By Lana Louise

There is a certain type of gut splitting inside joke which occurs from time to time in a group of friends—in which the original incident is retold so frequently that after awhile its description is parsed down to a just simple phrase. One of my favorite jokes in Calvin and Hobbes was the occasional mention of “the noodle incident,” some madness of Calvin’s which was often referred to in horror but never explained. If your college friends were anything like mine these probably have less to do with noodles and more to do with either epic intoxication or sexual escapades.

Which brings us to… picture frames. Also the nature of sex stories in general, and a newly published book chock full of them called Worst Laid Plans: When Bad Sex Happens To Good People. But all in good time. My own personal noodle incident occurred in my second year of university, in one of those thirty-story alarmingly ugly Vancouver high-rises; thick cement and double paned, rain-soaked windows. The apartment walls were not thin. Each floor boasted four apartments in a strange configuration, with elevators and garbage chutes and inexplicable spaces creating mazes between them.

At the time I was unconcerned with architecture. I was utterly devoured by sex. Consumed. Engulfed. Demolished. He was new and tan and built like a soccer player, with scruffy black hair and a heady, salty smell that got me more intoxicated than any drug I have ever consumed before or since (I’ll give you a hint: I’ve done a lot of drugs). We would fuck for HOURS. We stayed in bed until four in the afternoon, sweaty and sloppy and covered in ourselves and stopping only to smoke a bowl or change the music. As you can imagine, these sessions were not exactly quiet. In the course of about a month, I went from the sex drive of a horny nineteen-year-old to that of a rabid attack dog with a testosterone injection. I positively stopped giving a shit about anyone else—including good friends trying to sleep, studying for finals, or just getting grossed out. The fact that the other five girls in my apartment might not want to hear his fifth orgasm at full volume while they were making dinner just did not factor into my equation. I was a total asshole to everyone around me and I was so sex-drunk I didn’t even notice. When they complained we found it hilarious and congratulated ourselves.

Which brings me to the picture frames. The poor girl seemed pretty conservative. In the year we shared a bedroom wall, I didn’t usually hear music coming from her room, or much talking at all. You have to understand: she wasn’t even in our apartment. It was the apartment next to ours. We’d never met face to face. On that particular day I think it was probably mid afternoon– we’re doing our thing, and hard. I mean hard. That kind when the bed is actually slamming against the wall and skin is slapping like a hip hop beat on dubs and one leg is up on the windowsill tearing down the curtain and your arm is up above your head, hand opened flat against the wall behind you and you’re screaming and he’s gasping for air and just pounding and all of a sudden you hear this massive crashing, breaking, wood splintering noise… wait, what? Oh, fuck it, don’t stop now!

About twenty minutes later we’re taking a breather and hear riotous giggling out in the common area. The roommates are taking turns knocking on the door and then shrieking and falling into giggles again. I look at my lover, who is too glazed to even notice, and tell him I’m going to use the bathroom. As I open the door in a robe all five of the roommates begin screaming and talking at once. Two are already on the phone telling friends. As it turns out, the pretty, modestly dressed, exhausted-looking neighbor had rung our doorbell while the boy and I were, um, occupied. She had bags under her eyes and asked softly if the girl with the room on the left could please be more respectful next time. She dropped off a paper bag full of… sigh. Broken picture frames. At least eight or ten of them, completely shattered. She’d already removed the pictures, which were scratched, I’m sure. I took the bag of broken glass and walked sheepishly back into my room.

Did I apologize and begin mend my disrespectful ways? Of course not. I was fucking nineteen years old. I dated the guy for two more goddamn years, until the whole thing ran itself into the ground and then some. The point is, it was pretty goddamn hilarious. And like most stories of sex-gone-wrong, it wasn’t actually bad sex at all. The sex was fantastic; it was the circumstances that make the tale worth telling. There is, as it turns out, a subtle but very important distinction between sexual misadventure and sex which is actually bad. The former is awkward, sometimes uncomfortable, and laughable. The latter can be really unpleasant and sort of depressing. Worst Laid Plans walks this line very carefully. Some of the stories are laugh-out-loud amazing and surprisingly well-told, while others are actually a bit uncomfortable to read.

Bad sex stories are almost cheating in terms of entertainment value. It’s the ultimate combination of titillating juiciness and schadenfreude. We get a little dose of porn while simultaneously releasing our own insecurities through someone else’s past embarrassment. It’s totally win-win.

Except when it’s not. Every once in awhile, no matter how well-intentioned the speaker, a silly sexual accident story veers dangerously close to a long, uncomfortable moments. I’ve heard one too many women tell a bad-sex tale about the guy wanting to try something that she wasn’t particularly into, haha, so I did it anyway because I was young and insecure, and it was a totally terrible experience!! Isn’t that funny!?!?! Wait, so he forced you into painful anal sex? Um… I laugh at a lot of really unnecessary things, but stories from women backed into sexual corners because they’re too young and unsure to get out of them? Not really my wheelhouse. Even if you’re old enough now to know better, and therefore able to make fun of it… I still… just… get a little squicked out. And as I said, I’m not easily squickable. Shouldn’t we just be teaching women not to do that shit anymore? Haven’t we gotten there yet?

I think the most noticeable difference with the tales herein was really in the emotions of the author. No matter how bad the sex, a somewhat removed and entertained attitude (during, not after) can make almost any sexual encounter funny instead of uncomfortable. I think this is why the funniest sex stories in the world, including those in Worst Laid Plans, are almost exclusively from gay men.

So like I said, some parts of the book: A+. Others: not so much. Overall it’s a fun read. And if you make it through and you’re still hungry for more, you can ask me about the time we ended up in the ER with my patient hippie dad kindly explaining to my then-boyfriend that “injury from intercourse is nothing to be ashamed of…” You think a college roommate walking in on you is embarrassing? Oh, honey. You have no idea.