Pining after your FroCo? Dying to get on the orgy panlist? Sick of seeing khakis on men? You’re in luck! Welcome to Sex on the WKND, YDN’s anonymous column dedicated to answering your burning questions about sex, love and anything in between. Obsessing over sex is a Yale tradition as old as the Oldest College Daily itself. This year, we have a love-guru columnist who has done it all — including everyone on the aforementioned orgy panlist — and is ready to share. Whether you have a seminar with a hookup-gone-wrong or accidentally sent a raunchy text to your chemistry study group, Sex on the WKND is ready to help. Don’t be shy. Submit your anonymous questions, stories, and tips here.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that everyone else is always having more sex than you are. And that axiom even holds for your old pal, Sex on the WKND. That’s right, even your favorite sex columnist has dry spells. I’m currently going through a midterm-related dry spell. And because I’m not dalliancing with any dudes, dudettes or non-binary dates, I don’t feel qualified to offer any advice right now. That’s why I called on my loyal fans to regale me with their most salacious stories. And oh, did they deliver. 

On car troubles: 

So it’s night in mid-July in a small town, the summer after my junior year of high school, and my friend texts me. He asks if I want to go for a drive: the classic first move in a rural town with nothing else to do on a Friday night. We haven’t seen each other since the end of school a month and a half before. I pick him up at 11 p.m. Nothing good ever happens at 11 p.m. There we are, driving along the abandoned backroads, 10+ miles from town. You could cut the tension with a knife. We both undeniably wanted something from the other, but we were both carefully avoiding it from fear that the desire wouldn’t be reciprocated. So an hour and a half goes by. It’s 1:30. I’ve burned through a quarter tank of gas. We’re driving, and I’m looking over at him to say something when suddenly I see something in my headlights. Oh god. It’s a porcupine. I’ve never hit an animal with my car before, not even a bird. And it’s half past one in the morning with a boy in the car. Naturally, I’m in shock and the tears start to form in my eyes. I’m a porcupine murderer. Don’t get out of the car, he says, don’t look at it, just keep driving. And so I do. With my hands covering my mouth and tears forming in my eyes, I take my foot off the brake and the car eases forward. He reaches over to guide the steering wheel as we inch along. But I’m still in shock. We stop at the next pullout and I put the car in park. And then, as I’m just starting to come down from the near anxiety attack of inadvertently killing a porcupine, he decides to make his move and break the sexual tension of the past 2 hours. The unspoken inevitability finally happened. In the wake of my murder, we hooked up. And that is the story of how my year long friends with benefits started with a roadkill accident.

On vaccinations:

I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble, but when I got my COVID booster last year the nurse literally violated HIPPA. They used my personal file on the computer to find me on Instagram, and then they took me on a date where they asked what I would do if someone brutally murdered my grandma in front of my eyes. They proceeded to make me extremely uncomfortable on several other occasions throughout the date, including starting the car and driving off with me inside but not saying where we were going. Anyway, I got free MECHA.

On frat bros:

This guy led me up to his room at AEPi and we hooked up. Afterwards, someone came in and flipped out at him. It turns out that we weren’t in his room at all. He was a pledge. Let’s just say he did not get a bid after that.

On the Rocket Man:

I met up with a guy from my hometown over summer break who I had hooked up with before. I hadn’t seen him in about half of a year, so you can imagine how impressed I was when I got into his car to find my favorite song playing (I had mentioned it was my favorite song 6 months prior). He was a gentleman, but his idea of a date was to repeatedly drive me past a hotel that The Weeknd supposedly stayed in one time. He was actually very charming and had good music taste. He even let me look through his Spotify. But in my search, one crucial thing was missing: a sex playlist. In lieu of a sex playlist, he played not one, not two, but THREE different versions of Elton John’s Rocket Man while we hooked up. Rocket Man three times in a row. During sex.

SOTW note: Rocket Man, when played 3 times in a row, totals 14 minutes exactly. You know what Elton John says: I think it’s gonna be a long, long time!

On all fours:

Once I went out with a man who, five minutes into our date, referred to his apartment as his “trash den” and also told me that he didn’t believe in voting. He suggested a picnic, which sounded like a cute date idea until he pulled out a toothbrush and started brushing his teeth in a public park. Then, he revealed that the only thing he brought to the picnic was beer. So he made me buy him dinner with the promise that he would buy me dinner next time (spoiler alert: there would NOT be a next time). If that wasn’t already enough red flags, he randomly said “be right back, I’m gonna hunt some gophers” and began jumping around the park on all fours. Despite his dedication, he didn’t find any gophers. When he was finished, he asked me (in what I assume was an attempt at a sexy voice) “so, are we going back to your place or what?” The only thing that went through my head was “I have to show this man to my roommate.” So I let him visit my apartment so my roommate would believe me when I told her the stories. Usually I don’t condone ghosting, but I ghosted that man. Hard. The best part of all this is that he is a “musician,” and his music, which is mostly a conglomerate of pots and pans banging together, is available on Spotify. My roommate and I update ourselves on his musical career occasionally. He’s gonna need to keep his day job.

On cock-roaches:

So, we’re having sex and I see a cockroach on the wall next to us. Naturally, I scream things that probably make it sound like I’m having a great time, and this cockroach panic almost makes him cum. He then pulls out and finally realizes that I am pointing at a roach, and I watch his dick soften a little, because goddamn that was awkward. I assume this means we’re gonna address the problem at hand, but this man just looks at me and is like, “can I keep going?” After about a minute of him awkwardly trying to put it back in, we conclude that he can’t get hard again because he’s scared. So, he waits in bed while I naked-hunt the roach like a fucking cavewoman, and when I got back in the bed he was like, “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I am having sex right now that was not cute.” Eventually, we recover enough to start making fun of each other, and my ironically sexy “Oh no!! Fuck me! A bug!!” sounds lead to another round of sex. I practically laughed through the whole thing, and that’s the story of how I lost my virginity to cockroach-themed sex.

If you think crowdsourcing is sexy, submit your questions and stories here. I want to start forming parasocial relationships with you guys, like some of you have been doing with me. Don’t hold back. I’m ready.