dr. Pepper for a dime!”

Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a lot of doggy-style sex on TV.  The position is also known as “the congress of the cow” according to the Kama Sutra but I’m not recommending you use that term because no one wants to think about cows during sex.  Of course, I’m not sure anyone wants to think about dogs during sex, either, except maybe other dogs.


Even cows don’t like to think about cows during sex. We think about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

But there I was stuck thinking about dogs and sex after having seen not one, not two, but three instances of rear entry sex while binge watching the second season of the Cold War period drama, The Americans. It all happened in episode six, “Behind the Red Door.” Apparently what’s “behind the red door” is lots and lots of coitus more ferarum. First we see married Russian spies Philip and Elizabeth spicing up their sex life with role play and “wild sex,” which seems to mean nothing more than “doggy style sex.”  Next, we see Nicaraguan super-spy Lucia bent over a desk looking up at a portrait of Ronald Reagan on the wall while congressional aid Carl gives it to her from behind.  Finally, as the episode ends, Philip stumbles upon a couple having sex out on a fire escape (I think) and they, as well, are doing it like they do it on the Discovery Channel.

As luck would have it, while I’m thinking about dogs and sex and whether or not my butt looks as good as Keri Russell’s when I’m lying face down on a bed, I came across this article over on Slate, “‘Doggy Style’ Doesn’t Mean What You Think It Means.”

And the article was right!  “Doggy style” is nothing like what I thought! In fact, it’s absolutely horrible, with the poor boy-dog being stuck inside the poor girl-dog for up to an hour (an hour!) afterwards.  From the article:

Apparently, dogs doing it for the first time can get a little freaked out about the prolonged attachment, as do first-time dog breeders. If you should ever find yourself in this situation, The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds suggests you prevent the female dog from trying to rip free from the male, because doing so can cause serious injury to the penis. Breeding websites recommend you get down on the floor and comfort the female.

I need some comforting just from reading that paragraph!

I’ve never been a fan of the position, anyway, because I need to see the man’s my husband’s face while we’re doing it, just to make sure he’s not thinking about some other woman, or dogs or cows, while he’s having sex with me.

You can see more doggy style sex, and maybe more of Keri Russell’s ass, on The Americans Wednesdays at 10pm on FX.

Five Things I Would Do if I Could Travel Back in Time

According to the physicists, time travel is possible but only into the future, so there’s no chance for me to go back in time and zip up my slacks before my presentation to the senior vice presidents in 2003.

Nor is there any hope that I’ll be able to go back in time and make out with James Fraser, the sexy 18th century Scotsman who is the love interest of heroine Claire Randall in Diane Galbadon’s Outlander series of books about love and sex and time travel.  The books are coming to television this summer in a miniseries on Starz.

I’m currently reading the first book, Outlander.  The novel was published in the UK under the title Cross Stitch and I guess I understand why the publishers changed the title for the American audience because Cross Stitch sounds to this American like a murder mystery involving embroidery rather than science fiction involving time travel and sex: the protagonist, Claire Randall, gets it on a lot with her 20th century husband, Frank, in the first fifty pages or so, and, although I haven’t gotten that far yet, I’m expecting her to get it on, a lot, with her 18th century lover in future chapters.

I’m not sure if the first thing I would do as a time traveler would be to have sex but it would certainly be in the top five.  I don’t think it counts as cheating if you have sex in a time where it is theoretically impossible for you to be, right?  Well, I’m not going to count it.

No, they aren't!  Stop saying that!

They’re having sex in there.

Speaking of physicists and their strange ideas about time-space travel, when I was in college I triggered an absolute melt down in a physics major when I suggested that astronauts had sex in space.  He was excitedly telling me about the latest space shuttle mission (that’s nerd for flirting) when I interrupted his explanation of trajectory and aerobraking by asking (and this is nerd for foreplay), “Do you think they’ve had sex on the Space Shuttle?”

He insisted they didn’t, and I insisted they must have, and, yada yada yada*, I never had sex with him.

Anyway, here are the top five things I would do if I could travel back in time.

  1. Zip up my pants.
  2. Kill Hitler.
  3. Tell Einstein that it appears he was wrong about the time travel thing.
  4. Bet my entire 401k balance on the Boston Red Sox winning the 2013 World Series.
  5. Show off my freaky 21st century sex moves.

Outlander, a Starz original series, premieres in summer 2014.

*I still miss Seinfeld.

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