Remember yesterday when we talked about what men think when you see them nekkid?  Today, it’s women.  Let’s see what other side thinks, hmmm?

WOMEN
1. Please don’t point out that my boobs slip over into my armpits when I lay on my back. The only women with tits that point straight up are ones with implants or have superpowers which defy the principles of gravity—and it was either get implants or pay off my student loans. Besides, if they aimed straight up, you’d put your eye out on them.  Here on Earth, Pilgrim, we have gravity. Deal with it. Hint: You are lucky to be seeing them at all. If you want to have a hope in hell of actually holding/touching/feeling them, please refrain from any comparisons to Miss October.
2. If you jokingly comment that our stretch marks look like a scenic roadmap to Albuquerque, you will be getting off at the next exit—and you will be getting off alone. Ditto for any visible veins or wrinkles. In the real world, there’s no such thing as airbrushing or Photo Shopping. Besides, you wouldn’t want us to suggest it might be time to invest in some Grecian Formula for those pubes of yours, now would you?
3. Brazil is a country in South America. A Brazilian is someone who comes from there. Until we develop eyes between our legs, if you prefer to go down to that delta only if it’s 100 percent defoliated, you’ll have to apply for a gardening permit and be properly vetted. (Yes, there will be a test.)
4. My belly is not concave. You cannot sip champagne from its gentle curvy dip. I know damn well it doesn’t look like Angelina’s. Yours doesn’t look like Brad’s, either. Don’t point it out to me, and I won’t point it out to you.
5. If we let you leave the lights on, it means that we’re trusting you to not stare in horror or amusement at our bodies. Kindly show our bodies the respect that they’re about to earn by giving you a fantastic roll in the hay. Because if you don’t, at best, you’ll be kicked out of the hay, and at worst, we’ll let you keep going—but lose every damn bit of our enthusiasm, so instead of a hot, nasty time, it will be about as much fun as making it with a zoned-out mackerel.

If there’s anything that we can all, every one of us, count on, it’s that in one way or another, we all seem to suffer from some form of poor body-image. This  shamefacedness plays itself out most when it comes to sex—particularly when it comes down to those crucial moments of disrobing. So what DO we think about when you see us naked—especially for the first time?

MEN
1. I am doughy and I am pasty; i.e., I do not possess rock-chiseled washboard abs, nor am I an oily, glistening muscle-man. I am, however, rife with enough Star Wars jokes to make one think I was born from an unfilmed Kevin Smith screenplay.

2. Whether or not I believe in evolutionism is something of a moot point, as the abundance of hair on my body is a surefire directional sign back to my simianesque ancestry. Please do not be offended; furthermore, please do not ask what past crimes of morality I have committed which have forced me to seemingly wear eleven hairshirts. Also, please do not call me Chewbacca. It hurts my feeling. (Yes, I only have one.)

3. Like Calphalon, I too have handles. Problem is, they reside on either side of my midsection—what the general public affectionately refers to as ‘love handles’. I can assure you, they have never been handled with love.

4. While I believe in the Second Amendment, I must confess to you that I have no guns. My arms are, at best, like overcooked linguine. When I flex, I look like a latticework of noodles cooked just past al dente. And while I do not possess guns, I do possess the dreaded “moobs.” When I take my shirt off, it looks like an IHOP waitress dropped a stack of soggy pancakes on my chest.

5. You’re going to have to see my pee-pee. I’m assured that I’m well within the range of “average” as far as penis size goes; however, I am greatly disinclined to believe this. I’ll show it to you because I really want to put it inside you—but please don’t laugh or make sad bunny faces at it.

For more than three decades, the Star Wars movies have served as a cultural touchstone—whether you were around for the first batch, or if you were unfortunate to grow up with Jar-Jar lunchboxes, there’s no getting around Star Wars, like death and taxes, being an inescapable fact of life. And, like it or not, it’s even managed to sink into our sexual consciousness. And thus, we now present to you the most important bits of sexual wisdom learned from the sprawling, Ewok-addled brain of Mr. George Lucas…

10. No, you CAN’T change him—even if he’s a Jedi.

In Star Wars Episodes II & III, Padmé has sex with Anakin. And, from what we’re led to believe, lots of sex. Enough, at least, to produce Carrie Fisher and Mark Hamill. Um, Padmé, you did see the original trilogy, right? Okay. So you are aware that he’s gonna turn into Darth Vader, right? Okay, okay—we get it—you think you can change him. Well, not so much. In fact, he’s gonna knock you up, then kill all the Jedi, then choke you to death. And THEN turn into Darth Vader. And blow up the planet of one of your kids. And then cut off the hand of the other one. The moral of the story, ladies, is not that absolute power corrupts absolutely—it’s that a dick is a dick is a dick.
9. The fetish that will not die, no matter how many drug addiction confessionals Carrie Fisher may write.

A generation—okay, THREE generations of boys grew up fantasizing about girls in metal bikinis. And the women in our lives tell us it’s not funny anymore – those things are cold, ill fitting, and evidently fridge magnets stick to them, which means when their guy partners are drunk, they want to make dirty words with the kid’s plastic magnetic letters.
8. Chewbacca as the world’s first furrie.

Why didn’t we ever see Chewie with a partner? And did the Ewoks just dance around a lot, or were they having hot fur-on-fur action behind the scenes? Ah, sweet mysteries of faux fur costumes…
7. Don’t get sand (or Lando) in your hentai vagina.

We don’t know about you, but if we were intergalactic mob bosses, and we were going to execute some pesky, do-gooder Rebels, we probably wouldn’t go to all the trouble of throwing them into a giant sandy vagina, a.k.a., the Sarlaac Pit.

Where do we even start with this one? Over the years, philosophers and internet nerds alike have postulated as to what the Sarlaac Pit’s true purpose was:

a. the vagina dentata

b. the humble beginnings of tentacle porn, a.k.a. hentai

c. George Lucas’ own Freudian fear of commitment, women, and vaginas
6. C3P0 single-handedly set back the gay rights movement by 20 years.

It’s not much of a secret, that way back in the dark ages of the early 1970s, gay and lesbian characters in Hollywood were largely (okay, totally) stereotypical. But then, the auteurs’ scene of the mid-‘70s started to make some strides forward. And then George Lucas had to go and create the gayest robot since Robby.

And not only that, but he was also obviously the fussiest bottom EVAR—I mean, look how many pop-out parts R2-D2 had: if he needed to fly—boing!—out came rockets. If he needed a Bud Light, out came a bottle opener. And when he needed some, er, ‘Goldenrod’, he popped out a…you get the idea.

But we’ll leave our biggest piece of evidence to Threepio himself: “I am fluent in over 8 million forms of communication”—including gay robot sex.
5. Dildos as haute couture.

When you go back through all 6 movies, you’ll find that approximately every third character is shaped exactly like a dildo: Stormtroopers, Clonetroopers, Boba Fett, Jango Fett, Darth Vader—they’re all giant dildos. They brought, in fact, a whole new meaning to the term “dickhead”.
4. Polyamory in a galaxy far, far away.

Until the 2/3 mark of Return of the Jedi, Luke, Leia and Han existed in what can only be retroactively described as a poly vee relationship. Leia made out with nearly everybody, except for poor Lando. Rumor has it that even this guy got a piece. (

And then things got weird. And not in a safe-sane-consensual sex positive sorta way, either. Which brings us directly through Hyperspace to…
3. Incest fantasies from a galaxy far, far away.

If you grew up in the age of the Original Trilogy (pre-Special Editions), your recollection of the films’ primary relationships probably goes something like this:

a. Hey, Leia likes Luke

b. Hey, Luke likes Leia

c. Hey, Han kinda likes Leia

d. Hey, Leia really does like Luke

e. Han’s a dick—he totally likes Leia

f. Oh noes—Leia is heartbroken

g. But there she is making out with a handless Luke 10 minutes later

e. Hey, Luke and Leia are…related?!? ‘Scuse me while I go throw up a little.

Yeah. Return of the Jedi nearly stunted the budding sex lives of many Gen-Xers.
2. Carbonite-freezing as a metaphor for erectile dysfunction.

Just as Han’s being lowered into the Carbon-Freezing Chamber, Leia calls out to him, “I love you!” Han pauses briefly, and answers, voice a little unsure: “I know.” Many take this as Han’s inability to commit. We on the other hand see a deeper and more meaningful picture—when Leia professes her love, she heaves her bosom forward; Han, knowing that he is incapable of producing an erection, is stymied.
1. If you join a club where there’s no sex allowed, chances are good that the entire galaxy will burn.

Let’s look at the evidence: the Jedi Knights were the arbiters of peace and justice. But apparently not of nookie—the Jedi by-laws forbade what they so euphemistically called ‘attachment’. Upon further examination, take a close look at all the Jedi. Did any of them look particularly happy? No. In fact, they sure were a grimacing bunch, with everyone looking all good and goddamned frustrated. Oh yeah, and then the galaxy burned down. Lesson: sex can preserve democracy. Ask Bill Clinton.

In the annals of life, love, and sex, there is one burning question on the lips, loins, and limbic receptors of all homo sapiens: Is my sex life normal?

Men—who have sex with women, with each other, with transgendered people, with blow-up dolls, with Realdolls, with Tenga-brand onacups, with left hands and right hands, with mottled old pillows, with glory holes and holes of ill repute; and even with the occasional apple pie (easy on the cinnamon)—are all sure that they aren’t having enough sex, or the right kind of sex, or even the wrong kind. And that’s not even taking into account the question which sucks at the heart of every man like a newly-created black hole: Is my junk big enough?

And women …well, they aren’t much better off. Just substitute “Rabbit’ for “onacup,” “dildo” for “mottled old pillows,” and “breasts/labia/bottoms” for “junk.”

So, just what is normal for sex in this century and how do your own exploits measure up? Well, that’s kind of why we’re here. Bear in mind, we’re not Masters & Johnson (though between the staff, we all have a distinct appreciation for both masters and johnsons…some of us more so than others), so don’t take this too seriously—even though we know that 48 percent of you will feel depressed after you see how you rank, and 12 percent of you will be ashamed that you’re so much more active than everyone else—and that’s not counting the 22 percent of you who will stop reading this halfway through to go rub one out (at least according to the statistician who told us that 94 percent of all data can be manipulated). To understand what is “normal” one must first negotiate the landscape.

In the 21st century, the Internet serves as an echo chamber for sex; the problem is that, after the first few echoes, what one is often left with is wild opinion, a lack of depth, and a vagueness of thought and soul. The Web also offers, in the drollest possible sense, a superfluity of intercourse. It’s a downward tracking snowball of quantity and “right now kthxbye.” We’re living in a world of faster-is-better, more-more-more, give-it-to-me-now that is inherently at odds with what good sex is really about: knowing our bodies and our brains, and feeding them tidbits of delicious morsels that satisfy our need for more—without feeling hungry an hour later. The sheer amount of information, however, is mind-boggling. Bombarded as we are by enough sexual stimuli on a daily basis to level Detroit—or maybe Pittsburgh—how can one chart an un-boggled course?

Well, if you are us, you launch an Internet sex magazine. (No, really.) But rather than trying to shock with higher voltage, screech with louder voices and sink to the lowest common denominator, you bolster its contents with the work of savvy writers who take sex positive to a whole new level, who don’t think that plausible sex education stops with the phrase: “…and that’s how babies are made.” Writers who believe that sex is as much about society, fashion, politics, religion and communication as it is about inserting the tab of your choice into the slot of your desire; writers who aren’t going to buy into the latest fad, who will deconstruct the old advice—and call foul whenever necessary.

So, what is normal? There’s no such animal.

So, to cadge Yeats, for those of you vexed by the prospect of “what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards the Internet to be born?” Relax. Unboggle. Free your mind, and the body will follow. Our mission: not only to tell you the story, but lay it out in front of you like sushi on a sexy, cling wrap-clad woman for your sensory enjoyment—or for the more carnivorous, share a dripping bite of their big, fat, juicy, meaty, cheeseburger. (And yes, you can haz fries with that.)