Rick's Sex Column: Confidence Doesn’t Grow in Porn Tabs
- Rick Hogart
- 4 days ago
- 4 min read
For the ones reading this, hey, I’m Rick Hogart, 35, mildly overconfident, and somehow now the new sex columnist here at JELQ2GROW. The team reached out a few weeks ago and asked if I’d be down to write about sex. Not from a clinical angle, not with stats or charts—just as a guy who’s been through some things, messed up a bunch, and came out the other side with a few good stories. I said yes, obviously.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about sex over the years, it’s this: most of us don’t start out confident. We start out afraid. And sometimes, the only way to shake that fear off is to get laid.
I was 21 when I had sex for the first time. I lived with my brother in our family’s house in Newark, New Jersey. Our parents were always away—work trips, conferences, sometimes entire seasons gone—so the place felt more like a two-man bunker than a home. My room, in particular, had earned the nickname 'the goon cave.' You know... blackout curtains, stacks of laundry, too much lotion on the desk, and a browser history that could trigger a therapy session.
Porn was safe. Hentai games were safe. I knew the outcomes. I could control the plot. I didn’t have to smell bad breath, or wonder what to say after. There were no awkward moments in fantasy.
But I was lonely. Deeply.
My brother, older by two years, was the one who finally kicked the door in. Not literally, but he may as well have. One day, after he noticed I’d been in my room all weekend and probably guessed what I’d been doing, he finally snapped:
“Dude. No more. We’re going out. Wear something with a zipper."
That night, we went to a house party. I stood near the chips, nervously crunching corn triangles while pretending I had a plan. Then someone brushed past me and stopped. She looked down at my shoes and said, "Nice soles. I like a man who polishes his sneakers."
Her name was Clara. And maaaan, she was beautiful. Dark curls, sharp eyes, jeans that looked like they were made for her alone.
We started talking. About shoes, sure, but then music, cartoons, movies. Boy, I liked talking to my virtual anime waifus, but this was a real girl, looking me in the eye, making jokes and all. I was shocked... someone like her even noticed I existed. She wore this oversized hoodie and had a chipped black thumbnail, and when I cracked one of my lamer jokes, she laughed—not at the joke itself, but at just how bad it was. It wasn’t mockery, though—it was the kind of warm, amused laugh that made me feel well... good! That night, we kissed. The next week, we went on a real date.
After that, things moved faster than I expected. We were back at her place that same night—still buzzed from a good dinner, walking too close, pretending we weren’t about to make out. The tension was obvious. We kept bumping shoulders on purpose, walking like two magnets that didn’t know how to separate. She unlocked her door, tossed her keys in a bowl, and looked at me like, 'Well?'
By the time it clicked shut behind us, we were already kissing, shoes still on, everything else coming off fast.
Clothes came off quick, halfway between the entryway and her couch. Shoes still on, belt still hanging from one loop. We didn’t bother with slow buildup. No teasing, no whispering, no gradual slide into anything. Looking back now, I get how important foreplay is. Simple as that. I mean, damn—appetizers exist for a reason. LOL.
Tension was intense. Still recall my heart pounding like crazy, and I was holding on like a guy clinging to a slippery pole, trying to delay the inevitable. In my head I was going, 'Shit, not now. Not yet. You can’t give her that as a first impression.' I didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want to break the moment with a weird warning. But then—boom. It just happened. Probably didn't last more than 3 minutes! I stopped. Mid-thrust. Blinked. I opened my eyes, and she was looking at me. She looked at me. And smiled.
She looked at me. And smiled.
Not a disappointed smile. Not a sarcastic one. Just soft, knowing. Like she understood more than I did right then.
Yes, she smiled, AND she made a joke. I didn’t die of shame. And two nights later, we had sex again. And again after that.
Looking back now, I’m 35 and I’ve had plenty of sex, some good, some forgettable, some that made me question the physics of human anatomy. But what changed everything for me was that moment: not the orgasm, but the first time I realized fear disappears when you stop feeding it.
You can’t think your way out of being afraid of sex. You can only experience your way through it.
That’s what my younger self didn’t get. I thought I had to be great before I started. I thought I had to be smooth, last long, know how to handle a clit like I was born with a map in my hand. But that’s not how it works.
Sex is a language. You learn it by fumbling through the first few conversations. If you’re stuck in your own version of the goon cave right now, I get it. It feels safe. Predictable. But nothing grows there. Confidence doesn’t bloom in isolation. It builds in the awkward tension between what you want and what you’re afraid to try.
I’m thankful for my brother. And for Clara. And for the version of me who, scared shitless, said yes to a night out.
If there's one thing I’ve figured out since then, it’s this: the fear doesn’t vanish all at once. But every time you get laid, it fades a little more. The early mental noise, the panic, the pressure, the "what ifs" start to go quiet. Sure, there are still some caveats. Awkward moments, new insecurities. But sex trains you. You adapt. That's how we're wired: keep doing something, and the fear starts to leave the room.
Okaaaaay, so... to wrap up this whole personal flashback, I can confidently say:
GET MORE LAID. PERIOD.
And please, open the damn curtains.
—Rick
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