I started out my young-adult life thinking the best of women. I don’t know if that’s because, from a young age, they drill it into your malleable brain through ridiculous adages—like that girls are “sugar and spice and everything nice” but that “men are pigs”—or simply because, later on, I fell for the good-girl façade that girls put out in public.

As I entered adulthood, this fable had crept into the sexual arena. Sure, some girls were “sluts,” I figured, but most girls were good girls. Sex meant more to them. They were reluctant to have it. We were the nasty ones. So, once in bed, sex was all about finesse. Things might get “passionate,” but you didn’t want to get too pornographic or, god forbid, hurt the poor thing.

It took one incident to shatter this pretty little lie for good.

I had gone out on a date with a tiny, nerdy girl with big glasses and a little voice. She was a senior in college and a stand-out athlete, despite her diminutive stature and mousy features. Apart from her wide, tree-trunk, rock-hard quadriceps and other subtle physical cues, she was a timid, even weak-looking specimen. Frankly, I didn’t believe her assertion that she’d almost made the U.S. Olympic team until she demonstrated some of her impressive skills in some online videos. After a round of drinks at a bar, we ended up at my place, and before long, we were making out. Things were escalating and, at the natural moment, I smoothly unbuckled her shorts. Until that point, everything was familiar.

Suddenly, out of no-where, she gave me a massive shove. I didn’t know where she’d mustered the strength, but I ended up a respectable distance away from her. I looked up, only to see a huge, smug grin on her face. Figuring this was her odd, abrupt way of halting things, I sat up, ready to call it a night, only to be kangaroo kicked in the chest with both her massive legs. She sat up on her knees and followed that up with “I bet you can’t do it,” while glancing down at her unbuckled shorts. Against my better judgment, I accepted this ambiguous, and potentially dangerous, challenge. This was either going to be my Penthouse-Letter moment or the beginning of some drawn-out legal troubles.


I wasn’t in great shape at the time, but I dove into the unsolicited wrestling match knowing that I had a significant weight and height advantage. But this girl turned out to be strongest 5-foot-2 chick on the planet. Over the next several minutes, she taunted and laughed at me while I struggled to get her shorts off, pushing me off periodically with her powerful haunches, slinking loose of any pin move, using her massive thigh strength to crush me, and holding the smile on her face the entire time. When I finally succeeded in pulling them off, the denim shorts were soaked through—as if you’d just pulled them out of the washing machine—and not with sweat. Underneath her was a dinner plate-sized puddle. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. We had sex.

In the aftermath of this incident, I told a lot of my buddies the story. Most guys chalked it to her being “weird” or a “secret freak,” and moved on with a shrug. But one of them—an older guy with game—said to me:

I’d hate to break it to you, but they’re all like that. This one just made it a point to tell you. All women like rough sex—even the “nice”-looking ones.  There’s something about some well-placed aggression that triggers something in their lizard brain. It’s disturbing, but true. I learned it years ago, when I tied this girl’s hands as a joke and she went crazy. They like their hair pulled. They like to be thrown around. Their faces smashed into the bed. Some more than others, but they all like it. It’s like you have to re-learn to have sex.

Like the Apostle Thomas, I had to see this for myself. I figured I’d turn up the juice a little in the sack, just enough to see if something happened, but little enough that I could backpeddle if necessary. But it wasn’t necessary. The first time I pulled some hair, the appreciable rise in the girl’s volume prompted a noise complaint from my Indian neighbor. I started pushing heads into pillows, slapping ass cheeks, firmly clutching forearms. I noticed the change immediately. I had girls texting me at odd hours, acquired my first legitimate stalker, and got several more noise complaints–some of them in writing. One time after sex, a girl informed me that I may have bruised her neck. When I apologized, she responded excitedly, “No. It’s so hot. I wonder if my parents will notice again.”

The more I talked to guys who actually have sex with girls on a regular basis, the more I got confirmation that this wasn’t just the girls I was happening upon. “Yup, girls are way-way nastier than you think, man.” “That’s the dirty little secret, my friend.” “Most guys have no idea that their girlfriend used to have—and wants—that kind of sex.” The comments piled up.

There’s no doubt that some girls like a little more tossing-around than others—and some like one kind of roughness over another—but the next time someone feeds you the good-girl-sex fable, be sure to ask how many girls they’ve actually slept with. Chances are, these guys—or worse, women—have no idea what they’re talking about.

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