When other people think about their past and get a little misty, they might be thinking about things like their hometown and how their formative experiences there made them the adult they are today.
I, on the other hand, grew up op on the Internet. Many of my “old haunts” are sex blogs, and seeing some of my favorites go dark over the years has made me as wistful as others might be if they found out that their favorite, childhood roller rink burned down.
I found independently-written sex blogs shortly after my formal education ended (four years of abstinence-only sex ed). One errant click as I was looking for tips on how to shave “down there” without giving myself razor burn, and I was plunged into someone’s personal account of planning an orgy. Keep reading »
Let’s set the scene: I’m 23, drinking chai in a charming coffee shop. Sitting across from me is a gloriously burly guy in a leather jacket (and, as I know from his Fetlife photos, also in possession of two equally glorious full sleeves of serpent tattoos).
Then the conversation veers from what we do for a living to something more intense. He takes my hand, gently stroking the back of it, and indicates the deeply unsexy red burn line on my wrist.
“And is this from doing one of your… scenes?” he whispers in a voice full of anticipation.
“Nah,” I say. “I burned myself making muffins this morning.”
The devastation on his face is so remarkable that I wish I had taken a picture. It was like I’d farted right before he was about to come, AND kicked his puppy in the face.
Next, he asked me if I’d like to have sex with him in his car, which was currently parked on a busy street during the height of tourist season. I ended the date right then and there and sulked my way through the rest of my tea, alone, wondering how something that seemed so promising could go so wrong in the span of 15 minutes. Was it unreasonable to assume that I didn’t need to be constantly projecting submissive vibes during a first date? And certainly other kinksters made muffins, right? Keep reading »
Let me be clear: this house wasn’t in any way meant to be spooky. Nor was it Halloween. Even worse, my host didn’t forewarn me that there might be anything even vaguely strange about his place. The only thing he did mention, while unzipping my skirt, was that he was planning to put in an outdoor jacuzzi, just to enhance the whole ’70s swinger vibe he was going for.
I was in the middle of a “fuck tour” of Manhattan: a long weekend that literally started with an orgy at my friend’s place and continued as I met up with other people. My friend, being a fixture in the NYC sex scene for years, had a very extensive contact list of people who were willing to help the new girl get as many notches on her bedpost as possible. After a sex-starved stint working as a temp in a stuffy office, I was ready to let loose. The boy who I later discovered had a haunted house, went by the self-appointed name “Byron,” and that was the only name I knew him by. He was tall and skinny with a British accent. That was enough for me to want to spend some more private time with him.
Byron had a nice apartment, full of warm golden light and a well-stocked bar, which I drank only one glass of wine from, refusing a second. Half of the frisson of these casual encounters was the tiny lick of fear at the base of my spine that came from a lifetime of stranger-danger stories, and as a precaution, I always tried to remain as alert as possible. Little did I know, I was scared of the wrong thing. Keep reading »
I am done with penis.
I knew I was finished with it years ago, but, stupidly, I kept holding out as if I just hadn’t found The One True Penis — say, one that glittered or was bent upwards at the perfect angle. But penis-in-vagina was such a simple go-to when I wanted to have sex! Sometimes, I would pull him into bed with me so fast that even I thought I wanted him inside me. But then, no matter how eager and considerate the lover or great the dick, my arousal would sputter a few minutes after he was in. It was like dumping ice cubes on my vagina.
Thats why I’m swearing off cock–or more particularly, penile penetration. I’ve tried all kinds of things to get penis-in-vagina sex to work for me: large cocks and small cocks, silicone and flesh, bent at different angles and attached to all genders of bodies. I’ve put on blindfolds in order to narrow my sensation to just to what was between my legs and had some of the most talented people I could find manipulate my g-spot. All to no avail. Keep reading »
When I first began to put together the puzzle of my sexuality, the revelation that I had a rare fetish touched off a cascade of feelings. It began with relief, as I had finally figured out why penis-in-vagina sex had never worked for me. Later there was fear, as I wondered whether my desires were even safe to carry out in real life. But after a few months, everything had settled into a baseline of pure frustration.
It turns out that I’m into feederism—a fetish that revolves around fat, overeating, and weight gain. Four years of high-school sex-ed left me woefully unprepared for the reality of having unusual sexual needs, and in the beginning, I was almost entirely alone while trying to figure out such basic things as how to find the porn or how exactly to go about realizing my fantasies. For many years, I didn’t even know what keywords to type into Google in order to find the kind of porn I dreamed about (“fat,” unsurprisingly, tends to lead more to diet tips than videos of good-looking men joyfully eating entire cakes). When my girlfriends got together to compare notes on their sex lives, what was normal to them was no help to me at all. Even when I finally discovered a group of people that I was comfortable talking about my fetish with, I was still the only person in a group of 30 that had these particular needs. To that end, here are some of the things I wish I’d known when I discovered I had a fetish: Keep reading »
One of my clearest memories is of sitting in a diner with my mom and a family friend when I was a kid. I’d just ordered a chocolate milkshake (a treat since my mother only kept fruit pops in the house) when the friend pointed to a fat woman sitting at the counter nearby. In my memory, the woman’s bottom was so large the stool looked too small for her, and her bright, pink top showed off every roll.
“Be careful,” the family friend said, gesturing toward the woman.
In hindsight, I’m horrified at this memory. The woman, who was already brave enough to wear an eye-catching top, had to have heard our friend implying that her body was disgusting. But for my grade-school self, this just inspired feelings of shame and defiance. I wanted to enjoy my treat in peace for once, rather than be reminded yet again how I already had trouble finding clothes that fit. Keep reading »