A Case For The Missionary Position

When I was a kid, my friends and I would trade candy underneath the jungle gym during recess. The popularity of early 1980s candy went as such: Candy necklaces were snatched up first, then Pop Rocks, then Nerds, and last but not least, Pixie Sticks. However, when it was my turn to offer up a sugary confection, I'd elicit groans from my pals when I brought forth from the pocket of my overalls a tube of plain Cherry Lifesavers. The general consensus from the crowd was those hard red circles "tasted like cough syrup." But I loved their simplistic round design, their steadfast refusal to be bright and popular like the other candies.

When I grew up and started getting naked with boys, the principle remained: I liked my sex life plain and neat, simple and missionary. Boyfriends who tried to get me interested in doggy-style or 69 came away from the experience sorely disappointed. Sure, I'd play the good sport from time to time, but I'd always hope they didn't notice when I covered my yawns mid-coitus. I admired my more adventurous between-the-sheets friends, and encouraged them to scale new heights, to reach for the stars … or the headboard. But for me, I enjoyed missionary the best. The Frisky: 4 Celebrated Sex Positions That Men Aren't Really Into

So when I got married, I made this fact clear to my husband. Getting hitched means that there is one person on the planet willing to love you just as you are. I could retire my Pink fluorescent thong that never covered my behind anyway in favor of a more comfortable pair of plain white Hanes. Slipping on that ring meant I was finally free to be myself: happy as a clam upside down with my legs in the air. The Frisky: In Sickness And In Health