A (Twenty-Something) Toronto Jewess Rejects Anal Sex

My friend Andy has been dating his girlfriend Anita for nine years. They started going out in high school. He was her first sexual partner; she was his first sexual partner. Now they're twenty-five, they're not even living together yet, and marriage looms nigh on the Forest Hill horizon.

Their sex has progressed from missionary to her on top. Neither is particularly athletic, but Andy is an open-minded, adventurous type. Anita is willing to try new things, but she's pragmatic.

A few weeks ago they were in Andy's parents' basement, they were having sex, and Andy tried to flip her over. He grabbed her, twisted, and she rolled off the side of the mattress and landed, with a thud, on his tiled floor. The floor was cold, and she was not happy.

He said, "We have to try something new."

A week later he was visiting her at her apartment in Montreal. She goes to McGill, where she's a year away from an MA in architecture and city planning. She has a beautiful place (which her father pays for); it's immaculate. Spotless.

And you know why? Because the dad pays a cleaning woman to come Mondays and Fridays. Anita doesn't clean. She doesn't cook. She doesn't do laundry. She doesn't do dishes. She goes to school and watches TV. She's broken free of patriarchy. Andy? He cleans, he cooks, he does laundry, he does dishes. He's broken free of patriarchy too.

He does her laundry. He cooks her food. He does her dishes. Sometimes she rests her feet on his neck.

She's a new-age girl, the kind every guy wants to marry.

So he was at her apartment and they were talking about sex. He wanted to try different things. She was amenable, but wanted to know what he was thinking. He said he'd like to see her dress up. "As what?" A cheerleader. "No! I'm not dressing up as a cheerleader." Why? "They're too young. You like young girls?" There are old...older cheerleaders. Women cheerlead into their 20s. I've seen them at college football games. "No. That's sick. And I won't braid my hair."

But a cheerleader was all he could think of. He wasn't too interested in Jacobean damsel, or pirate's daughter.

"What else?" she asked. I want to hit you. "Hit me? No." Just with a little whip. "You're not touching me with a whip."

What about outside? "Outside what?" Sex outside. "I'm not taking off my clothes outside." You don't have to take off your clothes. "I'm not breaking the law."

So he retreated to his first option, something he'd wanted to propose from the onset.

What about anal? She blanched. "No." No. Why? Won't you try it? "No." You won't even try it? "No." Why not? "I'm not washing the sheets."

She has a counterpane, a fitted sheet, and a linen duvet.

"I'm going to have to wash the sheets every time. No, there's no way I'm doing that. It's too much laundry."

Of course, his next move was to offer to do the laundry himself. "No way! You'll do it wrong! You don't know how! No, it's too much."

And he gave up on the anal sex dream. If she wasn't willing to wash the sheets, what was the chance she'd go for the (necessary) enema?

So they're back to the old reliable missionary. But a few days ago he went for a twist. On the verge of orgasm, he pulled out and positioned himself for what Robertson Davies gingerly terms a "facial." In a split second she'd raised her hand and slapped his erect penis like a tetherball. "Do you want to live?"

I told him he should just buy a watermelon.