Tracking Peak Horniness
I never tracked my period until I tried to get pregnant. I went blithely through my sexually active youth, assuming my period would show up eventually because I was careful about birth control, and it always did.
I could not be so nonchalant when my husband and I were trying to conceive. Suddenly the number of days between periods had portentous meaning: If I could accurately track my period, I could tell when I was ovulating and try to plan a pregnancy based on that information.
Enter Period Tracker Lite, an iPhone app with a cheerful pink flower icon. It not only allows you to track your period but also your various symptoms and moods throughout the month. Feeling crampy today? You can note that with an angry-looking star symbol on your calendar. Feeling “confused” or “unbalanced”? You can note that too, with emoji-like faces.
I expected the app would help me figure out when I was ovulating. I did not expect to discover that every single month, the week before my period, I became—in the sanitized parlance of the app—extremely “flirty.” Which is to say: insatiably, insanely horny. This had no biological purpose, really; I probably wasn’t ovulating during these randy days, since women ovulate about two weeks before their periods start.
But the information was something of a mental salve: It’s not that I’m aroused by watching Dave Foley in old episodes of NewsRadio on Hulu; it’s just the hormones talking. Possessing this information hasn’t altered my sex life dramatically, but my husband certainly doesn’t complain about the uptick in my romantic instigation. If nothing else, the preperiod sexfest makes the unpleasantness of menstruation easier to bear; at least the pain of cramps comes after some serious pleasure.
—JESSICA GROSE
Airbnb and the Dildo
I never imagined that renting my place through Airbnb would affect my ability to get off.
Rick, a twenty something designer from New York, was my fifth guest. He was a little gruff. I gave him the key and Wi-Fi password and left, driving north to my writing retreat at a clothing-optional hot springs. An hour later, I got a call from an Airbnb customer service representative named Ethan.
“Rick called me with some complaints and I want to get your side of the story,” he said.
“My side of the story?”
“He says there are ink stains on the sheets and couch, and the frying pan is not clean,” Ethan said.
“I washed all the linens, and the couch ink stain has been there for years. The stain is in the photo. I washed that pan this morning. There’s a sponge if he wants to clean it.”
Ethan contacted Rick to work out the situation and later emailed: “He also mentioned that there was a vibrator behind the headboard which made him feel uncomfortable.”
I sat at the retreat’s computer in shock, then gathered my strength to respond: “‘I’m disturbed this guest is looking behind my headboard. I would like to request that he does not go further into my personal belongings. This feels invasive.”
Ethan responded that Rick was looking for a plug. There are many more-visible plugs.
Over the next 24 hours, Ethan brokered a deal. Rick bought new sheets, a duvet cover, and a pan, and subtracted $134 off the rental. I spent the rest of my writing retreat in a state of queasy unease. What was this stranger doing in my apartment, and what was he doing with my Magic Wand? He was sleeping in my bed!
When I got back, I tried to use the vibrator. I wanted to reclaim my space and my sexuality. I failed. For a few weeks, the ghost of Rick hovered. I was unable to relax enough to use the Wand. The Magic was gone. So I bought a pink Butterfly Bliss vibrator (“Experience the ecstasy of velvety smooth silicone”) and managed to achieve bliss again.
I haven’t rented on Airbnb since then. But if I list my apartment again, I will put photos of the sex toys on my profile. Only vibrator-positive people will request to stay at my place.
-SASHA CAGEN