What Girls Are Actually Thinking During Sex


“Baby,” she moans, as her naked body arches up, glistening in hot, dripping sweat. Her hand grasps at the pillow, sheets, whatever she can find to hold onto. “Yes! Oh my God, right there. Yes!”

“Holy shit, this is amazing,” you think to yourself.

“Good God, did I need to MapQuest directions for you? It took you half an hour to find it and I’m covered in sweat. Now I’m going to have to shower before work. Awesome. Maybe if I keep acting like I’m close he’ll finish and I’ll still have time to eat a bagel before I leave. Hindsight, morning sex is not always great.” Yes. She is thinking all of that. Actually, she thought all of that while you were trying to round third, and this is the second time this morning alone she’s thought all that.

Do not, whatever you do, get me wrong. I enjoy sex. A lot. I am the Sam I Am of sex. I like it here, I like it there; I pretty much like it anywhere. But that does not necessarily mean I shut my brain off while performing activities. Women, unlike the male species, do not have another head to think with in the midst of scoring a homer. So we think things, such as:

“If we finish in the next few minutes, I can get at least six and a half hours of sleep before my alarm goes off. Seven if I just dry shampoo my hair.”

“His room is disgusting. There’s skidmarks-side-up boxers over there. Look away. Look away. WHY WON’T YOU LOOK AWAY, WOMAN?!”

“Ooh, he left Netflix on…”

“Holy God, what are you doing to my tits? They’re attached, motherfucker.”

“Nope. That’s a one-way street there, buddy.”

“No, that’s not my clit. Nope. Still not my clit…”

“I wonder if I look fat at this angle?”

“Oh yeah, definitely look fat at this angle. Definitely lookin’ fat. Lettttt’s move over here. Much better.”

“Still not my clit, bro.”

“Nope. Nope! NO, GOD NO, WRONG HOLE!”

“What the fuck kind of double standard bullshit is this? I created a goddamned van Gogh down there and I’m bobbin’ and weavin’ through some kind of rain forest down here.”

“I’d kill for a glass of water right now.”

“Ah, man. How I Met Your Mother is on right now.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. Yes. Yes! NO! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

“I wonder if that navy blouse is clean?”

“Quit rubbing it like that! It’s not a German Shepherd.”

“Oh, God. He just shoved a bunch of air up in there. It’s gonna happen. Please, God, don’t let it happen.”

“It happened.”


“Maybe he didn’t hear it. Fuck. It happened again. Yeah, he definitely heard that.”

“Oh, okay. We’re just going to ignore it? Praise Jesus.”

“Right. There. Yes. Keep. Going. Yes. Yes! YES!”


“Holy. Fuck.”

“Need. Sleep.”

“Are you done yet? I just really want to go to sleep.”

“Maybe if I moan and breathe a little heavier next to his ear he’ll finish sooner.”

“Have you been holding all of this in some kind of makeshift reserve since Christmas? It’s everywhere.”

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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