It’s no secret among my friends that I like being treated aggressively in the bedroom, but sometimes, I feel like I’m the only girl I know who likes getting roughed up. Perhaps that’s because my sexual propensities really are that rare, but more likely, it’s because a taboo against BDSM still exists.

Rachel Kramer Bussel, who recently wrote on The Frisky about a newly discovered desire to be choked during sex, notes that “Women, especially feminists, aren’t supposed to say they like rough sex … [There's a] misconception that consensual BDSM is a precursor to violence.” That’s something I know all too well. Last year, I blogged about an instance of rough sex on my website, Sex and the Ivy. While my entries often receive mixed reviews (because some disagree with my decision to write publicly about my sex life), I was surprised by the number of commenters who were outraged by this piece. Some of the reactions included:

“This could easily be a police report with the victim recounting a rape.”
“You deserve better.”
“True love does not seek to demean the other person.”
“The fact that he even desires to treat you this way is disgusting.”

Some commenters even engaged in a discussion about whether my account of being jerked around was effectively condoning rape. I wondered how it was possible that any of them could misconstrue my writing to mean that I was implicitly endorsing misogynistic attitudes — or worse, that I was in an abusive relationship. Beyond my irritation at being misinterpreted, I was extremely troubled by the judgments made about my sexual partner at the time, who’s my now-boyfriend and the type of political radical that would put most American “liberals” to shame. Before him, I had a hard time meeting guys who weren’t dismissive of my feminist views and my passion for LGBT activism. Pulling my hair and choking me during sex (at my request) hardly means that he doesn’t respect me or value equality. In fact, ours is the most egalitarian relationship I’ve ever had, and I’m someone who’s especially sensitive to gender issues.

When I wrote the piece, I didn’t think that my bedroom practices were too out of the ordinary, since nothing I’ve done has even approached hardcore BDSM and I really don’t have very interesting fetishes considering that I write a lot about sex. It surprised me, then, that people reacted so strongly to what I considered a rather tame example of rough play. After all, who hasn’t made jokes about spanking? How could BDSM still be considered on the fringe despite the appearance of dominatrixes in television and movies? Has it really remained that controversial given the amount of bondage gear on sale at Babeland? (But maybe none of these people were shopping at Babeland.) I was appalled by the conservatism on display and dismayed by the ignorance. A common mantra of BDSM culture is “Safe, Sane, and Consensual”, something I thought everyone knew about, but even a prominent disclaimer failed to convince the critics that I’d truly provided my consent.

And perhaps, that was what bothered me most of all. These commenters, who decried my partner as “disgusting” and my relationship as “demeaning”, were simultaneously refusing to recognize my agency in an interaction that took place between two people. Rough sex wasn’t anti-feminist; this was. I said that I had consented to all the activities, yet they refused to believe that could be true. Instead, they assumed that my partner must have somehow pressured me into it, that I couldn’t possibly have played an equal role in shaping our sexual interactions.

Not everyone may enjoy rough sex, but that doesn’t automatically make it unethical or anti-feminist, just as vanilla sex isn’t boring simply because I don’t like it. Regardless of preferences, no one is qualified to have an opinion on the consensual activities that take place in someone else’s bedroom. In other words, if you don’t judge me enjoying a good spanking (and I enjoy a good spanking), I won’t judge you for liking missionary.

These days, forgoing condoms is practically considered proof of love … but intentionally unprotected sex isn’t merely a practice exclusive to the betrothed or married. “Forget ‘sex without condoms is the new engagement ring’,”writes journalist Rachel Hills in this month’s edition of Australian women’s mag, Cleo. “For a lot of people, it seems, sex without condoms is the new ‘going steady’.”

I see where Rachel is going with this one, but I’d even take it one step further and say that condomless sex (the non-accidental variety) isn’t even limited to those in love.

In my post-high school romances, the sexual exclusivity (A.K.A. “Who else are you sleeping with cuz I’d like to ditch the condoms”) talk has always preceded the relationship talk, but I’ve also discussed the issue with guys who I never had an interest in seriously dating. The subject has been broached with f**k buddies, casual interests, and boyfriends alike. What I’ve learned is that the nature of the relationship — whether it’s a serious romance or a sexual fling — matters less than how well I know and trust my partner. I might go out on regular dates with a new guy for a couple months and never suggest giving up condoms, but will bring it up after a just few short weeks of sleeping with a trusted male friend.

That doesn’t mean I approach unprotected sex with a flippant attitude. Rather, I bring up sexual exclusivity not so I can secure a regular hook-up, but as part of a larger conversation about responsible practices. Unfortunately, the only thing more awkward than officially defining a relationship is initiating a conversation about sexual exclusivity. You may be concerned about appearing presumptuous, especially if you’re sleeping with someone who you’re not dating and don’t want to send the wrong romantic signals. But uncomfortable as the conversation might be, you can’t skip that step altogether if you’re thinking of losing the glove (nor should you be having sex if you’d rather cross your fingers than actually communicate about these issues).

Rather than leaving it up to a drunken game of “Just The Tip”, think ahead and bring up sexual monogamy when you’re sober, coherent, and level-headed. The most important question isn’t always “Who else are you currently sleeping with?” but rather, “When’s the last time you got tested?” You might not think your current partner has picked up anything sketchy along the road, but when it comes to sexual health, seeing is not believing. Just because someone isn’t sporting warts doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re clean. It’s not uncommon for a person with a STI display no signs of infection.

Hills warns, “Many STIs have no outward symptoms, so if there’s nothing obviously ‘wrong’ with the person you’re sleeping with, it’s easy to assume that they’re STI-free.”

But being asymptomatic doesn’t mean that either of you are in the clear. Symptoms or not, STIs can still be transmitted and can cause serious health problems like infertility if you leave the infection untreated. Hills notes in her article that the majority of new HIV infections happen because people don’t realize they’re infected. In a post-AIDS world, there’s a reason why mandatory condom use has become sex ed canon. If you make the decision to ditch the glove, certain prerequisites should first be met: an agreement to be sexually monogamous, up-to-date test results, and a clear understanding of each other’s stance on issues like accidental pregnancies.

Even if you decide to leave condoms on your grocery list for now, these are conversations that you should be having with your partner anyway. Since even consistent condom users wind up with broken rubbers, you need to be comfortable with discussing the possibility of pregnancy and STIs. The golden rule of intercourse? Do others as you would have others do you.

Foreskin may be the only uncharted territory Americans have no desire to conquer. In our country, circumcision is common enough that a foreskin-free penis is the expectation, but elsewhere, that’s hardly the case. Though it remains the most common elective operation globally, the majority of men in the world don’t undergo it. Surprised? Dismayed? Completely alarmed that you can no longer take a European lover?

Don’t be.

The ever-proper Charlotte York may have once compared an uncut penis to a shar pei, but there’s no reason why you should be repulsed by foreskin.

Countless girlfriends of mine cringe at the thought of penises au natural, but my own varied sexual experiences have familiarized me with the lesser known peen and I’m on a mission to demystify it. Here’s some good news to start: uncut penises are pretty much the same as their counterparts. And yet, Americans and those with less colorful sexual pasts continue to treat foreskin as something of an anomaly and even a defect. I’ve isolated foreskinphobia into a few easily identifiable (and refutable) myths:

Foreskin is dirty. Female anatomy doesn’t exactly have the best reputation as far as smell is concerned, but it’d be ludicrous if a guy refused to sleep with me because he questioned my ability to clean myself. Since one would hope most men have mastered basic hygiene by the time they’re sexually active, concerns over cleanliness (or lack thereof) are mostly overblown or based on myths. An uncut penis is no dirtier than the alternative. If anything, guys with foreskin learn more about hygiene at an earlier age and are taught to be conscientious about cleaning themselves. And if hygiene really is an issue? Blame the man, not the foreskin. It’s not like his penis is actively opposing a shower.

Foreskin is ugly. This is a completely subjective opinion, so I can’t exactly debunk it, but attractiveness of genitalia is really in the eye/mouth/hand of the beholder. I’m personally indifferent to how penises look. An erect penis is far more aesthetically pleasing than a thumb, for example, but I’d still rather look into my boyfriend’s eyes than in his pants.   Ultimately, though, we shouldn’t subject our partners’ genitalia to our visual preferences. After all, as much as I like my own vagina, I don’t expect anyone else to be enthralled by it, nor do I think I should be judged on the basis of its appearance. If the presence of some extra skin is enough to dissuade you from ever pursuing a sexual relationship with a guy, then god forbid he actually have a physical defect, like an entire extra toe.

Foreskin puts you at risk for STIs. Some studies have shown a significant reduction in HIV transmission rates among circumcised men. So why isn’t the global medical community suggesting that men get snipped en masse?  For starters, these studies were done in extremely high-risk areas in Africa. Research in developed countries, such as Australia, has shown no difference in HIV transmission rates. Further, though the men in these studies were less likely to get HIV, their partners weren’t. Circumcision only improves the odds for the penetrative partners while those being penetrated (whether they were male or female) experienced the same rates of infection as partners of uncircumcised men. But more importantly, just because a guy has been circumcised doesn’t mean that you should forgo a condom. Ultimately, prevention of STIs depends on personal responsibility, not a decades’ old decision made by your partner’s parents.

All of the above seems pretty obvious, yet an American cultural bias against foreskin persists. The most feasible explanation, in my opinion,  is probably the following:

Foreskin is foreign. I mean that literally and figuratively. In the rest of the world, uncut is the norm. The great majority of European boys get to keep their foreskin. In the U.K., only 4 percent are circumcised every year. Even our northern neighbor, Canada, frowns upon the practice. (The Canadian Pediatric Society has stated officially that it doesn’t recommend routine circumcision unrelated to religious or cultural practices). The story’s quite different in the States, where 83 percent of American male infants born in the 1980s  — the majority of my sexual history — were circumcised. (That rate has declined to 55 percent in recent years.)

These seemingly meaningless numbers are actually quite significant. They mean that uncut penises remain foreign entities for many Americans. So perhaps what really bothers us is not hygiene, disease, or aesthetic underappreciation but rather, a lack of familiarity. Given how intimidated some of my friends are when face-to-face with a penis, it’s no surprise that they’re aghast upon encountering one that looks unlike all others before it.

Just remember: a penis is still a penis and friction is still your ally. Sure, your handjob or blowjob technique may have to undergo slight adjustments, but the end goal (and the way to reach it) remains the same. A couple inches of skin shouldn’t stand in the way of anyone’s pleasure, including your own.

It’s puzzling to me, then, why I’ve encountered so many people who stick to a preferred physical type. I’m not talking about broad categories as much as I am about specific traits, such as hair and eye color or, more to the point, race. On the dating site OkCupid, for example, users can search for potential matches by filtering the database with specific criteria, including ethnicity.

I’m not even going to get into whether dating someone based solely on looks is a good or bad thing (because that would constitute a whole column of its own), but I have friends who exclusively date a particular type, be it black men, Asian women, or the ever-popular Abercrombie model. Some say, “But I’m just not attracted to Asian/Black/White guys.” Others claim they’ve never met a person they wanted to date outside their race. Unfortunately, if variety is the spice of life, then there are a lot of people out there dating the same bland types over and over again.

Some of them are self-aware enough to recognize where their preferences come from, but most are not. However, claiming that you “just happen” to prefer the blonde-haired, blue-eyed type (or whatever yours may be) ignores the biases we’ve each inevitably formed as a result of living in a society that promotes very specific beauty ideals. What many deem a “preference” is informed by their exposure to stereotypes, such as those depicted in television and movies. (The hypersexualization of black males and Asian females, the emasculation of Asian males, and the masculinization of black females are just a few examples.) Incredibly divergent interracial marriage rates are also a testament to the fact that physical preferences are really stratified by race.

Of course, it’s not easy to undo a couple decades’ worth of societal brainwashing overnight. But dating someone a tad darker or lighter than your usual fare isn’t going to kill you or your sex life. This also isn’t to say that we should reject preferences altogether. When it comes to personality or personal beliefs, preferences make sense to some extent. A relationship is probably not meant to last between two people with vastly different views on politics, money, or hygiene. But preferring to date people with particular political, financial, or hygienic attitudes is different from preferring to date people with certain physical attributes. The former is about compatibility; the latter has nothing to do with it.

Perhaps it’s telling that although OkCupid allows you to search for users of specific ethnicities, they also offer users the option of identifying themselves as “Human (Other)”. At least some of us out there would rather be pursued because of our more substantive qualities.

An hour before my first date with my boyfriend, I was sitting at dinner with a friend who had a single piece of advice for me: “Whatever you do, don’t sleep with him on the first date,” she said. Though I’ve heard iterations of the same first date rule (“Don’t go home with him on the first date”, “Nothing beyond kissing on the first date”, etc.), I was surprised to hear it from my pal — especially since she’s a smart girl who’s comfortable with her sexuality. I told her I’d take her opinion into account, but rule-abiding gal that I am, I proceeded to get wasted, go home with him, and postpone penetration for a whole five hours.

Does having sex in the wee hours of the morning after the first date still count as too early? In society’s eyes, probably. Some variations of the rule even ban sex until double-digit dates. But acting early on the sexual chemistry didn’t hurt my relationship. Nearly a year and a half later, my boyfriend is now my roommate and my respect for rules is still non-existent. It’s not my problem with authority, however, that makes me scoff at delaying sex. I simply don’t believe that the logic behind banning first-date sex is … well, logical.

Firstly, the no-sex rule assumes that someone (usually, the guy) will lose interest once intercourse is had. Naturally, the solution proposed by supposed relationship experts is not to date people with greater attention spans but instead to delay sex for as long as humanly possible in order to maintain the thrill of the chase. Because clearly, what you really want is a partner who will stick around as long as you say no! Not only does this imply that men are more interested in their scorecard than they are in compatibility, but it also suggests the only thing women have going for themselves is the illusion of unattainability.

Secondly, what is deemed appropriate dating behavior varies significantly from person to person and culture to culture. It seems silly to draw a line at a specific sexual act — in this case, sexual intercourse — especially when you consider that oral sex is actually considered more intimate than intercourse in many European countries. The no-sex rule may be a generally accepted (or at least, acknowledged) concept in America, but while U.S. relationship gurus are insisting that initial abstinence is key to a successful potential relationship, their counterparts across the Atlantic are dispensing wildly different advice.

That doesn’t mean that you should refrain from blowing a guy if you’re in Europe and postpone f**king a guy if you’re in the U.S. It does mean, however, that these rules are totally arbitrary and unrelated to the actual success of a relationship. Ultimately, experiences are unique to the parties involved, and no “expert” can judge if a specific sexual act will impact either party’s decision to go on date number two.

I might not be so peeved about the no-sex rule if it weren’t so pervasive, but even intelligent, independent-thinking people subscribe to it, sometimes at the expense of their true desires. Sex on the first date isn’t for everyone, and not every relationship will morph from “inappropriately early sexual encounter” to “domestic partnership” like mine. Still, I believe that we should approach commonly accepted rules with a healthy suspicion to ensure we’re following them not because we’re expected to, but because it’s what we truly want. In my case, I wasn’t about to exercise self-denial due to fear of societal judgment — or worse, rejection. Luckily, I found someone who agrees that the only waiting game worth playing is foreplay.

I could list a litany of reasons why we’re an amazing couple (and alienate a large portion of readers while I’m at it), but the ultimate factor in the success of our relationship is not communication, trust, or any other idealized attribute. What it comes down to is something quite practical: similar expectations. It might not seem romantic, but if you’re going to date a 30-year-old at 21, it matters a great deal if he wants to 1) get married, 2) have children, or 3) do anything requiring more than six-months commitment at a time. Communication goes out the window when he’s communicating his desire for you to bear his first child.

In my personal experience, I’ve also found that an age difference matters far less than a difference in lifestyle. Granted, my boyfriend and I share plenty of commonalities — similarly subversive viewpoints, a deep affection for his bulldog, a disdain for abstinence in any form — but our relationship is also aided by the fact that neither of us has 9-to-5 aspirations for the immediate future. The same can’t be said for other guys I’ve dated, plenty who were younger than my boyfriend and eager to complete 100-hour work weeks in the pursuit of corporate glory. It never would’ve worked with any of them — not just because I won’t stand for scheduling dates via personal assistants, but also because a man who interacts with Excel all day can’t possibly have anything interesting to say to me over dinner.

He may be over the hill, but my boyfriend got over cubicle ambitions a long time ago, and his current work-from-home schedule as a Ph.D student is quite compatible with mine as a freelance writer. That isn’t to say that flexible Gcals are the key to successful May-December matchups, but since it’s important for me to actually get face time with my significant other, my inappropriately old boyfriend is a far better partner than the younger guys I’ve encountered in the past.

Of course, to say that age is just a number would be naive, especially since the biological reality makes it a very pertinent consideration for those interested in children and the accompanying postpartum depression. Dating someone much older (or younger) can also be a mildly scandalous affair if you have close-minded friends or resemble a 17-year-old when not wearing makeup. But to not give a relationship a chance because of adherence to a general rule regarding age gaps is simplistic and frankly, childish. It’s as childish as my discomfort over my boyfriend’s impending 30th birthday, which — as much as I loathe to admit it — is probably just a reflection of my own attachment to my twenties.

If you think it’s awkward to go dutch on a meal, then you clearly haven’t gone dutch on Plan B. I’m all for gender equality but when a friend of mine relayed the following tale, I threw my split-the-bill philosophy out the window.

Here was her not-so-hypothetical scenario: Guy meets Girl. Guy buys Girl many, many rounds of drinks. “Where are your condoms?” Drunk Guy asks. Drunk Girl thinks. Drunk Girl thinks some more. Meanwhile, Drunk Guy performs a couple warning thrusts. Several thrusts later, Drunk Guy’s endurance reverts to that of a 12-year-old boy. Girl, no longer drunk, is not pleased.

Come morning, both parties agree that emergency contraception (better known by its brand name, Plan B) is in order, but when the guy realizes that this anti-baby antidote is a whopping $50 at the local CVS, he asks to share the cost. My friend is slightly mortified, and I’m nothing short of outraged when she asks my opinion on the matter. It’s not her fault, after all, if he has neither the patience to look for condoms nor the foresight to pull out. Besides, he has a job and she doesn’t. I’m sure Karl Marx would agree that this is a situation that perfectly illustrates, “From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.” In this case, my friend’s ability to pay was next-to-nothing and her need to not get pregnant was quite significant. Communism has never made more sense.

In all seriousness, I’m glad the above scenario didn’t happen to me, but it very well could have. My uterus has had two close brushes with conception. The first time, the guy I was dating at the time paid for the emergency contraception. He was older and had a real 9-to-5 job (as opposed to my slave-wage internship) so it seemed to make sense. In the second instance, the Plan B was covered by my insurance provider. But had it all not worked out so neatly, I wonder what I would’ve thought had the guys balked at the bill.

When I told my boyfriend I was going to write about Plan B and the etiquette of paying (or in this case, not paying), he asked jokingly, “Is this going to be a man-hating piece?” I don’t want to come across as anti-men, because I recognize that it’s not guys’ fault that pregnancy as an inherently unequal burden. However, the reality is that women are the ones who tend to suffer if an unwanted pregnancy occurs, and the Pill — the most popular method of contraception in the U.S. — is taken and usually paid for by its female users (though my boyfriend currently pays for mine). For someone like me who’s diligent about birth control, a broken condom or an instance of unsafe sex is a rare opportunity for the guy to step in and play an equal role. It’d almost be rude to not offer, considering that the majority of the time, I’m taking care of my reproductive health for the both of us.

Regardless of who should foot the bill, one thing is for certain: an accidental pregnancy definitely consitutes a breach of etiquette.  Since broken condoms can happen to even the most vigilant contraception user, it might not be a bad idea to obtain a pack or two of Plan B to keep by your bedside. Anyone over 17, including guys, can purchase the pill over the counter for $30-60, and if you’re making little or no money, you may be able to get it for free or at a discounted rate from Planned Parenthood. It’s a small price to pay for peace of mind and unfertilized eggs.

[Have you ever dealt with this? Who do you think should pay for Plan B?]

Marriage isn’t a right; it’s a privilege. Depending on the time, place, and partner, getting married could be harder than getting into Harvard, if not downright impossible. As recently as fifty years ago, miscegenation laws would have forbid me from marrying my boyfriend (or any man not my race) in certain areas of the United States. Before that, the legal and social benefits to getting married were denied to minorities, immigrants, and the poor for centuries. Marriage is, for lack of a better analogy, membership into the biggest country club in the world.

For me, getting married would be a personal endorsement of some of the worst societal norms in existence.

The supposed “right” to marry has never been much of a right at all, and our understanding of marriage as a basic liberty is unique to contemporary times. Thanks to my predisposition for heterosexuality, it’s a liberty I could easily exercise, but I’d much rather march in a rally than down an aisle, because I find it difficult to take part in a practice that is denied to others (plenty of them my friends). Even with the best of intentions, I can’t imagine that my own wedding will serve any purpose but to reinforce existing norms, such as the idea that a relationship is only valuable if recognized by a third-party institution.

It’s ironic, then, that I consider marriage equality an extremely important political issue, and the only one to which I’ve devoted significant time and money. Why should a feminist support the inclusion of queer people in what is historically a sexist institution? Besides the “separate but equal” disaster that civil unions would create, I think same-sex marriage might just be the only way to save marriage as an institution.

Critics of marriage equality often claim that it will lead to the demise of traditional marriage, while supporters insist that nothing will change by allowing queer people to marry. Though I share little else in common with them, I agree with the former group. It’s disingenuous, or at the very least, naive, to suggest that legalizing same-sex marriage won’t threaten traditional marriage. It absolutely will, and I hope it does. Traditional marriage is an institution that has historically treated women as property and men as property owners. It has fueled our culture’s obsession with virginity and female purity, while justifying the rape of child brides and the battering of women who dare to not serve their husbands. A half-century’s worth of gender equality under Western law neither creates equality in practice nor does it negate thousands of years of subjugation.

Recognizing same-sex relationships may very well be the only thing that can keep marriage a relevant social institution. Same-sex marriage subverts the gender roles that have dominated marriage — and by extension, society — for the great majority of human history. Every gay marriage is a statement against antiquated roles and practices we’ve come to take for granted. (Who, for example, walks down the aisle in a gay wedding ceremony?) Marriage is far more appealing a notion when I think of queer couples getting hitched without white dresses and gendered proposals. Accepting gay marriage also means rejecting one of the most enduring aspects of traditional marriage: its exclusivity. No longer would marriage be a privilege of the appropriately heterosexual.

I’m not holding my breath, but if this long-suffering institution changes, then perhaps my opinion of it will too. Because frankly, I wish I could get married. I wish I could don a white wedding gown without having to think about its sexually repressive implications as much as I wish I lived in a society without prerequisites for legal recognition of romantic relationships. Unfortunately, that isn’t this society, at least not yet. Perhaps we’ll never get there in my lifetime, but if that’s the case, then to paraphrase Groucho Marx, I wouldn’t want to join a club that would have me as a member anyway.