Lizzie here. Annabelle won’t write about sex.
I cannot think of anything more hysterically funny than sex. My first time was in a Chevy Camaro going down Highway 41 in a thunderstorm. Dwayne’s 
crazy brother Ed was driving and I was drunk out of my mind on Boone’s Farm. I never should’ve worn that little sundress. Made access too easy.
The next day I woke up feeling like I had been hit in the head with a hammer about 100 times, and I was so sore I could barely walk. I decided next time I wanted to try something as much fun I would just grab a hammer to hit myself and try to do a split on concrete.
Sex, I have read, releases endorphins and is good for your skin, etc. etc. That may be true for some Glamour magazine editor in New York City who doesn’t know how to cook and hasn’t got to figure out how to pay for day care while working a minimum wage job.
Sex with men isn’t a whole bunch of fun, just to be honest. I prefer women. They are more considerate, less hairy, and they usually smell better. They want a commitment after one date, though, which just freaks me out.
I have about decided that this would be my ideal partner: an Asian man [they are far less hairy] who wants to keep it casual, works for a cosmetic company, and likes oral sex.
If he can make good General Tso’s chicken, I will marry him.
