Huffpost Style

Featuring fresh takes and real-time analysis from HuffPost's signature lineup of contributors

The DC Damsel Headshot

I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman: Reasons A-E Why I Didn't Either

Posted: Updated:

It's hard to believe it's been 12 years since Slick Willy told a federal grand jury and the American people he didn't boff that chubby girl in the beret.

After seeing a news clip of Billy's infamous speech the other day, I couldn't help but think about my own sexual experiences with women, or a lack there of.

As all five readers of this blog know, I am no prude. And while I've never been into bondage (unless the occasional handcuff fantasy counts) or erotic asphyxiation, I've still been known to get my freak on from time to time.

I've had sex in an elevator.

Been on the giving end of a fair amount of road head.

Fucked a guy within the first 15 minutes of a first date.

I've been felt up in front of tourists on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial (doing in front of honest Abe would just be, well, wrong).

Been the lone female in a boy, boy, girl threesome.

You catch my drift.

I'm no porn star, but I'm still pretty fun at parties.

But after 32 years, one failed marriage, and an extremely respectable number of sexual partners (or depraved depending on who is asking), I have yet to have anything close to a sexual experience with another woman.

Not during a raucous slumber party in high school.

Or a particularly mind-blurring night smoking kind bud in college.

Never in the consoling arms of a girlfriend when my marriage broke up.

And not once when getting drunk with my gay boyfriends and their ridiculously cute lesbian friend who does research with rhesus monkeys at the NIH. (Seriously, the girl is adorable, wears baggy jeans and a wallet chain and can assemble furniture from Ikea or Best Buy like nobodies business).

And despite the fact that I'm an avid supporter of same sex marriage, listen to Melissa Etheridge and k.d. lang with all the angst of a lady in limbo, and played with my own tits from time to time, I've never longed to taste the upper (or lower) lips of another girl.

I'm an angst-filled, love-lorn, chick on the edge of heterosexual desperation, but no matter how hard I try, I can't ever imagine partaking in vagina pie.

Maybe women are too emotionally expensive (hat tip to the Restaurant Refugee).

Maybe I really hate the smell of vanilla and Summer's Eve in the morning.

Maybe I dislike the color pink and think women are sensitive, soft, and kind of dull to get drunk with.

Really, I can speculate until the cows come home and their utters stop milking. Regardless there are a few key reasons why bitches will never be my bag. Here they are, A-E:

A is for Adam's Apple: I've lived with these ovaries and fallopian tubes for 32 years now and as much fun as they've been, I have to say, I can't imagine dating another set of each. They are a hormonal bunch of organs. They bloat like balloons and demand inordinate amounts of chocolate every month. They have cost me some decent dough in silk undies from Victoria's Secret and honestly, a girl can only expend so many tissues on Sarah McLaughin themed-ASPCA commercials before she needs to buy stock in Kimberly Clark. I just can't imagine twice as many Tampax, Costco size bottles of ibuprofen, four sore boobs, and the kind of emotional overload that only comes with the square root of the double X chromosome. So, I'll stick with that damn knobby nodule that protrudes from the neck of Neanderthal Nathan and hope for a smaller monthly Chubby Hubby tab.

B is for Bitch: From the elementary school playgrounds of yesteryear to my cubicle colleagues of today, girl groups have always inspired a kind of blood curdling fear in the pit of my stomach. Women in numbers greater than one are notoriously mean. I'd rather run around with tampons stuck in my nostrils twitching and muttering about the parting of the Red Sea than endure the wrath of a collective chick click on a day I'm wearing an unflattering pair of skinny jeans. My mother, bless her heart, loves to prognosticate what will happen when my thirty-year-old sexually tinged friendships with boys evolve into forty-year-old relationships with married family men. God willing, my cirrhosis-lined liver will help me stumble towards my maker before the realities of a sewing circle filled future ever gets a chance to set in.

C is for Clooney: Even the most gorgeous girl can't get my gourd the same way George Clooney does on his most average of days. Not Angelina or Scarlet, Kate Beckinsale when she beefed up and played Ava Gardner in The Aviator, or even Beyonce when she got on her knees in that tight black number at this year's Grammys and pontificated like a gilded lioness what she would do if she was in fact, a boy.

D is for Dick: I really dig dick. White. Black. Big. Not quite as big. In me. On me. Sideways. And back around. An imperfect beast, with a mind all its own. They almost assuredly cum when you call them. And while healing isn't their strong suit, they can learn to obey if you're willing to put the time and effort into training them.

E is for Edification: In the end, as much as I bellyache about the ramifications of dating dudes, I really do adore their primitive ways. I like the ridiculous ways they attempt to relate to others. The sports metaphors and the way they stink after a workout. The way they muscle rather than reason through an argument. Their penchant for chili fries and blow jobs. The raw rather than the refined. The way they'd rather save than merely soothe. The way they will never remember the anniversary of the first time you kissed but they'll buy you jewelry nonetheless once you remind them how daft and unthoughtful they are. The way they look at you with passionate recognition when you deep throat a bacon cheeseburger on the first date. The way they'll oblige morning sex before you've had a chance to brush. The way they covet tits the size of the Sutter Buttes or the ones tantamount to Tibetan glory. And above all the way they'll wrap you in their arms, chubby or chiseled, and whisper promises in your ear, regardless of whether they're bullshit or bona fide.

"In the kitchen
in the shower
and in the back seat of my car
I'll hold you up
in your office
preferably during business hours
'cause you know how I like it when there's people around
and I know how you like it
yeah I know how you like it
I know how you like it when I tease you for hours" -Melissa Ferrick