[All this talk about owning it led me to start thinking back to the first thing I ever owned and I believe it was this -- originally published it to The Spartanette blog as one of my very first posts. I think it really set the tone of what was to come from that blog and let people know that even though I was a 19-year-old girl, I had balls of steel. I thought it would be fun to share it again here -- updated a bit. TGIF -- enjoy!]
Consult any woman’s magazine or any dude with a pulse on what the best sexual position is and they will all agree: it’s the reverse cowgirl.
It is the Holy Grail of sexual positions.
Cosmo, Glamour, and all their little friends tout it as the Best Thing Ever. In every issue, we’re promised the best sex tips we’ve never heard, but month after month, we are told to simply turn away from him, hop on top, and ride that pony.
Girls like it because they are in control and it’s a good position for getting off. Guys like it because…well, because it’s sex with a girl.
The Reverse Cowgirl makes the world go round.
At the risk of completely betraying my reputation, I must own this.
I can’t master this position.
Everyone makes it sound so easy.
Not so, I say. Not so at all.
I try and I try…and I fall off the bed.
An equestrian, I am not.
I don’t know what my problem is. I don’t know if it’s my lack of rhythm or lower body strength but no amount of dance classes, squats, or, surprisingly, tequila seems to solve the problem.
I’m good at a lot of things but I suck at this position. And you know what? I’ve owned it.
When a guy suggests it, I say, “Well, we can try, but it’s not going to work.”
He doesn’t believe me…and then like two minutes later he most certainly does.
And then once again, I find myself crossing my arms over my naked chest in a huge huff, snapping, “I mean, maybe I could…if I had eyes in the back of my head.”
I used to get so embarrassed about this. I felt like I had a scarlet “RC” on my chest every time I attempted it and failed. I mean, for whatever reason, people think of me as someone with crazy sexual tricks up my sleeve (and my skirt and down my shirt and in my big hair). I’ve never openly declared that I possess some sort of vast repertoire of talents that brings all the boys to the yard. I show up, I take off my clothes, things usually go well (sometimes to the point that I can’t walk the next day), and I write about it from time to time. I worried that every fraternity meeting following one of these mishaps included a group discussion about how I was a fake. I know guys assume that I have threesomes every day before breakfast and think I approach even a casual makeout with the tricks and skillz of a porn star…and I worried they were telling all their friends that I was a total disappointment.
It’s not like I don’t have any skillz, but it’s not my fault they are more canine than equine.
From what the women’s magazines tell me, I’m the only one who can’t make this happen. I used to be ashamed of my inability to do the RC and I’d try to make up for it with enthusiasm and willingness to, um, get back on the horse, but the fact is, I’m clumsy. I lack rhythm. I don’t know where to put my hands. Sorry, baby — maybe if you had reins.
You know, there’s optimism, but there’s also owning it. I’ve accepted my shortcomings, acknowledged that I do other things a hell of a lot better, and started telling guys that this posish won’t work for me, but I’m happy to simply turn around in the saddle and do what will. (And do it well, thankyouverymuch.)
To Cosmo, Glamour, and Every Guy I’ve Ever Hooked Up With: sorry I’m not sorry.
You can lead a girl to this position but I can’t make it work.
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