Image jacked from GIS.

High Femdelity

Or, The Miseducation of Jennifer Brown

I’m going to preface this entire thing by saying that the phrase “sexual history” bothers my husband on the same level as the phrase “exquisite mouthfeel.” Naturally, I’ve been saying “sexual history” all day just to annoy him, and I was even going to go so far as to put it in the title of this here thingy, but I changed it after I figured out what this story wanted to be. I hope you enjoy my SEXUAL HISTORY, Medium. It has exquisite mouthfeel. It’s also set to music to get you in the mood, and for reasons which will be explained below. *eyebrow wiggle*

Much ado has been made of late, about whether millennials do, in fact, get busy (that last article from Vice makes more sense to me, as one of the resident millennial olds).

I decided to set the record straight with tales from my own love life. (My husband’s taken to dry heaving whenever I say sexual history.)

Millennials may have less sex than previous generations. I still have my doubts, but if we do, that sorta seems like a given…

‘Cause ya’ll fucked like bunnies.

At some point, if you’re a bunny, and you’re just laying that pipe for an extended period of time, you’re going to start running out of steam eventually. You’ll probably start to think, Jesus, I need a snack or something, maybe just some water, or a carrot, yeah I could really go for a carrot. Then you have a carrot and you hop back on dat ass. Then maybe someone invents bunny birth control, and there’s less baby bunnies running around everywhere, so you think, YAAAS! NO CONSEQUENCES. I SHALL KEEP FUCKING THIS OTHER BUNNY FURRREVER. But then you get tired again. Maybe you need some more snacks. Carrots only contain so much energy, you know. Maybe you’re just tired of that bunny and you want another bunny. Maybe you just want to watch other bunnies doing it on the Internet. Maybe you want to focus on your career in fucking up people’s gardens. Next thing you know, for future generations of bunnies, doing the dirt with other bunnies just isn’t their number one priority anymore.

That’s okay, right?


As I sat down and began writing this, I had to think about my argument.

Is it an argument? What’s my point? That it’s okay if we’re all a little slutty in our youth? That it’s okay if millennials are all, in fact, celibate “trophy-hungry automatons whose valorization of their own self-esteem impedes their ability to develop interesting personalities”? That millennials have been known to bone on occasion?

I realized a few things.

  1. There is no real point to me writing about my past relationships in the context of trying to defend or disprove any argument about the sex-lives of millennials. My personal sexual history only reveals whatever it reveals about me, not a group of randoms, so I may as well have fun with it.
  2. My own sessual story reminds me of one of my all-time favorite movies, High Fidelity, only with less John Cusack.

I’m examining my past relationships as I “go through one of those ‘what does it all mean’ things.”

High Fidelity also has one of the best soundtracks in existence, so this couldn’t be a true homage to that movie without the occasional track listing.

Each song I pick is meant to elicit a certain feeling about certain events or people.

As I was exploring the themes from the movie, what I was writing kind of morphed into a bit of a breadcrumb trail. There’s sex, there’s love, there’s self-reflection, and there’s a soundtrack. It’s the movie of my love life.

It’s High Fidelity in female form.

It’s High Femdelity.

And it’s too long to read all at once, so I’m going to serialize it here because you can’t stop me.


High School Sexcapades

Nothing embodies my high school sexual experiences more than Ginuwine’s Pony. The first time I ever had a dude grind up on me was to this song at a dance in my high school gymnasium. This song always makes me involuntarily scan my immediate vicinity for spying chaperones. Hands always wandered where they shouldn’t have when Pony was playing.

Michael

My first time was at 16, even though I tell everyone I was deflowered at 18. My brother went to the same high school I did, and he heard a rumor that, of course, I had denied, lest I be labeled a HOOER.

That rumor was true.

My cherry popped in the backseat of my old Honda Civic when I was 16. I don’t remember what was on the radio, but if losing your virginity was a song, it would be Do You Remember by Jarryd James.

The guy that took my v-card was named Michael.

He was not my first boyfriend.

I had a couple of boyfriends prior to him, and I did not even particularly want to have sex with him. I think I just wanted to have sex so I could figure out what all the fuss was about. Anyway, it was one of those Fast Times at Ridgemont High, “I immediately regret doing this with you” kind of situations, and we broke up pretty quickly after the deed was done.

I was an honors student, I was in Who’s Who, NHS, National Society of High School Scholars, I took AP classes, graduated with 12 college credit hours under my belt, and I was on the state-championship softball team. I was nowhere near what you would call an overachiever, but I was relatively well-liked, and after my awkward phase in junior high, my high school experience was pretty okay. I had to protect my reputation as a good girl, because reasons, I guess. So according to me, I would stay a virgin for two more years. The cake was a lie. I stopped being a virgin at 16, and I still graduated and everything!

My dad found the condom wrapper in my car. I denied that it was mine. In retrospect, he had to have known it was.

My mom took me to get the pill after the condom incident. She definitely had to know.

I sincerely doubt I fooled either of my parents.

I would lie to both of my parents about sex for years and years. We still never talk about it sometimes. Sex isn’t something you really talk about in a half-Catholic-half-Baptist household. It’s something you lie about, repeatedly. Then that opens you up to repressing it, and feeling guilty about it forever.

I would say that your teenagers, if you have teenaged children, are probably all lying to you about how much they’re having sex, or whether they’re having it or not in the first place, but you might already know that. Then again, maybe they really are having less sex. Who knows? This is just my experience, but dollars to donuts after reading this a few of you will go snooping.

All told, in high school I only had sex with one guy, one time. I fooled around with a lot of guys. I was mostly just learning things… blowing… guys… okay I was learning how to blow guys. Happy? I mean, it wasn’t 37 dicks or anything. It’s not like I was in band.

I like to mix up my movie references to keep people on their toes.

I just… you know… hung out around hockey players sometimes.

If I had to guess, it was like… 5? Maybe 5 dicks?

Okay mebbe I was a bit of a hooer. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Anyway, the first guy that really taught me my way around a peen, was Justin.

Justin

Justin’s song would be Every Other Freckle by alt-J.

I was right around 17 when we went on a trip to Yellowstone, and I discovered what “my type” of guy was. It was love at first sight for me when I first set my eyes on a rugged bearded outdoorsman by the name of Tyler. He was our whitewater rafting guide.

Alas, my love was unrequited.

He was quite a few years older than me, and married, and also I never told him how I felt because I was only around him for about four hours.

But I came back from that trip knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I lusted after bearded mountain men with the fiery passion of a thousand loins. (Later I would marry one.)

When I first met Justin, he was barefoot and he was playing a guitar. It was stupid hot, but also a weird thing to do in the parking lot of a Sonic.

So okay, mebbe I didn’t just like mountain men, maybe I also liked musicians.

He was tall, and babyfaced, so at first I wasn’t that interested. I had just discovered the importance of facial hair in my desirable qualities matrix, but he wouldn’t leave me alone until he pulled my digits. I succumbed to the barefoot guitarist as only a relatively inexperienced rollerskating carhop can.

We dated for an entire summer.

We were off again, on again. He was in college, and I was still in high school. Things being what they were, neither one of us really knew what we wanted, so we broke up a lot.

But, we were active with the tomfoolery, which was why I always got reeled back in. We only did mouth-to-mouth on each others’ nethers. The downtown, the subtropical region, the dance of the pants. I learned A LOT.

When a man puts his penis in your face for the first time, you kind of know what to do, but you also kind of don’t. Justin was my guide. He taught me how to give the oral mouth pleasures. He taught me that blow job doesn’t mean you literally blow on it until it goes away. You don’t ever forget your first beej.

We broke up for good after a trip to Six Flags, like I imagine so many people do, and that was that.

Ohhh high school sex and lies. I wish there was videotape. Le sigh.


Stay tuned for the college years folks. Things get weirder.