Anything where I take someone's virginity is bad sex just because of my huge guilt complex.
It is bad sex when I've already explained that I want to be fucked and instead I am being made love to. I promise I'll fuck back. Really. That's what I like.
However, the worst sex I ever had... Well, this is an interesting story. So I have a seriously crazy ex. I was very much in love with her at the time, and she was very much in love with me, we were very much in love, etc. You get the idea. We fucked like rabbits. Any time, all the time. And we were very kinky. We definitely had a set power scale in bed. I was dominant, she was submissive.
One night, we were house sitting a friend of mine's place, just chilling with a couple of friends, knocking back some wine.
Don't believe different alcohols give you different buzzes? Believe this: Of all the many times I've seen her inebriated, white wine is the only time I've ever seen her go split personality on me.
She kept trying to slit her wrists, telling me that she would only disappoint me, as she had disappointed so many others, and that she was no good, and that was why her mother had given her up at birth. (She did, in the end, disappoint me. And if she ever gets drunk on white wine around me again, I'm telling her so and leaving someone else to deal with the mess -that- makes.) No matter how many times I got the knife away from her, she kept going for it again. I started throwing her around-- very seriously. I am not a small girl, and neither am I weak. I threw her up against a wall, and probably gave her a mild concussion, because I couldn't hold her down long enough for her to pass out. She was fighting me too much.
Finally, I got the knife in the sink and her on the floor, with my knee firmly in her gut. I bruised her insides really badly somehow; it took her months to recover from that. She probably should have gone to a doctor.
She was still fighting for the knife.
I am an excellent actress, and I always have been. I also think well on the fly. I started explaining to her that I was in charge of her, and she was not. Furthermore, I explained to her that she could not kill herself because I had not given her permission to do so. When I was done using her, she could go ahead and do that. She asked me how she could believe me, when I said I owned her. I held her down, and what I did, I still believe to this day, was more or less equivalent to rape.
No, I don't have penis. Same-sex rape -can- happen. I know, I was there.
Then, when she thoroughly understood that I meant everything I said, I put her to bed and told her if she fucking moved again, I'd find something to tie her down with.
She passed out. I threw up and cried at least four times, ate breakfast, threw up again, went into mild shock on the couch.
She doesn't remember any of this.
The end of this story: The things you do for love.