Does Being A Sex Writer Make You Better At Talking About Sex?

My naughty drawer is not what it once was. At the moment, it contains: a bullet vibrator; two smoothie vibrators; a baggie filled with review samples of 20 or so different types of personal lubricants; a bottle of my favorite scented massage oil; a vanilla sugar-scented massage candle; an I Rub My Duckie; a sleep mask I typically use only when I’m having trouble falling asleep; leather handcuffs; one gorgeous bit of lingerie; a bottle of BabeLube; the fertility-friendly lube I purchased for babymaking sex; and a ton of batteries. I keep a wide-tipped riding crop behind the bed, and a healthy collection of sexy how-tos on a shelf. The collection was once more extensive. When I first became a sex writer—at the age of 22—I had a never-ending supply of condoms, a plethora of vibrators, a double-ended silicone dildo, edible body paint, sizzling body candy, vibrating nipple clamps, a massive porn collection, multiple erotica anthologies, and even a Sexerciseball. A small chest of drawers contained all of my condoms. A large trunk from Bed, Bath & Beyond contained everything else.

I remember when my parents came to help me pack up my stuff and move home from college. “What’s in there?” my mom asked, making a move for the chest of drawers. I leapt across the room, screaming, “Nooooooooo!” like one of those slow motion movie scenes. Not exactly subtle. Read more

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