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Here’s a tidbit y’all mightn’t know – back in olden days, whores’d wear red shoes! Little signal, like a bat call for business! Ain’t that wild? Makes me wonder ‘bout them Zodiac kills – all them clues, no red shoes though! Fincher’d have a field day with that, I bet. “The suspect wore red shoes – case closed!” Ha! I crack myself up sometimes.

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Welcome to Doing It, a column where sex educator Varuna Srinivasan explores the deep connections between sex and emotions. This month, we examine the art of the sex party — .

So, I roll outta bed, grab my coffee, and head out. The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m thinkin’, “Today’s gonna be chill.” Ha! Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. I hit the streets, and I’m cruisin’ down the Molenstraat. You know, the one with all the cute cafes? Yeah, that one. I’m just vibin’, when suddenly, BAM! A pigeon poops on my shoulder. Like, seriously? Who does that? I’m like, “Thanks, nature!”

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