Hate to break it to you.
The average American has sex like Mick Jagger prophesied: wham, bam, thank you ma'am. She lays down. He gets on top of her and inserts his wilting penis. He thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, stiffens, comes.
He slides out of her and wanders off to clean himself up, as if vagina juice were so disgusting he needed to remove it as soon as possible. She's left in the wet spot, wondering if he'll come back to get her off or not. He doesn't.
Or the more adventurous do it thrust, thrust, thrust doggy style. He doesn't last long. She's left unfulfilled. He might not know where her clitoris is anyway, much less be able to locate her G-spot. But she's unwilling to suck, much less swallow, so you can excuse him for not getting super-hard.
No wonder people say things are better than sex. Poor bastards. Honestly, those people aren't having the right kind of sex. I'd think things were better than sex too if I were constantly f*cking a limp penis while he paws my breasts for his benefit and asks afterwards, "Was it good for you?"
Baby, if you have to ask, you've got your answer.
You've got to put some effort into sex. You need adventure.
You might not need whips, chains and Catholic school uniforms, but you need more than some limp humps and a squirt. If you're saying that a chocolate chip cookie is better than sex, then something's deeply, deeply wrong. Either you're feeling it wrong — and you need to see a doctor about frigidity — or someone's doing it wrong.
Maybe you're just laying there and expecting him to do all the work. Thrusting right takes two people, you know. Maybe he doesn't understand female erogenous zones. Maybe you've got an unfulfilled kink. Maybe you're not using your mouth, hands, tongue, or hips.
I'd never say anything is better than the right kind of sex. That's because I've had some phenomenal sex I put my various parts into, as hard as I could, and exerted some effort for both his orgasm and mine. Don't ask me if some wine is better than doing it.
Oh, I've had some bad sex I'd trade for a cookie. One, he was a submissive. Two, so am I. And three, he had a foot fetish I was in no way going to participate. We wrangled back and forth about who had to and finally settled on him. His heart wasn't into it.
He had to f*ck me for so long I got loose, and I'm generally super-tight. When he finally finished in a rubbery, joyless spasm, I knew this wasn't going to work. Our kinks didn't match. We weren't willing to go the extra yard to make each other hot (at least, I wasn't).
I'd classify any number of things were better than that sex, including creme brulee, a trip to the aquarium, and a day at the beach. I think he'd say the same thing.
Then there's the good sex. The right sex. The blow-your-mind, wouldn't-trade-it for-anything sex. This is the kind that, if people say something is better than sex, aren't having the right kind of sex.
He told me it wouldn't hurt, this little blue dildo: a small, tapered silicon thing with a flat stopper on the back, which also allowed it to stand on end. Once he got me nice and wet, he eased it in my back door, then eased himself in my vagina. He started f*cking me. And I never came harder than I did with that little hunk of blue plastic up my ass and Justin f*cking me as hard as he could.
I was 18 years old and a freshman in college. We were screwing around in his dorm room after dark, his roommates feigning sleep. He licked around, and around, and around. I pulled his head up.
"Do you know what a clit is?" I asked. He nodded. "Then use it." He touched his tongue to my center and I nearly fainted with pleasure. He hadn't been inept. He'd been teasing me.
I told him I was going to take a shower, and he could come in and talk to me while I did. I waited until I was undressed and in the water, then called him in. I didn't tell him I had a clear shower curtain.
He watched me wash myself for ten minutes before I stepped naked out of the shower. Then I walked up to him, standing near the door, dropped to my knees, and opened his pants. I sucked him off and he came so hard he doubled over like he'd been punched.
This kind of sex I wouldn't trade for anything. It was too good.
People who say something is "better than sex" aren't having the right kind of sex.