I wouldn't worry too much. Whatever you might lack in skill you more than make up for in weirdness. Protocol dictates that rank precedes gender, so if your intended holds a title higher than American Apparel sales associate, simply say, "Madam Chancellor, may I present My Erection?" to which she will reply, "How do you do?" Attendees then rise for the national anthem, Senator Feinstein makes opening remarks, there is a canon salute, and Aaron Neville sings "Amazing Grace." Then, and only then, can insertion commence.

At least that's how they do it where I come from. However, Robert J. Rubel, author of the indispensable Master/Slave Relations: Handbook of Theory and Practice, as well as 2007's Squirms, Screams and Squirts: Going from Great Sex to Extraordinary Sex (because the title A Dance to the Music of Time was already taken), disagrees. He confirms your fear about implied incompetence and calls you a "submissive man," a charge you'll have to just sit there and take, I'm afraid. "I've never had a woman guide me in initially," he scoffs, before defining the core problem. "Here's the core problem: Anything that you do to pull the woman back into her head will destroy the moment. Don't ask her anything, don't do anything that she has to think about, don't confuse her." He's absolutely right. I was about to say something about the futility of rules with regard to the passionate acts of willing adults, but I've already forgotten the question.

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