In Praise of the Missionary Position

By Rebecca Archer, Nerve.com. Posted May 6, 2002.

So there I was, leaning into the wall at a precise sixty-degree angle, one leg balanced precariously on a too-high footstool and one hand grasping a too-low door handle, while my boyfriend squatted awkwardly behind me, trying desperately to get it in, and I thought, what's so wrong with the missionary position? Two minutes later, flat on my back on the couch and my boyfriend pumping away on top of me, I decided that nothing, nothing at all is wrong with it.

Saying that missionary sex is your favorite is kind of like saying that you like bread a whole lot. Sure, everyone likes it, but it's not something you spend a great deal of time thinking about or that you need to form an opinion on. It's just there. To all the sex gymnasts, this kind of banal preference looks lazy, unimaginative and uninformed. If they went to such lengths to determine that "Feeding the Peacock" is their favorite position (except on Saturday nights when they like "Congress of the Cow"), then shouldn't I, too? Shouldn't I get off my back a little more often before settling on doin' it like they do on the networks during primetime?

I'll admit that I'm a lazy fuck. I like being on the bottom. I'm familiar with its ins and outs. The missionary position is like a "You are here" marker, and I know how to get straight from there to my happy place. Which, of course, is exactly why I should be taking the scenic route more often. But when a position requires too many instructions, props, or readjustments, I tend to abandon it for something more comfortable. I'm a bit of a dreamer and I like to think that all the pieces should go together just so, without us having to move to a lower couch or a chair without arm-rests or a harder surface. I like to get swept up in the moment, and I find that harder to do when I'm trying to figure out if this angle is going to break off my boyfriend's penis or scratch his hardwood floors. And getting "swept up" when you're trying out a position for the third or fourth time that hour (because his thing keeps slipping out) feels like reshooting a badly written movie scene over and over. Or worse, it's like being the star of a porno: moving from couch to kitchen to stairwell to doggie style just to keep it interesting for the viewers. If I ever left my bedroom curtains open, my neighbors would be bored limp. (They might also observe that my self-love habits are equally, well, habitual: My vibrator is built by Hitachi, five years old and going strong — no garish "Hello Kitty" logos or gratuitous cheap plastic attachments. Like the missionary position, it's my workhorse; it gets the job done.)

The problem with being a missionary position enthusiast is that my fellow evangelists are not the type I like to associate with. A recent article in Redbook magazine, that bastion of good wifedom, praised it thus: "Think of it this way: Do you look better leaning over your husband with your stretch marks glistening and everything drooping and jiggling —or reclining with your face turned up, lips parted expectantly, and your hair arranged over a bank of snowy white pillows? The missionary position is feminine; it's alluring." Another fan, the inventor of the "coital alignment technique" (a.k.a. the supersized missionary position) has called simultaneous orgasms achieved during MP sex the only "truly satisfying" kind. The idea is as old as Freud: Normal women should enjoy normal copulation (but not too much!) with their providers, the way our good Lord intended it.

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