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My boyfriend and I have a ritual after we have sex. Right after he finishes, he gets up while I start screaming for a towel, urging him toward the bathroom closet or the laundry bag to retrieve one that I then use to wipe myself down.
If a towel is not handy, I'll reach between my legs and gleefully reveal the fruits of his labor to him. I think it's hilarious.
What to know before you ask your partner to come inside you
He thinks it's repulsive. This ritual has been going on for years, as long as we've been having regular, condom-free sex. If it sounds strange, that's only because we so rarely discuss what is one of the most common problems facing sexual partners: After a guy comes inside you, how do you dispose of the semen? What to do after a guy comes?
It's a question that comes up woefully infrequently during even the most candid conversations about sex.
Do you shake it off, like a cat coming out of the bath or a Taylor Swift backup dancer? Or do you stand up and force it to seep out by jiggling around, like a preschooler at Gymboree? Do you wipe it down?
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And if so, who retrieves the towel? Do you You want my cum inside it in a house? Do you do it with a mouse? I found myself asking these questions this week, after writer Maureen O'Connor published an article in New York magazine discussing the politics of where to come.
While O'Connor addressed the etiquette of where a male disposes of his semen, it didn't quite touch the perspective of the person into or onto whom the semen is disposed. It's a perspective that theoretically encompasses a good portion of the population, straight women and gay men included. And yet the question of what to do after a dude comes inside you is rarely publicly addressed.
In fact, for a while, I assumed there was something wrong with me, and I even asked my gynecologist if what was happening was normal. Needless to say, it is totally normal for fluids to be expelled after sex. The female anatomy doesn't function like an Oreck vaccumdiligently sucking up every ounce of baby-making juice, contrary to popular belief.
The same goes for men who have sex with men, if various self-reports from male Mic readers are any indication, though the cleanup seems to require slightly less work, often little more than "a thorough wiping with a tissue," as one year-old man put it. Many Mic readers responding via Google form fall into the "wipe that shit down" school of thought, to quote a year-old female.
That often involves Kleenex or toilet paper, perhaps wadded up "as a tampon of sorts to catch residual junk," one year-old woman reported. A year-old woman had a similar, albeit crueler, system: "I use closest fabric or object to wipe it off. Usually try for the guy's boxers because I'm a dick.
There's one post-sex problem that nobody ever talks about
Other millennials opt to flush the semen out, the way Mother Nature intended, by peeing, "which we all know serves as a sort of shower for your vagina after sex," a year-old woman wrote. Her instincts aren't wrong: Peeing after sex can prevent contracting UTIs. Others take a live-and-let-live approach, letting gravity take its course.
But sometimes, I just let it do whatever it wants to do, which I guess is just be inside You want my cum inside me? A year-old woman echoed that sentiment, albeit more graphically: "Much like cocaine, the drip is the best part. One reason may be the simple "ick" factor of the topic, which is exacerbated by the lack of realistic depictions of sex in pop culture, especially where female pleasure is concerned.
The cultural silence around post-sex spillage may stem from sexism, specifically the sexual expectations for women versus those of men. We hide our 'grossness' from men in order to maintain our feminine mystique," Amanda suggested.
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Moreover, to acknowledge that a vagina doesn't function like a vacuum for semen is to acknowledge that the vagina doesn't exist for the sole purpose of conception, a concept that has terrified men since long before Freud started ranting about the evils of the clitoris. But there's another reason we rarely talk about post-sex spillage: the stigma around unprotected sex. In an age in which we can buy condoms from vending machinesit's assumed that millennials are savvy enough to take necessary " safe sex " precautions.
Given what we know about pregnancy and STIs, why are we not using condoms?
It often comes down to being with a long-term partner. People in committed relationships tend to stop using condoms as early as the two-month markwhich Nerve referred to as the "condom cliff. My boyfriend and I reached the condom cliff around the four-year mark, while both getting tested and using hormonal birth control.
And yet, even as we and other partners have taken these precautions, the spillage that comes from condom-free sex still isn't an accepted topic of sex talk conversation. The truth is, from a very early age, we're taught to be ashamed about our bodies and our pleasure, to the point where we completely gloss over the reality of what it's like to have sex — the good and the gross. This deafening silence can be harmful to women like Amanda, who have been made to feel like their bodies were abnormal. But there's no need to feel ashamed, gross, or even confused.
If we were more open and honest about sex, our sexual egos would be spared a lot of damage not to mention countless pairs of underwear and sheets. Next time you have sex, be it gay or straight, bad or good, protected or condom-free, don't worry about dabbing up the evidence daintily like you're Grace Kelly having four o'clock tea with the Queen. Proudly let the splooge spill where it may, and don't apologize.
Because it's not only evidence of the pleasure you just shared with someone else, it's evidence of your humanity in all its sloppy, imperfect glory. You are not an Oreck. And that's OK. This article was originally published on July 16, By EJ Dickson.