compiled by Brian Peters

The indubitable existence of Bad Sex (capital letters, no smile) is a Web staple. We have books about it (e.g. Celibacy Is Better Than Really Bad Sex: And Other Rules for Singlewomen), we have Salon reporting on the English Bad Sex Prize ceremony, and we even have articles advocating it. If that weren't enough, you probably can't listen to radio, watch television, or read a newspaper without seeing snide (and perhaps jealous) references to that profitable plague of teaser-porn Web sites that Asia Carrera calls "banner filled circle jerks." Surely that's proof that Bad Sex is alive and profitable among us.

Then, just as Bad Sex seems transmuted into a Universal Truth, we have one of our resident Clean Sheets iconoclasts questioning its very foundations. In "The Year of Fucking Badly" Susannah Indigo suggests that there just isn't any such thing as "bad sex." Oh sure, there's boring sex. She even concedes that there are bad relationships, bad breakups, even bad love. But after diligent and selfless personal research, she's unable to find bad sex.

Startled by this revelation, we went to the experts to find whether the cherished institution of Bad Sex was indeed a baseless myth. And those experts turned out to be -- well, us, actually. So below, arranged by category, are the answers we received.

Anecdotes

Bad Sex is when your girlfriend wants to get into blindfold play so she doesn't have to look at you while you're having sex.
--Sam.

I guess I define bad sex as sex I regret the next day -- and there hasn't been much of that. The worst one, though, was the time I picked up two guys in a bookstore (one French, one American). When I brought them home, not only were they so homophobic that we couldn't even come close to fulfilling my two guys at once fantasy, but the Frenchman actually argued with me about putting on a condom! Sheesh! The sex was okay, but really not worth the trouble.
--Mary Anne.

The worst sex I can remember was after an Oktober Fest party at a Catholic boy's residence. For some strange, drunken reason I brought this Catholic cowboy home with me. I think he was a little too repressed and far too used to bull-riding. He climbed on top and basically tried to pummel me to death. I tried to suggest something else, but he told me that missionary was the only "approved" position. He actually said "approved!" To make matters worse, he lasted for *much* longer than the expected 8-seconds. I was thoroughly bruised the next day and I have not even considered bringing a cowboy to bed since.

Yeah ... I still cringe.
--Laura.

I think the worst sex that I have ever had was on senior prom night. I had finally decided to try it (without being forced to) and found that the guy lasted fifteen minutes. The first 14 and a half minutes he spent trying to find where he was supposed to put the darn thing, 20 seconds trying to actually get it in, and the other ten weren't even worth mentioning. Oh, I guess I did huh?

Well, all it took was two moves and he lost it. I just sat there looking like... "Um... you're not done yet are you?" blink blink I did give him another chance, but he still proved to be a looser. I have since met guys that had problems with keeping it up, and have worked with them to build up their stamina. It paid off, but that first time? Dang! What a disappointment.
--Annabele.

The sex itself was not bad, but it was definitely a bad idea.

At one point in our lives my husband and I always seemed to be on the road. We would often find ourselves, in the middle of a long trip, desperately looking for a place to have sex.

Once, at some absurd hour like 3AM, we were driving north from Boston on Route 93 when we decided we absolutely had to do it.

My husband pulled the car onto an exit ramp. We had a very old BMW with seats you could recline nearly level. We went at it for some time, right there on the ramp.

I'm looking at a map, trying to recall which exit that was. Derry, New Hampshire, perhaps?
--Naomi.

My biggest all around turn-off, thus qualifying as "bad sex", is when I am in a situation where the woman just has no skill or enthusiasm whatsoever. Kind of like she has the attitude that just being there as a "receptacle" is enough. I had thought that this attitude was a result of "not putting enough into it" on my part, but that did not turn out to be the case at all. The foreplay was awesome and the passion was sweaty and loud. But when the event escalated to penetration, the woman went slack and just laid there. Sure, she was moaning- "do me, do me, fuck me hard," but she didn't move a muscle. No rising and pumping back or anything! That disturbed me so much that I almost lost my desire to continue. But I did, anyway --it was just not what I'd hoped for, especially considering that the passion was so blasted high.

On a happy note, the woman I've been married to for the last 20 years is a "mover and shaker" in the sack.
--Rick.

Motion Sickness

Ah, the worst sex. I remember, amazingly enough. And it was all my fault.

Ran across this guy in a bar, an acquaintance (i.e., same circle of friends) but I didn't know him well. There was a lot of beer, and gin. Maybe tequila too. Talking leads to this and that. I took him home with me, got him naked in bed. Beautiful man, wonderfully endowed. My eyes were as big as saucers. Lucky me, I think, as I climb aboard. All was well until...that motion. Man. Motion Sickness. I flung myself to the floor, staggered/crawled to the bathroom and puked. Gads. I was so sick. But he was a sweet guy, and very sympathetic, took care of me. Once assured that I would live (and of course I renewed myself with shower & toothbrush) he took me back to bed and proved that size does matter. We dated for 9 months until he broke up with me to marry his "ex" girlfriend. I've never since found a guy who could truly fill the void he left . . . (wink wink nudge nudge)
--Isabelle.

And then there was the time Mikki and I went to a bar where some friends of ours were performing in their band. I went home with Tony, who I sometimes has small trysts with. Again, I had been drinking -- beer instead of hard alcohol -- but I was still fairly in control of myself (that is, not trashed, just tipsy).

Tony and I climbed onto his waterbed, where we made waves with our making out. We had sex for awhile with me on top, but he was having trouble coming. After a bit, we stopped fucking and pulled the condom off so I could give him a blow job.

I don't know if it was the taste of latex, or the beer sloshing around in my stomach, or sea-sickness from the waterbed, but all of the sudden I threw up -- all over his crotch!

How embarrassing!

He was sweet enough -- he got some towels and he cleaned up and changed the sheets while I apologized profusely. He wasn't interested in anything sexual after that, and he held me and soothed me while we fell asleep together.

Actually -- that one turned out pretty sweet. But, oh god, the horror of barfing on your lover! And I consider myself fairly skilled in the oral arts! Just goes to show you, it can happen to anyone!
--Heather.

If I'd Only Known

I was at Lothlorien, a nature santuary in Southern Indiana. I was 20 years old. This particular festival was being held over Halloween weekend, so it was very cold and there were maybe 20-40 people (as opposed to the 2- 3 hundred that show for the warmer events).

My friend, Mikki, and I were hunched around a campfire, drinking Southern Comfort to keep warm. As I got drunker and drunker, I started noticing this attractive man across the circle. He had long, dark hair and piercing eyes and he reminded me of an Indian brave. He was noticing me, too, and I swear he was calling to me -- mentally -- from across the circle.

I don't know what possessed me to "obey" his call, but it was too romantic and mystical an idea for me to brush off as silly. I was also very trashed by then.

When he got up to leave, so did I. I told Mikki I had to go pee, and I stumbled off through the woods after the mysterious Indian.

He was waiting for me outside the privies.

"Why did you follow me?" he asked.

"You told me to."

He nodded. "Good."

This was perfect - I felt like there was really something between us, you know? My next question was: "Do you have condoms, or should I run back and get some?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself; I don't know that we're gonna sleep together yet."

This only reassured me, and I eagerly followed him back to his "home" which was made up of some plastic stretched over the end of a shed that was probably falling down. We had what must have been wild sex between two zipped together sleeping bags.

In the morning, he was still all over me, waking me up with kisses and telling me how I was so uninhibited, wild, beautiful and how we'd have to figure out who was going to move so we could be together (we lived at least 2 hours apart). He wanted to have sex again - right then.

I said yes, in a minute, but I was hung over, cold and bewildered. I didn't remember anything after following him into his "home". The level of commitment he was expecting was scaring the hell out of me, and I was beginning to realize my magical "call" was the call of alcohol to do stupid, ill-thought-out things like fuck a stranger.

"I have to throw up." I said, and struggled into my clothes and outside into freshly fallen snow.

I don't know how many of you have ever been hung over while camping in the snow, but it's truly miserable, let me tell you. I was at the pump, trying to drink water without getting wet (and failing). I was hot and cold, dirty and sore and my head was pounding. Crying pitifully, I made it back to my own tent, where I had to unearth Mikki from the mound of snow that had covered her (and was keeping her warm).

Mikki was furious with me -- she had been very, very worried.

Other people were waking up, and some kind crone whipped up some hangover cure.

I know -- this sounds like your usual morning-after-a-drunken-one-night-stand story. It's the epilogue that's scary . . .

The next spring, that same Indian guy who I had trysted with was kicked off the Land (ie Lothlorien) because he was caught sexually molesting drunken, underage (like 13 -14 year old) girls!

I was totally sober when I heard this, but I was soon barfing in the privies anyway. I never told anyone my story, and I'm just hoping no one there ever finds out.

I have never, ever been so horrified over a sexual experience. This new development (and I wonder how "new" it was) made the whole memory something I can't think about without shuddering. That someone so vile was *inside my body* makes me want to shower with boiling water.
--Heather.

Environment Matters

We spent a week on a three-masted schooner sailing California's Channel Islands. Our little stateroom aboard *The Invader* had two bunks; the upper held a blushing young Canadian woman; every night we made love, aware of her, inches above our heads, pretending to be asleep. We tried to be quiet, and discovered the effort was an intense aphrodisiac. By the time we left ship in Santa Barbara we were exhausted from our week at sea and crazy horny.

We drove north into clouds on the Coast Highway. At dusk we turned up a narrow rutted road. We found a dry wash, the only place we could pull off the road and throw down our sleeping bag. We snuggled in just before dark, instantly asleep.

In the wee hours of morning, we felt the first patter of rain.

"The tent," my wife said.

"Mmmmm," I said, not quite awake, snuggling closer. It wasn't really raining hard enough to worry about, my sleepy brain insisted. We kissed.

The rain intensified. So did we. We threw the bag half off, tangling in athletic, noisy sex. It rained harder. We fucked harder, kissing and slapping together in the streaming night.

"Water," my wife said.

"Mmmmm," I said.

"No, no. In the gully!"

But we were lost in lovemaking. The rain sluiced down. The creekbed began to gurgle. Our already-drenched bag filled at the foot with cold, muddy water. The worse it got, the harder we fucked, exorcising a week of repression. We groaned. We roared. We panted. In the drenching downpour, half-immersed in the reborn creek, we rolled and thrashed, gasped and laughed.

We didn't stop until first light, until the creek washed us and our bag halfway across the little road.

We staggered up, covered with mud. We sponged off as best we could in the pounding rain, squeezed mud and water out of our shapeless bag, pulled on spare clothes, and drove north into the sudden summer storm.

We've never been more content.
--Bill.

Many years ago, when I was young and just barely in college, I went to visit a friend in her new apartment. Faith had moved out of her parents' house when she got tired of her mother's European autocracy, and had moved in with an older woman she'd met at school. Beth, the roommate, was a former stripper, married multiple times, currently single, and she was encouraging Faith to "explore men" now that she was out of her parents' home, in spite of the fact that Faith was engaged to be married to a good friend of mine, and said she was monogamous.

I arrived mid-afternoon on a blazingly hot August day, and after being introduced to Beth -- who was sitting on her bed, naked, playing solitaire and watching television -- Faith and I settled into her room, right off the kitchen, to catch up. Periodically Beth would walk by, still stark naked, to stir the spaghetti sauce that was simmering and making the kitchen a sweathouse and filling the entire apartment with the smell of not-quite-scorched tomato paste and bell peppers. This was my first exposure to someone who had no body modesty, and I didn't quite know what to do with my eyes -- other than look at her face. I remember her body was lush and rounded without being fat, and she took great delight in showing, at one point, that she could still twirl the tassels in different directions.

This guy named Dan arrived, a guy Beth was encouraging Faith to be with -- short, stocky, long dark frizzy hair, beard. We went for drinks, then. Dan finally decided he was hungry and bought some clams, with much leering and commentary about how he just loved clams, their smell, their taste, and especially what they look like.

Back at the apartment, he chattered constantly in double-entendre and innuendo about the clams, standing over the pot, watching the clams cook. He soon got overheated and took his shirt off. Faith and Beth and I ate spaghetti while he shucked and ate the clams, and I got more and more annoyed with his manner and attitude.

After dinner, Beth retreated back to her bedroom and her television, while Faith and Dan and I settled down on Faith's bed -- a mattress on the floor. Out came a bottle of alcohol, and I was introduced to the "7 and 7" -- apparently the regular drink of Faith and Dan, who proceeded to get mildly sloshed. I watched as he kept snuggling up to her and nuzzling her neck, and she pushed him away less and less effectively, until suddenly she turned and said to him, "why don't you kiss her for a while?"

I've never ever been one to demand relationship before sex; I was just drunk enough to be horny and not to care about the fact that I was unlikely to see Dan ever again. And he certainly had looked like he knew what he was doing. So I snuggled up to him and enjoyed necking with him, as long as I ignored the unsubtle smell of clams that wafted from his furry chest. In the course of things we were all naked, but we weren't quite a threesome; Faith and I were laying a bit apart on the floor, and Dan would be laying over her, nuzzling and nibbling and slowly starting to hump. Then she would say something that sounded like "No, no, go to her. She has protection." and he would come over and do the same to me - slowly getting me aroused, and all the while rubbing his dark-furred chest over my face, smothering me in the smell of steamed clams. And then stop, mid-stream, and go back to her.

Over and over this happened, for hours. I was lightly nauseous, somewhat drunk, and smothered in the smell of steamed clams. He would pay enough attention to me to get me heated up and wanting cock inside me, then he would slowly crawl off me and go to her, until she pushed him away and sent him back to me I remember feeling upset and depressed that he didn't want me, confused that she was doing this, intensely aroused and frustrated, and gagging on the overwhelming smell of clams. I know I didn't orgasm, and I'm pretty sure he didn't cause I remember him leaving in a huff just after daylight, and it was all very frustrating.

To this day I still get nauseous at the mere smell of clams.
--/amq.

The One(s) That Got Away

The sex I regret I didn't try? When I used to work as an exotic dancer, I met this greek man, handsome, charming, older, and we went to his place. He got in bed waiting for me while I freshened up (dancing can make you really want a shower first) and when I came out of the bathroom, saw him laying there on the bed naked with an erection that must have been at least three inches wide (and I am not talking around.. but wide) and 12 or more inches long. All I could see was a small aluminum baseball bat attached to him where his dick should have been. My jaw dropped, my legs got weak, and I grabbed my clothes and on the way out the door screamed "Your not going to touch me with that thing!" Now I wish I had! Ah well . . . I always wonder what it would have been like. Live and learn huh?
--Annabele.

I was in lust the minute I saw him. Apres-ski at Vail, everybody slightly toasted, good music, lots of laughter, and his eyes, on mine. A burgundy ski sweater, a full beard, a way of dancing real close and fine, dirty dancing through the layers of our warmth. An invitation to come back to his condo for the night, followed by my standard hard-to-get flirt at the time of "maybe later, call me." He left with his friends, my phone number in his wallet. I knew we would both meet back in Denver, probably within a day or two, and live happily-ever-after, at least in the bedroom, which I planned on never leaving. I drove down the mountain on Sunday higher than the altitude, smiling all the way, picturing him naked and me on his lap wrapped around his waist, falling, just falling in lust and in love . . .

He never called.

Lost phone number? Girlfriend in town? I'll never know. But a simple "yes" that night could have changed my life, of this I am sure . . .
--Susannah.

I was a hod carrier, building San Francisco's soaring Embarcadero Center. One of my great loves had left me not long before, and I was living a life of heavy labor, greasy pizza, and sleep, not seeing friends, not getting laid. I was down, deep, lost in the big city.

One day at five, filthy with plaster and fireproofing, I left the job. As I came through the gates I locked eyes with an extraordinarily beautiful woman, across the street in the stream of office workers. The connection was electric. She stared, lips half-parted.

My nerve failed. I stumbled off in the other direction; out of the corner of my eye I saw her stop, cross through heavy traffic, and stride after me. My heart hammered. Soon she was directly behind me. Panicky, I dodged into one of the little bakeries that dot the financial district. She followed.

We stood shoulder to shoulder in the press of customers. My knuckles were white on my lunch box. I smelled her hair, heard her quiet breathing. I had only to turn to speak to her.

Without a single glance in her direction, without a word, I bought my cookie and fled.

I looked every day for months, longing, but never saw her again.
--Bill.

Afterword