The very first thing on Cornell’s famous “Big Red Ambition: 161 Things Every Cornellian Should Do” list is the following item:

1. Make the library into your bedroom and have sex in the stacks.

I find it interesting that fucking in the library comes before spending a summer in Ithaca (#31) and taking Intro to Wines at the Hotel School (#7). I imagine the concept for this item emerged after one of the list’s creators spent a long night in the library with his girlfriend, fruitlessly studying for an impossible chemistry, science or non-communication related test (Because, let’s be honest, how much time do comm-majors really spend in the library?). Surrounded by books, notes, highlighters, and a stack of flash cards five inches tall, they may have decided to call it a night somewhere around 4 or 5 a.m. As they packed up their things, he probably noticed that they were the only ones left in the library. Suddenly, sleepless delirium implanted a genius idea in his head: let’s have sex. Three pumps and a few fallen stacks later, this guy officially fornicated in a library. CHECK.

Imagining this scenario made me realize that there are hundreds of wonderfully unconventional places on a college campus where two people could potentially have wild, exhibitionistic sex. In honor of Cornell’s list, I’ve developed my own X-rated version of the checklist, chronicling the top places on campus I think every college student should bump uglies before donning cap and gown. Make a mental check mark next to all the places you’ve done it already (bet you can’t guess how many I’ve got under my belt!).

1. In a fraternity or sorority house (ATO, ZBT, and FIJI don’t count on principle) ☐

2. In a dorm room—try and cover dorms on both North and West (extra points for doing it in Schuyler) ☐

3. On Schoellkopf field (props if you do it before a big game) ☐

4. On the basketball court in Noyes ☐

5. In the Johnson Museum of Art ☐

6. In an auditorium ☐

7. In the Teagle lap pool ☐

8. Somewhere in Gannett, specifically so that you can be asked if you’re pregnant immediately afterwards ☐

9. At the Oxley Equestrian center next to the horses ☐

10.  On the floor of Fuertes observatory on a clear, starry night☐

11.  In a gym locker room ☐

12.  In a science lab (be sure to wear protective eyewear) ☐

13.  In a library…during the day! ☐

14.  On the “sod sofa” in the Ag quad☐

15.  On the Arts quad…after streaking across it (See #8 on Big Red Ambition list) ☐

16.  In one of the dining halls (preferably within close proximity to Oakenshield’s Happy Dave!) ☐

17.  In a secluded study room ☐

18.  On the musical steps next to Olin ☐

19.  On Ho Plaza (purposely ruin a chalking or two) ☐

20.  At the top of McGraw-Tower (if you still have the energy after climbing the 161 steps! ☐

21.  While riding the blue-light bus ☐

22.  In your professor’s office when they’re not around ☐

23.  In a building on campus with historical significance ☐

24.  In Uris where the Wilder brain collection resides (if you’re freaky like that) ☐

25.  Behind the stage…on Slope Day….while “Hot In Here” is being performed ☐

26.  Behind the stage…right before graduation (ask Giuliani if he wants to join too) ☐

Please keep in mind, however, that the consequences for getting caught having sex in, on, and around any of these locations could result in suspension, expulsion or, at the very least, extreme embarrassment. That being said, happy fucking!

Does anyone remember that MTV True Life episode that chronicled the lives of people with secret Internet identities? If I remember correctly, the show featured a wannabe singer with stage fright who only felt comfortable performing via avatar on the website secondlife.com. Then there was the woman who hosted naked webcam sessions for paying users, but was petrified of going on dates with men in the real world. It was truly topnotch, exploitative, life-ruining television. I remember wondering, how exactly do people get involved with this kind of stuff? Webcam Girl was a mousy, shy bookworm-type with thick glasses and red hair, but somehow she felt comfortable taking her clothes off for strange men on the Internet. What motivated her to continue doing this? Was it the money? The secret rush of doing something so taboo? Or maybe it was the control factor. If she didn’t like where things were going or felt uncomfortable, she could end her sessions with the click of a mouse and go back to leading a normal life (or however normal a life you can lead if you’re secretly an Internet porn star). In the real world we don’t get that luxury, and I secretly wish we did, considering the number of horrible dates I’ve been on. But, whatever the reason, it started the cogs in my ‘ole noggin’-a-churnin’.

I suppose what surprised me the most is that, had I met Webcam Girl out at a party or been introduced to her by a mutual friend, I would not automatically think, “Oh, you must masturbate on camera in your free time!” I think when we hear of people engaging in unmentionable or unusual behavior we usually assume they’re distinctly fucked up in some way. Kind of like when you watch one of those ridiculous documentaries on TLC or E! that are titled, “100 Most Heinous Homicides of the 21st Century” or “Strange Stories: I’m Addicted to Cats”. The people on these shows justexude crazy. They have hair growing out of places it shouldn’t, they’re cross-eyed, their teeth are missing, or they keep swatting at the air as if a million tsetse flies are attacking their face as they’re trying to do their interviews. And then there’s always the family member or “friend from high school” that give personal testimonies, claiming the aforementioned crazy person had given early warning signs that they were completely mental. “Oh yeah, George collected knives when he was younger and he was always talking to trees. We had math class together and he would stare at me and lick his lips, in this sick, sadistic way. I’m really not surprised that he started his own brothel and then murdered all the prostitutes one night with an icicle. Really, not surprised at all”.

I mentally catalogued my thoughts about Webcam Girl, however, since I knew there was no real way of truly understanding her motives, and I secretly hoped that one day I’d be able to revisit the topic in the event I started my own sex blog (tee hee). That is, until one day last December when my friend Dan* decided to confide a scandalous secret in me.

Like most scandalous secrets, this one was shared in a state of total inebriation. It was the kind of drunken stupor that awakens ancient monsters inside your soul and disintegrates your mental filter; the kind of debauched daze that breaks down boundaries and makes it seem acceptable to take your pants off in public. Unsurprisingly, we began swapping tales of misbehavior and corruption (while we still had the ability to form coherent sentences) until Dan topped all my previous admissions with one unforgettable statement:

“I have clients…who pay me to….do stuff…on camera.”

Holy shit balls, Batman.

Okay, let me rewind (if this was a reality TV show, we’d be having a hazy, black-and-white flashback right now, complete with baby pictures of Dan like they do on Intervention). Like Webcam Girl, Dan is not the type of person you would assume engages in this type of activity. He’s well-spoken, intelligent, has plenty of friends and is, by no means, socially awkward. I don’t think he talked to trees or collected knives as a child either. When I originally met him, I pegged him for the overly studious-type who only left his dorm room to get more coffee or sharpen a pencil. As I got to know him on a more personal level, however, it became apparent that he has a definite wild side and questionable morals, but still, I would never have thought his side job borderlined on prostitution.

Despite my shock, I vowed to withhold judgment until I had heard the whole story. In fact, I try and take this stance in most situations because I often find that my life experiences elicit criticism from more scrupulous individuals. Additionally, I had shared deep, dark secrets with Dan before and he had afforded me a nonjudgmental ear to bend, so I granted him the same. To be honest, I was actually quite fascinated and overflowing with questions. What kind of stuff did his clients ask him to do? How much did he get paid? Most importantly, why was he doing this at all?

Dan explained that his webcam sessions stemmed from a need for money. Between the cost of tuition, books, food, and housing, he needed a job that would pay well and not interfere with his schoolwork. The idea for his new part-time position came after he stumbled upon a website that let users with a webcam set up an account and “perform” for other members. Instead of creating an account on the site, however, Dan simply went into chat rooms and solicited potential clients who seemed interested in his “services”. Then, he would initiate a payment exchange (I’m assuming via some sort of PayPal-esque online utility), find out exactly what it was the client wanted him to do, and then set up a Skype session where it would all go down. On average, he made a few hundred dollars every weekend.

Dan’s general rule is no face shots (aka he will only show himself below the neck) and no penetration. Other than that, it is all up to the client to decide what he will do. He told me he has received all kind of requests; one voyeur insisted on being referred to as “daddy,” another wanted to see Dan masturbate in the shower, another even asked him to ejaculate onto a banana (an obvious analogy for…). He admitted that, although he sometimes found it thrilling, he was often embarrassed and ashamed of the things he had done on camera for money.

In my opinion, Dan’s actions illuminate many unsettling things about our society. The first is that the cost of attending college can force students to do desperate things for extra cash. Granted, Dan’s “no face” rule ensures that his actions won’t come back to haunt him some day (like if he were to actually make a porno), but I’m sure there are still psychological repercussions that stem from the taboo nature of his exploitations. Since hosting nude webcam sessions is generally frowned upon by the average person, there’s no doubt that Dan, and others engaging in this behavior, would feel inadequate, guilty, or disturbed by their own actions. On the one hand, Dan is being told that, in order to be a contributing member of society, he has to go to college and get a degree. But in order to pay for that education, he has to resort to activities that are deemed deplorable. How does somebody resolve this dilemma without sacrificing their sanity?

Frankly, I don’t think there is anything wrong with what Dan is doing. First, it’s economics: he’s providing a service for money and, so long as there are people out there willing to pay, there is going to be a necessity (albeit a small necessity) for people like Dan to perform his services. Second, how different is it from having a sex Skype session with your boyfriend or girlfriend? Granted, there’s money involved in Dan’s activities, but ethically it falls into the same category. No actual sexual encounters are taking place, so it’s the perfect balance of dangerous and safe. You can’t get herpes from Skype sex, so it can’t be all that bad, right? Truthfully, I don’t think I would have a problem doing the same thing if I really needed the money. But then again, my concept of moral righteousness is a bit more pliable than the average girl next-door’s.

Sure, it would be easier to tell friends that he gets his extra dough by serving venti nonfat no-foam caramel machiattos to yuppy frat boys at the Collegetown Starbucks, but, in the end, Dan’s not doing anything wrong. And I would venture to guess that, true life, he’s probably not alone out there.

For my “Desire” class this semester we’re reading The Symposium: Plato’s infamous play about the complex, sexual nature of learning. In the play, the leading philosophers of the time (Socrates, Aristophanes, Alcibiades, etc.) gather to praise Eros and discuss the true meaning of love. As each man delivers his speech, it becomes clear that the Greek method of learning was much different than our methods today. In Plato’s time, it was commonplace for older male philosophers to offer their knowledge to young males in exchange for sexual gratification. Thus, learning became inextricably linked to love and sexual desire. This dynamic obviously would not work well today, since most sexual relationships between students and teachers end badly for both parties (think Mary Kay Letourneau). The strict guidelines of our sexual harassment clauses, the gray areas of each state’s statutory rape laws, and the taboo nature of such relationships means that there will be no quickies during office hours for your U.S. History teacher (however, most history teachers are about as ancient as the subject they teach, so I don’t imagine they get much action from anybody, really).

The fact remains, though, that some damn fine teachers exist in the world. I’m sure many of you can think of at least two professors you’ve pictured naked. Therefore, I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to bed some of my favorite professors after reading The Symposium, despite the forbidden nature of having a steamy pedagogical relationship (Fun Fact: “pedagogy” is rooted in the Greek word “pederasty,” which means sexual activity between a man and a boy). For example, my journalism professor at Ithaca College was so incredibly sexy that I often found myself fantasizing about him mid-lecture. I would stare up at him dreamily, biting my lower lip, keeping my legs firmly crossed for fear that he might somehow sense I was thinking naughty things about him. The epitome of a silver fox, he wore faded Wrangler jeans, held up by pure-leather belts with intricate, vintage buckles. He often stood at the front of the class with one leg posted up on a chair, making his crotch the focal point of his presentation. He had a boyish way of playing with his full head of white-gray hair (think Anderson Cooper, but less tidy), and often messed it up in a purposeful way so that it looked like he had just gotten out of bed. When he got excited about a particular subject, I could barely contain myself. He would speak so passionately that I would lose myself in his words; my classmates would dissolve from the room, as if he was reading me, and only me, a love poem. On several occasions I debated lingering back after class to ask a pointless question in the hopes that it might end with the papers being thrown off his desk in a fit of passion. Needless to say, I did horribly in his course since I spent most of my time considering the most efficient way to remove his belt buckle with my teeth.

When I look back now, I realize it was not only my prof’s good looks that had me hot for teacher. His worldliness, extensive knowledge of journalism, and beautiful writing skills transcended mere sexual desire and connected with my dreams, goals and hopes for the future. Essentially, I wanted to be him. I wanted to live his life, travel to the places he’d traveled, and know the things he knows. I felt that, if I could only spend time alone with him, inhabit his space, and pick his brain, then his experiences and ideas could become my own. For just a second, I might be able to touch and feel the version of myself I saw in him. Given the impossibility of all these desires, the only feeling I was left with was the impulse to have him inside me. That being said, I can’t blame Alcibiades whatsoever for wanting to bang Socrates. “Come and lie down beside me Socrates, so that, by contact with you, I can share the piece of wisdom that came to you on the porch”. The feeling was there in Greek times, and it obviously persists today.

So what exactly is the problem with doing the dirty with your D-SOC professor? Well, Cornell has an explicit policy when it comes to teacher-student liaisons; and that is,don’t do it. However, if we take a look at the sexual harassment discourse within the policy, there’s a few obvious loopholes:

Unwelcome sexual advances, requests for sexual favors, or other verbal or physical conduct of a sexual nature that either explicitly or implicitly are made (1) as a term or condition of an individual’s employment or academic status, or (2) as a basis for an employment or academic decision affecting that person. The following types of sexual harassment are referenced in this policy: Sexual acts that are demanded in exchange for maintaining or enhancing employment or academic benefits or status Unwelcome sexual behavior toward another employee or student that is (1) persistent, pervasive, or severe, and (2) has the purpose or effect of interfering with the work or educational environment in a way that a reasonable person would find hostile or offensive.

Thus, as long as the sex is welcome and doesn’t affect my grades, I can theoretically jump the bones of my advisor. Right? Well, the stipulation is that students are also capable of sexually harassing professors, and I imagine most of them wouldn’t be too thrilled to have you saunter into their office to try and S their D’s. That isn’t the only gray area in the policy, though. What is this nonsense about a “reasonable person” finding the sexual advances hostile or offensive? I like to think I’m a reasonable person, and I wouldn’t be offended by sexual advances from my teacher any more than I’m offended by Asians wearing anime critter hats in the winter.

Ergo, the same question remains: should we be able to fuck our teachers? I think that most of the laws and regulations regarding student-teacher relationships are meant to protect minors from sexual abuse. If you’re 10 and your science teacher is touching you inappropriately, that’s not okay. But I’m 20 years old. If I find myself sexually attracted to my professor, and we both consent to a physical relationship, then why the fuck is the school, the government, and the world trying to involve themselves in my business? I understand that problems of bias and undeserved grade inflation come into the picture, but what right does anyone have to tell another person they can’t love or desire whoever they want? Maybe if more professors got laid on the regular, they wouldn’t be so uptight about deadlines and APA format. As much as we want to deny our dirty thoughts for fear of sounding perverted (I no longer have this fear) there isdesire in learning. And there is beauty in teaching. So if desire is the attraction to beauty, then it seems that sex has a rightful place in the classroom.

Personally, I think Plato had it right. Unfortunately, there’s no way to bypass the system and destroy the social norms preventing us from running train with the entire COMM department. A girl can dream though. So the next time you see me wearing something skanky to office hours, you’ll know what’s up.

Despite what we see on TV and in the movies, sex is often awkward, messy, and embarrassing. Real people don’t get the luxury of special lighting, scripts, re-takes, or a professional stylist to color-coordinate our bras and panties. Many times, sex in real-life is an improvisational, trial-and-error experiment. With so many variables to work with (different people, positions, places, etc.) sex has the potential to blow up in our faces (no sexual pun intended), which means that a sexy, steamy moment can quickly become so mortifyingly repugnant that both parties wish to forget it as soon as possible.

As much as I pride myself on my sexual prowess, I too have fallen victim to several awkward/embarrassing/strange/scary sexual experiences, which I like to refer to as “OoPs moments“. Although horrifying at the time, these instances have now become learning experiences and comical fodder for my everyday life. Thus, I wish to share some of the most humiliating, unusual, painful, compromising, and stomach-churning OoPs moments I’ve either heard from friends or personally faced over the years. Whether your parents walked in on you sucking your boyfriend’s weiner, or you had sex without shaving your bush for a month, know that you’re not alone. We’ve all been there…and some of us, unfortunately, have had it worse than others.

OoPs Moment #1: Penny Pinching

My ex-boyfriend used to keep a jar of spare change on a shelf above the headboard on his bed. Because his parents were always home and the walls are paper thin, we rarely had sex in his room. One day, however, his parents and siblings were out of the house and we decided to take advantage by having rough, loud sex on his bed. As my ex mercilessly pounded away at my recently de-virginized vagina, the bed inched closer and closer to the wall, until it was banging directly against it. Right as he was about to finish, the aforementioned change jar suddenly came crashing down from the shelf, hitting me hard in the face. My ex burst out laughing, and I sat there, bleeding from the nose, covered in pennies, with tears streaming down my face. After the bleeding stopped, I realized the jar had also chipped my front tooth. Try explaining THAT to your dentist.

OoPs Moment #2: Bloody Hell

When I was sixteen, I started hooking up with a twenty-two year old named Dan* who didn’t have his license (…I really knew how to pick ‘em then). As a result, we often made plans to hang-out weeks in advance, since it required going behind my parents’ backs, sneaking out of the house, and taking a 30-minute cab ride to his place. One month we scheduled a secret rendezvous on a weekend that I knew my parents would be out of town. As the date approached, however, I discovered I had severely miscalculated the timing of my period. Determined to see Dan, I decided not to cancel, but instead try to wait it out. Luckily, on the morning of our date, it appeared my period had disappeared.

A few hours later, and all according to plan, I found myself naked on Dan’s bed. After some casual foreplay, he slipped his penis inside me, and started talking dirty.

“Fuck…you’re so wet.”

As he thrusted in and out, he slipped a hand beneath me and started rubbing my clit.

“Fuck…Samantha…you’re really, really wet,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Is that what you like?” I asked in my sexy voice.

“Yeah, but, like….you’re REALLY wet. Wait a second…”

Dan reached over and turned on his beside lamp, and we immediately gasped in shock. We were both covered in period blood, as if we had just murdered a small animal with our bare hands. It was on our stomachs, fingers, and ALL over my vag and his penis. I was mortified. Attempting to make the situation less disgusting, I laughed nervously and suggested we go take a shower. Dan’s eyes, however, became wide and glossy and his skin turned ghostly pale.

“Are you ok? Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I swear this never happens.”

“Yeah…yeah…I just…don’t like…blood,” he answered, his voice shaking.

“I know, me either. Hold on I’m gunna get us a towel.”

I walked into the bathroom and started cleaning myself up. Suddenly, I heard a loud banging on the door.

“One sec, babe, I’m washing up.”

“SAMANTHA. OPEN THE DOOR. NOW.”

“Huh?” I said, unhooking the latch.

Pushing me aside, Dan burst through the door, still covered in blood, hands over his mouth, and ran to the toilet. Rather than getting laid, I spent the rest of the night cleaning up my blood and his vomit.

OoPs Moment #3: Rocket Power

During shower sex, my ex-boyfriend asked to do me from behind. Due to the angle of my body, the frequency with which he was humping me, and the water streaming down from above, I accidentally queefed. Really loudly. When my ex was finally done laughing, he informed me that he actually witnessed water spew out of me “like a rocket” when it happened. FML.

OoPs Moment #4: THAT’S What It Looks Like?

A friend of mine told me that the first penis she ever saw was owned by the same guy who took her virginity. It was only when they broke up and she started seeing other people that she realized the first guy was actually uncircumcised.

OoPs Moment #5: My Get Lucky Undies

I used to have a pair of panties I called my “get lucky” undies. They were pink and lacy and whenever I wore them, I somehow ended up getting laid. One night, I wore them out to a bar and, surprise-surprise, ended up taking a rando home. Once back at my place, I climbed on top of him and begin sexily taking off my clothes. It soon became clear, however, that the position I was in made it quite difficult to get any clothing off past my ankles. In an effort to help me out, the rando tried scooting his body further onto the bed to make room for my knees. During this transition, however, one of my legs accidentally slipped off the bed, causing my favorite pair of underwear, which was tangled around my calves, to rip in half.

OoPs Moment #6: Did You Do Something To Your Hair?

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend came over on a school night and I ended up sucking his dick. Forgetting the cardinal rule of blow-jobbing, I forgot to pull my hair back, and it repeatedly got in the way of my technique. Not wanting to stop, however, I tried pushing it behind my ears, but a few stray strands managed to escape. Luckily, he came quickly, and I was able to fit some cuddling time in before kicking him out so I could get to bed.

The next morning, my alarm went off and I jumped out of bed, only to realize I had set my clock wrong and was running late. Frantically, I pulled on a sweatshirt, threw my hair into a messy bun, and ran to class. It was only after I stopped in the bathroom at the end of the day that I realized there was visible dried-cum in my hair.

OoPs Moment #7: Deep Throat

A friend of mine has a very sensitive gag-reflex. One time, a guy she was hooking up with asked her to deep throat his dick. In a futile attempt to defy nature and be sexy, she tried. The result: she ended up puking all over his dick.

OoPs Moment #8: She Likes It Rough

Another friend of mine really enjoys rough sex. One time, she decided it would be sexy to slap her sex partner around a bit. She got a bit carried away, however, and ended up punching him in the face, leading to a very unsexy bloody nose.

OoPs Moment #9: Basement Booty

When I was in high school, I decided to sneak a boy into my house for a booty call. The problem was, however, that my room is right next to my parents’ room, and I was afraid they would hear us. I decided my best bet was to take him into my unfinished basement, which was under construction at the time. I quickly discovered that there was actually no space for us to lay down, since all the furniture had been moved for the construction. Desperate to have sex with one another, we ended up fucking on the cold, cement floor. We kept having to stop and change positions, however, so one person wasn’t on the bottom the entire time. Despite all our efforts, we still ended up covered in cuts and bruises. The next morning at breakfast, after my conquest had successfully snuck out the back door, my mother warned me to stay out of the basement that day because the people she hired were coming to put the new carpet down.

OoPs Moment #10: Choking Hazard

A few months after I got my nipples pierced, I decided to change the original barbell to a hoop. When I tried to screw the end-pieces on, however, I found myself unable to do so because they were so tiny. After about an hour of trying, I decided to just leave the hoop in by itself and hope it didn’t fall out.

That night, however, I ended up taking a guy home from a party. After discovering my piercings, he decided to give my nipples extra attention. Unfortunately, I completely forgot about my precarious nipple ring, and he ended up accidentally swallowing it.

OoPs Moment #11: He Can’t Tell The Difference

A friend of mine used to date a guy who thought queefing was sexy. Fortunately for him, my friend knows how to queef on command. One time, he asked her to queef while he fucked her on her side. The position, however, was not conducive for queefing, and in her struggle to make it happen, she accidentally farted. Good thing he couldn’t tell the difference.

If you would like to share your own crazy/awkward OoPs moment, please feel free to comment on this post.  :)

Yesterday, at exactly 12:23 p.m., I orgasmed in the middle of my biology class.

No noises were made. No heads turned. Nobody gasped, screamed, pointed, or skipped a beat in their frantic attempt to copy intricate definitions from a dated Powerpoint. Instead, my wrinkled, balding professor continued to pontificate on the evolution of Homo sapiens, unawares that one of his students had just exploded in her pants. It was, perhaps, the most subtle orgasm to ever escape my body. But how did it happen?

Simple: Classturbation.

For those readers unfamiliar with the term, classturbation refers to the act of inconspicuously masturbating during a class, course, lesson, or seminar. Classturbators can be either male or female, and typically employ their surreptitious self-touching in creative, non-threatening ways. For example, one might place a jacket or book-bag over their lap while wearing a dress, skirt, or sweat pants in order to maintain an air of casualness. Feigning a nap is also a nice touch, since onlookers will assume slight twitching or odd facial expressions are simply the result of a particularly vivid daydream. Common classroom objects (pens, pencils, rulers, etc.) can also be utilized inventively in a pinch, but this is only recommended for more skilled classturbators. Whatever the method, these sneaky students are able to wank one out faster than you can write the word “paleoanthropology” onto your college-ruled notebook paper. In fact, I’m willing to bet that all of us have been in the presence of a classturbator at some point during our college careers and had absolutely no idea.

I realize the concept is both shocking and perhaps revolting to some people. Why would someone feel the need to beat their meat in the middle of class time? Why risk being caught when, in a few hours, said classturbator will probably be alone in the privacy of their dorm room where they can freely violate themselves without disrupting others? There are a multitude of reasons for engaging in this kind of behavior, but the most important has to do with the riskiness of the act and the nature of classroom dynamics.

You see, classturbators fall into a sub-group of sexual deviants called exhibitionists. Many of us have heard the term before when referring to people who enjoy flashing their nasty parts or having sex in public. Exhibitionism, however, is more than enjoying the act of self-exposure. It is about experiencing sexual excitement at the mere thought of being caught in a sexual, exposed, deviant, or vulnerable position. Unlike other kinds of exhibitionists, classturbators translate this “thrill of discovery” into a unique scenario: the student-teacher/classmate relationship.

Consider this: in a normal, neutral classroom scenario, the teacher/professor holds all the power and dictates all the events that transpire. Everything from speaking privileges, to one’s ability to use the bathroom are systematically managed by the teacher. We comply unquestionably with the requests of our (supposed) intellectual superiors despite what our goals, needs, or wants may be. For example, we may have no interest in the assigned subject material, but we still spend hours researching the topic in order to write an essay to be judged, eventually, by the superior who coerced us into writing it in the first place. Even after spending time reading the essays we spent days working on, our professor may still not know our names or faces. Depending on the size of the classroom, we may just be a student ID number on a class roster. Additionally, we see our classmates as being simultaneously our equals and our competition. Although we are all in the same boat, working on and learning the same things, we’re still vying for the top grade and recognition from the teacher. Thus, we have no connection to the people sitting to our left and right in an auditorium other than the threat we pose to their final grade.

That being said, it is difficult to disrupt the flow of power and the relational dynamics of a classroom, and one who does is almost always ostracized. For example, “class clowns” are often sent to the principal’s office for interrupting a teacher’s lesson with their shenanigans, but only after being publicly exposed, shamed, and reprimanded. Similarly, students who  take on the “teacher’s pet” role are socially rejected by other classmates due to the threat the “pet” poses to their class standings. Classturbators, however, have discovered the ultimate way to disrupt the monotony, restrictiveness, and social norms of the classroom without being shunned. By playing a secret game of pocket-pool, these students are not only giving a big “FUCK YOU” to their professor and fellow classmates, they’re also taking back their sense of autonomy and individuality in a setting where it usually is diminished. At the same time, they are turning their classmates, originally a source of competition, into sexual objects. Because classturbators enjoy the threat of being caught, the classmates become inadvertently involved in the fantasy since they are the ones who can potentially do the catching. This is what classturbators get off on, and this is what motivates them to take the risk.

If you’ve never had an exhibitionist desire in your life, though, then it seems logical that you wouldn’t be motivated to classturbate any time soon. But before you rule it out completely, consider this: several studies have been done showing a positive relationship between masturbating and stress-reduction. According to sex therapist Martha Cornog, author of The Big Book of Masturbation, the act of jacking/jilling off ”…is all about ‘you time,’ and taking time to focus on yourself is a great way to break up the stress of a busy life. Particularly when used with sexual fantasy, masturbation can be a great escape, and a way to let off some steam…”. In other words, having a silent orgasm in the middle of class might actually help you de-stress and, subsequently, concentrate and learn more effectively. Just worth a thought.

In the end, it’s all a matter of preference. For some people, the perceived risk of being caught is so great that they could never fully enjoy a classturbation session. Thus, engaging in the behavior would be counterintuitive. For others, though, it might be the perfect way to relax, take back control in the classroom, and be a little naughty. Although yesterday was the first time I’d ever felt comfortable touching myself in public, I can see myself doing it again in the event that the urge strikes, and I encourage others to do the same. If you do nothing else with this information, at least take the time to scope out someone classturbating the next time you find yourself in a large lecture. You’re guaranteed to find someone, and you might just learn a thing or two.

The English language is exemplary in its ability to beautifully, perfectly, and wholly capture, in a single word, the essence of an object, person, or act. Even more elegant than this all-encompassing lexicon are the colloquialisms we’ve created to describe seemingly ritual behavior. For example, “grabbing some grub,” or “hitting the sack” are flowery illustrations of eating and sleeping, the two most basic human actions. The crème de la crème of American phraseology, however, only emerges within our sexual terminology. It is for this reason that I have compiled a list of my favorite slang words for… doing the nasty.

1. Fuck (the classic)

2. Nail

3. Rail

4. Bang

5. Shag

6. Screw

7. Bone

8. Jump someone’s bones

9. Smoosh (a la Jersey Shore)

10. Pork

11. The ‘ole heave ho

12. Fornicate

13. Bury the bishop

14. Hide the salami

15. Bump uglies

16. Tap dat ass

17. Bonk

18. Lay pipe

19. Make whoopie

20. Knock boots

21. Make sexy-time (Borat)

22. Roll in the hay

23. Pound

24. Hump

25. Smash (as in…”Imma smash that.”)

26. Schtup

27. Get your freak on

28. Fork (common side effect of spooning)

29. Get some ass

30. Get laid

31. Get some tail

32. Score

33. Copulate

34. Boff

35. Mate

36. Have relations

37. Get it on (Marvin Gaye style)

38. Do the horizontal boogie

39. Get jiggy with it

40. Slap skin

41. Beaver bash

42. Make babies

43. Do the no-pants-dance

44. Get one’s dick wet

45. Scrump (combo of screw + hump)

46. Plow

47. Part the meat curtains

48. Poon

49. Get it in

50. Make love

51. Run train

52. Pipe out

More to come as I think of them!

A few weeks ago, I did something I’ve never done before.

My friend Brian*, whom I’ve known for many years, came over for a much-needed hangout sesh. Between going off to school, working a part-time job, and managing his psychotic ex-girlfriend, Brian had only visited me sporadically over the last few months. He is a consistently reliable friend, and often helps me to decipher the perplexing promulgations of the male species when I find myself lost and confused. In turn, I have done the same for him, or at least tried, for the women he chooses to date are usually bat-shit crazy.

Since the beginning of our friendship, we always maintained a strictly platonic relationship. Although both of us admitted (under the influence of alcohol) to finding one another attractive, that’s as far as we ever ventured into the land of sexual tension and drunken mistakes. Truth be told, I never held any desire to sleep with him, mainly because I thought of him like a brother. During the first crucial months post-acquaintanceship, wherein which a friendship has the potential to become something more, we were both in committed relationships and, therefore, relegated each other to the proverbial friend zone. He was one of the only guys I’d been able to maintain a nonphysical connection with and I intended to keep it that way.

As Brian and I planted ourselves on my couch and cracked open a few beers, he began complaining about his aforementioned lunatic ex, who had been stalking his every move since their break-up. According to him, she had blacklisted his name on the dating market by threatening any girl who showed him the slightest interest with a slow, painful death. It was a depressing tale, and I tried to assure him that her jealous rampage would eventually pass and he would be back on the dating scene in no time.

“I honestly don’t think I can make it much longer,” lamented Brian, “it’s been nearly two months since I’ve had sex.”

“Ouch,” I thought. Brian, like most men, needed regular sex in order to not rip the heads off small animals and children. I could tell by the desperation in his voice that he was nearing his breaking point.

I offered up my condolences and shared with him that, I too was suffering from a gratuitous dry spell. He didn’t respond, but merely nodded, nonverbally indicating he understood my situation all too well. We stared off into space, shaking our heads, then simultaneously took another swig of our beers. We sat in silence, granting one another a moment to lapse into reverie, fondly remembering our last great lay or perhaps just pondering the meaning of life without sex.

“Do you wanna just…fuck?”

I heard the words, but could not figure out who had just said them. Surely, Brian could not have asked such a ludicrous question. He was my friend. Like a brother to me. Fuck? That would be like incest! Oh, no, no, no! But as I stared at him, my mouth hanging open and my internal shock reflected on my face, I could tell he was completely serious.

“Um…what?” I managed, after I regained the ability to speak.

“Seriously, Sam. I mean, we’ve known each other forever. You and I both need to get laid, and since we’re both consenting, adults, why the hell not?” he said pragmatically.

“But…what about…I mean…,” I stammered.

“Listen. It will mean nothing. We’ll just do it and go right back to being friends. Just once, and I promise I’ll never mention it again,” he said.

I found myself stuck in limbo between logic and animal instinct. Here was an attractive guy, offering me his penis for a one-time-use, no pressure, straight-forward roll in the hay. At the same time, he was my friend. He’d seen me cry over heartbreak, held my hair as I puked mercilessly into the toilet after one too many tequila shots, and once told me that, from behind, I kind of resembled his Aunt Beth. Then again, I had slept with men before without feeling anything for them. However, I had never had sex with a guy that I cared about, but was not sexually attracted to. My mind was spinning trying to resolve this conundrum.

“Sam. Come on. I’m practically begging you,” said Brian, a little more forcefully.

His words reminded me of the time we were in high school and he had bought an ounce of weed with his entire paycheck, despite owing his parents and several other people a lot of money. He returned home that night to find his mom had smashed his bong and was strip-searching his room on the hunt for more drugs and paraphernalia. He frantically called me and pleaded that I come over and take the weed for safekeeping until his mom’s rampage was over. I reluctantly agreed, despite all my better judgment. And now, Brian had yet again placed me in an equally precarious position.

I looked into his eyes, now gleaming hopefully, shook my head, took a deep breath and said…

“Fine.”

Brian laughed, as if he had always expected me to agree in the end. I resented this.

He put down his beer, and cautiously put his hand under my chin and drew it towards him. As he got nearer, I realized that I had never been this close to his face before. I could see the stubble of his five o’clock shadow forming and smell the faint scent of Axe lingering on his shirt. I wondered if he was also observing things about me he had never noticed before. And then, quite perfunctory, I was full on making-out with my best guy-friend.

I was surprised at how natural it felt to be kissing him. I half expected both of us to turn away after a few seconds with disgusted looks on our faces, like we were six years old and still believed members of the opposite sex had cooties. Despite the ease with which we fell into our new, one-time role as fuck buddies, I felt absolutely nothing. I was not quite turned on, but not quite turned off by him either. I wasn’t nervous, but I wasn’t relaxed either. It reminded me of snacking out of sheer boredom. You’re not hungry, but there’s really nothing else to do, so you eat.

And so we ate. Or something like that. I had accidentally seen Brian naked a dozen times, so I was not really shocked at seeing him bare it all, but I had also never viewed his body in a sexual way before. Experiencing him as a carnal being was similar to the feeling you get upon discovering someone you mildly respect voted to re-elect Bush in the ‘04 elections. Although you still like them, you can’t help but view all their subsequent actions, words, and decisions in a slightly different light. This was what it was like fucking Brian.

And then, just as I was starting to enjoy myself, it was over.

Unlike most guys, Brian didn’t apologize for not lasting longer. I wondered if it was just because it was me or if he was this shameless with all his conquests. We slowly got up and gathered our scattered items of clothing, courteously looking away as the other dressed (I always find this post-sex ritual the oddest. If two people can bump uglies, why can’t they comfortably redress in front of each other?). Once clothed, Brian extended his clenched hand for a congratulatory fist bump, complete with explosions, as if we had just won a game of beer pong. I laughed and went along with it, taking it as proof of Brian’s promise that things between us would go back to normal post-romp.

And then, rather naturally, we were right back where we started. We sat on the couch, drinking beers, talking about school, and exes, and complaining about classes starting again, until we realized it was snowing and he should probably head home before the weather got any worse. We hugged goodbye, vowing to get together again soon, and then he was gone.

I returned to the couch and watched the snow fall quietly outside. I wondered if what I had just experienced was the modern version of a unisex friendship. Like asking your friend to pick you up from the airport, or house-sit your dog, is asking for meaningless sex the new friendly favor? I suppose the consequences of our decision have yet to fully unfold, so we’ll just have to wait and see. But I think Brian and I just might be on to something…

Recently, I’ve been sleeping with a man I thought only existed in movies and fairy tales. Let me describe his kind: Besides having the sexual prowess of a lion in heat, these men are the world’s most selfless lovers. They will spend hours eating pussy, and fucking a woman just the way she needs to be fucked in order to reach the elusive “O”. They never orgasm first; rather, their top priority is getting their partner off. These men are goal-oriented, highly motivated, and won’t stop working until their girlfriend/wife/fuck-buddy has creamed their pants. Twice.

Ladies and gentleman, I have been lucky enough to snag myself an “eager-to-pleaser”. Please hold your applause and questions until the end.

Now, when I first realized the guy I’m screwing is a member of this rare breed, I was ecstatic. Although he is already quite skilled in the bedroom, he insisted on learning exactly what I like and how I like it. At first, I enjoyed our post-sex recaps because it gave me an excuse to relive the ecstasy, give him positive feedback, and fine tune my sexting skills. Yet, as is what happens with all things purely self-indulgent, I knew we were doomed to hit a road block. A few days ago, eager-to-pleaser and I were reviewing another phenomenal roll in the hay, when he confessed he found it difficult to hold out until I came first, since it “just seemed to take so long”.

I should have seen this moment coming, but like telling a child the tooth fairy doesn’t exist, I didn’t want to break it to him so bluntly. You see, I, erm…

Well…okay, perhaps I need a bit of a disclaimer. Readers, I’m about to share some personal information, so if you still want to view me in a professional manner, I suggest you fill your time reading another blog.

Ok. Here it is. Wait….waaaaitttt….alright. Fine.

True Life: I can’t have a vaginal orgasm.

GASP! The horror! Desecration! Hide ya kids, hid ya wife, because I just said something no female is ever supposed to admit publicly.

Unfortunately, it’s the God-awful truth, but let me be clear about what I mean. I am perfectly capable of having an O-moment. I can come from vaginal and clitoral stimulation simultaneously, being eaten out, (etc.), but if a man merely relies on the girth of his member to do the job…it ain’t happenin’. Trust me, I’ve tried every position, vibrator, and dildo, but I can’t orgasm from the old-heave-ho by itself. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as if the feeling is uncomfortable or painful. Quite the contrary, everything feels great, but the finale just isn’t going to end in fireworks. It’s not the way I’m built, and I’m perfectly fine with that.

The reason for my casual acceptance is simple: I know I’m not alone. In fact, I am in the majority. According to a 2009 study at Emory University, 75 percent of all women cannot orgasm from intercourse by itself, and 10-15 percent can never climax under any circumstances. It’s completely shocking, but totally true and several other studies conducted over the past decade have supported this claim. Kim Wallen, the professor who led the Emory experiment, gives a simple explanation for the results of the study. She says, “just as there are physical attributes that would prevent some people from ever becoming a concert violinist, or run the 100 meters in 10 seconds, there are attributes that make it unlikely that some women will ever experience orgasm from intercourse alone”.

If this really is the case, then why does it seem so surprising? I would argue that there are two sexual “norms” at play here, preventing women from getting what they want and men from knowing how to give it to us. The first is the expectation that sex ought to end with both partners orgasming. Perhaps this notion is a direct result of watching too much porn, or seeing sex on TV. With both mediums, there needs to be a tidy way to wrap things up, change scenes, or move forward, and the fastest way to do that is to have one of the characters blow a load. In real life, though, things don’t run so smoothly, but we still put the same performance pressure on ourselves and our partners. The point of sex might be physical pleasure, but if we focus too much on what we think should be happening to us, rather than what is happening, then the whole act is pointless. AKA It’s the journey, not the destination, man.

This leads me to the second issue; FAKING. There’s nothing I hate more than fake people, except fake people who fake orgasms. Maybe the real problem here is that women are too embarrassed to say exactly what pleases them, and as a result, men learn that banging their dicks in our vagina’s is the ultimate orgasm equation. So if you’re the kind of woman that continually pseudo-climaxes, please STOP NOW. You’re promulgating a lie that will affect the subsequent women your current man sleeps with, which isn’t fair to the rest of us. It’s the epitome of girl code. Not to mention, why would someone want to fake it for the rest of their life when, after a little explaining, they could be jizzing their pants every night? To be clear, I firmly believe that extenuating circumstances exist under which a “fauxgasm” is necessary, but if it’s happening on the reg, shit’s totally wack.

Like all men who hear my orgasmic revelation, my eager-to-pleaser insisted that he would be the one to break the cycle and thrust me, vagina first, into the land of climactic euphoria. Although I thoroughly enjoyed his enthusiasm, I had to be honest with both myself and him. Why should I try and mold myself into a stereotype about female sex that doesn’t apply to me? Why waste the time trying to fit a square-peg into a circular hole, when I know exactly where the peg does fit?  Contrary to popular believe, there isn’t “normal” way to have sex. It’s all about what’s normal and feels good for you. If your partner isn’t willing to do things your way, then it’s time to move on. Except I might be keeping mine for awhile, so all of you ladies will just have to wait your turn.

There’s something undeniably beautiful and empowering about a one-night-stand (ONS). Besides being an integral part of college life, ONS’s are the impetus behind frat parties, TFLN.com, thirsty Thursdays, and most importantly, my sex blog (KIDDING…sorta). The ONS is undiscriminating, unexpected, and relatively anonymous, which makes it one of the most thrilling past times for men and women alike. In contrast to hooking-up with a friend or crush, the ONS allows us to emotionally detach from the other person, let down our guards, and enjoy pure, animalistic sex in all its glory.

That is, unless you are a type I diabetic.

Like me.

I know, it’s shocking, especially because I’m so normal otherwise (HA). Truth is, I’ve been a diabetic for almost twenty years and, as a result, I must wear an insulin pump all day ‘err day. The pump is a small, beeper-like device that attaches to my stomach through a catheter. It keeps me alive and it looks exactly like this:

As you can see, it is completely unsexy and impossible to disguise. The device and the tubing can be removed for showering, sexing, (etc.) but the catheter (the white sticker-like patch) always remains. Thus, my one-night-stands come with a disclaimer; a nice, sit-down chat with the guy whose name I can’t remember, breaking down the basics of modern medical technology. Trust me, nothing kills the mood faster than having a chronic, incurable disease. Although being a diabetic is completely natural and normal for me, it isn’t to the randoms who suddenly find themselves buck-naked between my legs. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys casual sex, I’ve had to experiment with different ways of broaching the subject to my conquests, some of which work better than others.

For example, during my first year of college (a time when everyone’s ONS frequency undergoes a natural increase) I tried pretending my pump didn’t exist in the hopes that my sex partners would do the same. This didn’t work so well. Most men have seen enough naked female bodies to know that 12 inches of tubing protruding from someone’s belly isn’t exactly typical. Some guys have been kind enough to ignore this oddity mid-thrust and text me about it later (“Hey so what was that thing on UR stomach last night…R U sick or something?”). Others have outwardly admitted to being weirded out (“YO WTF IS THAT?”). Either way, I end up embarrassed and the guy ends up with a softy. Thus, denial or surprise as a strategy has proven to be an ineffective way of smoothly integrating my diabetes into my sex life.

Then came the second strategy; I decided the best way to avoid awkward ONS questions was to remove the catheter entirely. As I sexily slipped off my panties, I would also rip out the catheter, throw it to the side, and hope my conquest was none-the-wiser. For those of you dry heaving into your mouths right now, I assure you, there is nothing painful about this process (it’s like removing a Band-Aid). The only problem is that, post-sex, I can’t put the pump back on and, therefore, run the risk of getting sick. Thus, staying the night is completely out of the question and I’m SOL if I’m too drunk to stumble back to my dorm to insert a new catheter. After using this strategy a few times, I decided it probably wasn’t the smartest, not-to-mention a few guys found the catheter afterwards and questioned me about it. In the end, I decided the sloppy sex was not worth the possible health implications or trip to the hospital.

Eventually, I realized only one option remained: I had to be honest with myself and the other nameless humans I have fucked and will fuck. When I stumble into my room at 3 a.m., tearing off clothes and sucking face with another random, I make sure I press pause on the heated moment for just long enough to say, “I’m a diabetic. That’s what this is,” before discarding the pump and getting back to business. Usually, my ONS buddies are too drunk and horny to care. And so am I.

Here’s the whole point of my riveting tale about diabetes and drunken debauchery: I know I’m not the only person who has let an insecurity, perceived flaw, or handicap of some sort prevent them from embracing the impulsive, wild, uncontrollable nature of the ONS. Just because you have an awkward birthmark shaped like Italy on your back doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to get fucked by a rand-o any day of the week. Who gives a shit about the scar you still have on your thigh from that tricycle accident when you were three? You don’t need to lose ten pounds or get the hair on your arms lasered off to get laid. You don’t need to hide who you are or make excuses for why someone wants to sleep with you ( Ex: “He/She’s too drunk/desperate to realize I’m actually a __________”).  We are exactly as we are, and the ONS respects this. When an ONS opportunity falls into our laps, we have a right to ourselves, nature, and the rest of humanity to indulge.

So whether you’re a diabetic, a leper, a paraplegic (not funny. stop laughing.), or just insecure about how you look naked, you should know you’re entitled to have random, hot, drunk, sweaty, anonymous sex with anyone you want, whenever you want. As Lady GaGa would say, “just put your paws up. Because you were born this way, baby”.

Or as I like to say…go onward and fuck.

Now.

In the world of women, there is an unspoken, unwritten law, which exists purely as a precautionary measure against violent, slanderous, or embarrassing events such as gossip, rumors, or cat-fights. This law is more ambiguous than leggings-as-pants (are they fashionable or just an excuse to look semi-naked*?) and as untraceable as regional accents (i.e.;*nekkid vs. naked). This law is recognized by women across the United States from all backgrounds, races, and ages. This law is final and all-encompassing.

What am I talking about? Two words: girl code.

Back when we still brought lunch boxes to school, girl code was straightforward and unquestioned, mostly because we were too young to drink or be attracted to members of the opposite sex (or same sex, but I should forewarn readers this post is specifically targeted at boring heterosexuals). In the 21st century, however, the code has entered unchartered territory. In conjunction with new technology and increasing maturation rates for young girls (i.e.; why does that third-grader have boobs and a cell phone?) girl code has yet to affirm new laws for its devoted followers. What are we to do when our “friend” creates an “I Hate (insert your name here)” group on Facebook? Is it okay to date an ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend if you all now go to different colleges? Why does the girl who sits behind you in chemistry keep saying, “WINNING!” and are you allowed to punch her in the face? These questions, sadly, have yet to be answered.

Fortunately, I have taken the liberty of devising a college-girl’s guide to the most frequently questioned aspects of the code. Although I may not be able to answer all the aforementioned questions (yes, you can punch that Charlie Sheen-loving bitch in the face), I will do my best to decode the nuances of girl code and represent all that it stands for.

GC Rule #1: Chicks before dicks, unless….

The rules for dating and fucking men who have some connection (whether intimate or not) to one-or-more of your friends are phenomenally complicated. For this reason, I have broken up the rules according to the type of relationship held between your BFFL and the man you want to fuck.

Guys your friends have dated: It’s never okay to fuck or date a guy one of your friends once claimed to be in love with (or is still in love with, despite what she tells you). Even if the L-word was never dropped, it’s best to stand clear. No matter what your friend says to the contrary, she will get jealous, the friendship will become strained, and you will be swiftly ousted from your position as BFFL.

Guys your friends have fucked: If your bestie Rachel fucked Joe for all of freshman year, chances are he’s not up for grabs. A drunken one-night-stand with Joe, however, might make him available, but it’s best to double-check with Rachel first. A man’s degree of fuckability is all contingent upon your friend’s emotions toward the him, their history, and their (potential) future. Whatever is going on, if she doesn’t like it then back the fuck off.

Guys your friends are friends with: If the object of your desire is truly just a friend to your gal pal, then there’s no reason to ask permission. However, be careful how many details you share with her about your wild, kinky sex. Telling her how much he likes to have his balls licked might make it hard for her to have coffee with him the next day.

Guys your friends dislike: Sleeping with a man whom your friends dislike is somewhat acceptable, so long as you can handle their looks of judgment and spiteful comments for the next few weeks. Keep in mind, however, the reason for the dislike is imperative for your final decision. If the friends dislike him because he personally wronged one of them (i.e.; called them a fat, ugly, bitch) then you cannot, under any circumstances, suck, fuck, or handle that man’s penis. If alcohol has impaired your judgment and you end up doing the dirty, many apologies are in order.

**As a corollary to all above guidelines, it is also highly unacceptable to hang out with a friend’s boyfriend alone. It is only acceptable should your friend give permission, and if the hang-out sesh is in the company of two or more other people.

GC Rule #2: Exposing a secret to an unauthorized party shall result in public exile.

Girl code establishes that any personal information shared in the company of one or more girlfriends shall not leave that social circle unless specified by the secret sharer. The sharer can rightly assume that her friends shall honor this aspect of girl code without a reminder. Should one or more secret keepers break code and pass aspects of the secret onto unauthorized parties, said sharer shall be exiled from the social circle and/or ridiculed by other, more honorable, friends behind the exile’s back.

GC Rule #3: @statuschange #oooohburnnnn

Due to the accessibility of information on Facebook, nothing shall be posted that explicitly “outs” the drama between two or more girls. For example, if your friend borrowed your shirt and returned it with holes and stains, it is NOT okay to post a status saying: @bitchface: WOW u dirty whore, thx for ruining my fave shirt. I think its covered in herpes now, like your face.

However, it IS okay to say something passive aggressively bitchy such as: I really love all my wonderful friends who treat me and my property with love and respect! @awesomefriend#1 @awesomefriend#2 @awesomefriend#3 @awesomefriend#4 <33333333.

GC Rule #4: Ugly FB Pictures

Under no circumstances shall one friend tag or upload an ugly, unflattering, or fat picture of another friend on Facebook.

GC Rule #5: Insider information

Inside jokes are not to be shared with outsiders, even if they ask to be included.

GC Rule #6: It’s not you, it’s me.

When a friend is sharing a personal/funny/sad story, it is wrong to interrupt with a related story about yourself, especially if it involves use of the pronoun “I” several times in succession.

GC Rule #7: Keep your boyfriend out of it.

Friends with boyfriends have an obligation to keep their “couple talk” to a minimum around their single friends. It is impolite and tactless to begin every story with, “Me and my boyfriend….”. Also, refrain from going to your single friends for advice regarding insignificant relationship problems (Examples: you’re having too much sex, he likes you more than you like him, you can’t figure out what gift to buy him for Valentine’s Day, etc.).

Similarly, if a group of your friend’s decide to have a “Girl’s Night Out” that does not mean “Girls…plusyourboyfriend”. We really don’t care how jealous and insecure he is, he’s not coming.

GC Rule #8: Hate by association.

A non-friend (or male) who emotionally or physically harms one of your friends is, by association, now an enemy of yours. Should the hated individual “start shit” with your friend in your presence, it is your duty to defend her in any way you can.

GC Rule #9: How do I look?

If a friend asks you how she looks before going out, it is your sworn duty to be honest with her…..but not brutally honest. If her outfit is made entirely of denim (even Pauly D knows denim is out), then kindly suggest that, instead, she wear that pink halter top that makes her boobs look bangin’.

GC Rule #10: Guide her vagina.

Friends are supposed to help one another get laid. Whether that means talking your friend up in front of a group of guys, or introducing her to someone who might be her type. When both of you are working overtime to get the other some ass, there’s no way anybody can lose.

GC Rule #11: No low blows.

In no way, shape, or form shall a friend intentionally utilize personal information against another friend for the purpose of blackmail, guilt, spite, or revenge. For example, telling a friend who religiously goes tanning that she looks pale in order to make her feel insecure is just plain cruel and unnecessary.

GC Rule #12: Handle your liquor…and hers.

If you can down twelve red-headed-sluts without puking, then you’re a total champ. But if you know your friend, who gets drunk off two Smirnoff Ices, is trying to go shot-for-shot with you, kindly remind her that she’s a complete lightweight and should probably take it easy. If, for some reason, she manages to sneak a few past you and things take a turn for the toilet, it’s your job to hold her hair back as she vomits mercilessly into the Porcelain-God (no matter how cute the guy at the bar flirting with you was).

GC Rule #13: Female’s Unite (Girl Code to the Extreme)

In the event that a group of males attempts to harm, embarrass, womanize, or take-advantage of another woman, all females present must defend her regardless of whether they are friends with her or not.

GC Rule #14: He’s an asshole! But only I can say that.

When a friend comes to you bitching about how her boyfriend/sibling/parent (etc.) is being an ass-licking douchebag, your only job is to nod in agreement. Unless you know the person being bashed extremely well (or you were also hurt by that person), it is best to abstain from contributing to the discussion. To illustrate, we’ve all called our mom’s bitches, but the second a stranger calls our mom a bitch, we immediately get defensive.

GC Rule #15: I know I saw what I saw, but we won’t talk about it.

We’ve all witnessed our friends in compromising or embarrassing situations. Whether your friend drunkenly pissed herself in front of you or lost her bikini top at the beach, the kind thing to do is to ignore what you saw and never bring it up again.

There you have it. Girl code for the 21st century.

Learn it.

Love it.

Live it.