Wholesome

I’ve screwed up a lot in my life. Some people would say I haven’t screwed up enough yet.  But most of those things ended up working themselves out.

Of course, I’m not one to talk. Last week, I didn’t write a blog because I was heading up to New York City to cover the Occupy Wall Street Protests. I got to know my classmates rather well during the course of a 19 hour day.

And I’m not talking about their favorite colors or their favorite food.

I’m talking more involved. On the way to the train station, we read an article about Lesbian sex.

 Dream theesomes, strangest sexual encounters, steamy hookups and just plain awkward walks of shame.

It seems like, when you spend that much time with people who you haven’t known forever,  all you want to know is what makes them tick.

And what makes them hot. 

So why is it, a few minutes after meeting someone our minds race to figure them out?

Or maybe it’s just me.

I’m the type of person who’s a pretty lousy liar. I don’t need to fake stuff to get people to like me.  That didn’t work the last few times I tried.

When it was my time to talk about my experiences, I was embarrassed.

Not because my encounters were so freaky a porno wouldn’t show , but because I didn’t have many.

My answers to some questions?

Weirdest place to have sex?

            A bed.

Kinkiest Fantasy?

            Being alone .

How many partners?

            One

Then they picked a word to describe me.

Wholesome. Perfect. Parent’s Dream.

When I think of the word “wholesome”, I think of a Midwestern beauty queen, or a slice of whole wheat bread. At least they weren’t calling me a prude, but I sure felt like one.

But not only did I feel like a prude. I felt pathetic because of my lack of sexual experiences.

A bunch of orgies, bondage, or hooking up with strangers just isn’t hot to me.

Not that I think there is anything wrong with enjoying sex.

But I do feel like a loser. After listening to their stories, I realized.

Damn, I am Wholesome.