Hey! This post deals with weight and body image stuff. If that’s tough or triggering for you, I encourage you to skip this post. I won’t be offended at all. You take care of you. ♥

chubby belly

In early 2014, I “embarked on a weight loss journey.” That’s how I phrased it. Because I was trying to be positive about it. I didn’t want it to be poisoned with all the self-hatred and patriarchal beauty standards I’d come to associate with weight loss.

But let’s face it: it was definitely about self-hatred and beauty. That became immediately clear when I noticed how much counting calories was sapping my emotional energy, and yet decided to keep doing it.

15139783471_798aa0785e_oI got down to the lowest weight I’d been in years, 150 pounds. On my 5’5″ frame, that put me into the BMI range called “normal,” rather than “overweight” – not that BMI is a terribly useful measure, but still, I was proud. Through hard work and focus and perseverance, I’d whipped my body into shape.

And I liked the way I looked. But no one wanted to fuck me.

Oh, maybe they did. I have no way of knowing. But certainly, my weight loss didn’t translate into any tangible sexual success for me, the way I had envisioned it might. My 3.5-year relationship came to an end right at the time that I hit my lowest weight, and we hadn’t had sex in months – and then, after we broke up, I was too shy and anxious to pursue sex with anyone else. So my vagina remained a no-fly zone.

12189697_10204235816849774_3570291086761898945_nOver the following year-and-a-bit, I lost motivation. It became too difficult to focus obsessively on calories on top of school, work, writing, and having a social life. I gained back all the weight and more. I’m now the fattest I’ve ever been, at 190 pounds. That’s frustrating, and makes me feel like a failure, and many a time I’ve looked into the mirror at my naked body and completely hated what I saw. But, weirdly: I’ve never received more sexual attention than I have in the past few months.

Please understand that I’m reporting this to you not with a braggy tone but with an incredulous one. There was a time when I deeply, honestly, truly believed that my weight was the barrier between me and romantic success. I saw some women in my communities who were fat and still socially successful, but I believed they had something fundamental that I did not: a pretty face, a fun personality, an “it factor” I just hadn’t been born with.

So, it was definitely surprising to me that I hit 190 pounds and now can’t even keep track of all the sexual and romantic propositions I receive. In fact, it kind of makes me angry that our culture told me this was impossible.

The notion of the “unfuckable fat woman” is a rampant one in our media and culture. A fat woman who has sexual desires – especially if she dares to act on those desires! – is often a punchline. As if it’s hilarious, shocking and ridiculous that someone so undesirable would view herself any other way. As if fat people can’t be gorgeous, hot, loveable and fuckable.

While weight gain was positively correlated with sexual attention for me, I’m definitely not trying to argue that correlation implies causation in this case. I don’t think people are more into me now because I’m fatter; I just think I’ve grown up a little, I’m more confident, less anxious. Paradoxically, while I don’t like my body these days, I’ve also learned that my body doesn’t define me as a person, so I like myself more overall. You’ve probably heard it thousands of times, but it really is true: confidence makes a person hotter. It’s an almost universal fact.

I’m also “putting myself out there” more than I ever was before. Anxiety kept me from attending events for a long time, and also made it difficult for me to stick with services like OkCupid and Tinder. Part of that anxiety was about my body: even though I wasn’t as fat then as I am now, I still worried that I’d look thinner/cuter in my photos online and that my matches would be disappointed when we met up in person. Now I know better – I post photos that show what my body really looks like and let the chips fall where they may. And you know what? A lot of people love my body!

There is something freeing, too, about the word “fat” itself. I avoided it for a long time, choosing words like “chubby” instead. I did this partly because I wasn’t technically “plus-size” (usually the cut-off is size 12-14, and I’ve only recently crossed that threshold) and didn’t want to claim that word without having actual experience being read as fat, and partly because the word scared me. I had internalized the message that “fat” is one of the worst things someone can call you.

As with many hurtful labels, though, if you claim one for yourself, it stings less when someone else slaps it on you. Recently some dickhead on the internet called me “fat and ugly” and it didn’t bother me at all – because I knew it was kinda true and I knew that was okay. Beauty is subjective, fat is fine, and just because that guy isn’t attracted to me doesn’t mean no one is. That seems like an obvious insight, maybe, but it helps me each and every time I remind myself of it.

I still have body anxiety sometimes. I think we all do. And I still deeply value the affirming comments I receive from sexual partners: “I love your body,” “You’re so beautiful,” “Your hips/stomach/thighs/butt is so sexy.” You can like your body and still need affirmation sometimes; that’s perfectly fine and normal. I have so much gratitude for partners who understand that – who know that my fat body is inherently valuable and desirable and valid but that I still appreciate being told that.

There may come a time in my future when I have the energy and the drive to work on weight loss again. I know I’d be healthier and happier at a lower weight, but I also know that right now, I just don’t have the time and emotional bandwidth to put myself through that process. But no matter how my body might change over the course of my lifetime, at least I know now that weight doesn’t affect my desirability as much as I feared it did. That’ll give me the confidence I need to live my life as a fat, openly sexual woman.


Where I left off, Bex was patiently waiting for me to put my makeup on for Playground prom. (Applying silver glitter eyeshadow can be a fairly involved process, as you might know.) We put on our sparkly dresses, grabbed Greek takeout, and shoved it messily into our faces while riding the subway back to the hotel. (We classy.)

The prom was sooooo much fun, and I say that as someone who normally hates anything involving a club-y or dance-y atmosphere. Usually that sort of vibe gives me massive anxiety and introvert exhaustion in short order. But the entire Playground Conference was set up to be a safe(r) space, and there were so many friendly faces everywhere I went, that I didn’t feel nervous at all. I danced my ass off with lovely humans the whole night: we literally stayed until the DJ said goodnight and they turned the lights back on.

Some prom highlights: Shrieking with excitement when a Justin Bieber song came on. ♥ Rogue (who is more outgoing than me, and therefore more capable of interacting with strangers) asking the DJ to play the Macarena on my behalf, and then getting to Macarena real hard with a bunch of other enthusiastic weirdos on the dance floor. ♥ Remembering midway through the evening that I had a paddle in my bag, and letting folks use it on each other. ♥ Laughing so hard at a cute boy’s Christopher Walken and James Spader impressions that I had to immediately announce “I have a huge crush on you,” which caused him to kiss me. ♥ Shrieking along with the high notes in Senorita. ♥ The total acceptance with which Lavender was greeted when she decided the dance floor was too hot and took her dress off.

There was to be a sexy after-party when prom ended – after all, post-prom is the time to lose your virginity… or, um, have a kinky orgy in a hotel room… – but I was too tired to party any more, so I ended up going home to sleep in a handsome man’s bed. (No, really. Just to sleep. I was tired as fuck from all that dancing!)


After creeping home in the morning to shower and get dressed, I subwayed back to the hotel just in time for JoEllen and Stephen‘s talk on sex and depression. There was a remarkable feeling in that room: it felt like the crowd was hungry for the information being shared. Like all of us who’ve suffered from depression, and who have struggled with our sexuality as a result, were dying to both hear about others’ experiences in this regard and share our own. It’s true what JoEllen says about sex and depression, that it’s a difficult topic because it’s the intersection of two taboos – and that’s also what makes it so intensely freeing when you do get to hear about, and talk about, that intersection.

That session was fantastic, but also quite heavy, as you might expect. So when I received an invitation to a hotel room cuddle party immediately afterward, I accepted on the spot. Cuddles with sex-positive cuties are an excellent treatment for the sads. We took the elevator up, and our cuddle party devolved into a sleepy sex-pile. (I mean… It was a sex conference. Did you really expect our cuddles to be chaste?)

12224521_1132535596757421_182425694_nWhen the owner of the aforementioned hotel room had to check out of it, we were faced with the task of finding a new location for what had become an emergency threesome. I hesitate to write too much about the fun and funny fuck-times that ensued – I’d rather keep it in reserve for Tell Me Something Good or more private settings – but let’s just say it was gooooood.

Threesomes, and group sex in general, make me nervous as hell in theory. It feels like there’s so much that can go wrong, so many ways that one person can feel like a third wheel or that everyone can feel awkward and uncertain. But luckily, that hasn’t been my experience with either of the threesomes I’ve been in. I guess I know some good people!

We finished up and got on a streetcar back to the hotel, where we arrived just in time for the final keynote with Mollena Williams and Herr Meister. It was a really wonderful ending to the conference because it was so low-key: instead of being a structured speech/talk, it was really just a dialogue between Mollena and her Master about their relationship. I think it was exactly the emotional cooldown we needed to help us transition back into “real life” – almost like non-sexual aftercare.

In her closing remarks, Samantha suggested mac and cheese as a viable self-care strategy for dealing with con drop. Bex and I took that idea and ran with it. After hugging folks goodbye – and returning the threesome-location key we’d borrowed – we returned to 7 West for massive quantities of comfort food. We ended up talking for 4 hours or more, just debriefing about the weekend, and it was truly the perfect conference wrap-up. ♥

Thanks so much to Samantha Fraser for making the Playground Conference happen, and to all the folks who traveled from near and from far to attend it. It was ridiculous amounts of fun and I feel so grateful to be a part of this community. Love love love!

Ha. Remember last week when I prophesied that Playground would be “one of the best weekends of my year”? Yep, I was right.

imageMy Playground adventure began with a Thursday-night porn party hosted by the beautiful and wonderful Kate Sinclaire. Kate knows porn: her softcore site Cherrystems and soon-to-launch porn site Ciné Sinclaire are the cat’s pajamas. She showed us some stuff she’d been working on, all of which was hot and fresh and compelling. Then we watched various other clips, including this adorable one in which Zander Storm shows you how to make biscuits, while wearing nothing but an apron. CUTEST.

I got to meet several cool folks at that get-together who I would see intermittently for the rest of the weekend – including Rogue, who has been a Snapchat buddy of mine for ages! Yay!

The next day, I had two psychology exams practically back-to-back, and got through them only by reminding myself that I was going to Playground that night.

imageBex came over to my house and it was sooooo good to see her again. (We last hung out at SHE and, before that, at DildoHoliday.) She waited around for me while I got ready (a recurring theme of the weekend – sorry, Bex) and then went for dinner at my fave, 7 West. From there, we headed over to the hotel where Playground was taking place.

We missed the opening keynote but arrived in time for Tell Me Something Good, the monthly sexy storytelling event which is always one of the highlights of my month. I got to see (and introduce Bex to) a bunch of my favorite folks from the local sex-positive community. We got drinks, listened to stories, and laughed our asses off. (Dan and Tynan are two of the most hilarious people I know.) I even got to tell a story of my own – in a very, very short dress. Whoops.

We went upstairs for a tiny, intimate hotel room party that involved “special” brownies, Truth or Dare, and ridiculous mispronunciations of the word “boudoir.” Ooh la la.


Bex and I began our Saturday morning at a talk on solo polyamory, given by Eva Dusome of Polyamory Toronto. I am just at the veeeery beginning of my foray into poly life, and while this workshop wasn’t the 101-level introduction I probably needed, it still gave me a ton of insight and food for thought about what kind of poly person I might want to be. By the time the session ended, my brain was positively abuzz with thoughts of autonomy, connection, individuality, introversion, the illusion of control, and the ways in which self-care is vital to relationships.

After that, we went to Create Your Own Porn, a panel featuring (among others) Kate Sinclaire, Sophie Delancey, and Taylor J. Mace, three of my favorite pornographers who also happen to be three truly delightful people. Also there was Sonya JF Barnett, whose work I remembered from a feminist porn screening I attended earlier this year. They shared many useful tidbits about the technical and back-end side of porn creation, probably launching the careers of several audience members with porn ambitions!

imageAfter lunch, we had intended to go to the Spit erotic boudoir shoot, but there was a huge lineup (yay, good for them!) so we went back down to the exhibitor room instead. I bought some fancy lingerie from EmMeMa and we also ogled leather kink goods, stainless steel sex toys, and fetishistic femme hair accessories. It was truly a cornucopia of Cool Sex Stuff.

It was fitting that I followed up lingerie shopping with a panel on femme identity. Some femmes on this panel I already knew, and some I didn’t, but all of them brought perspectives to the table that opened my eyes and engaged my heart. This was easily the most emotional session of the weekend for me, because femme erasure, femme competition, and femme underappreciation are all things I’ve experienced and things I’ve felt stupidly alone in. So much of what the speakers said was relatable, not only to me but seemingly to everyone else in the room. The sense of crowd-wide solidarity was palpable and it took a lot of restraint for me not to cry – but I don’t think anyone would’ve judged me if I had.

After that last session, I located Bex and we headed back to my place to get ready for prom night… (This story to be continued in part 2 of my Playground diary!)

Dear darlings: as I write this, I am gearing up for what will inevitably be one of the best weekends of my year.

Tonight, Playground Conference kicks off. It runs until Sunday night, and will be a whirlwind of smart panels, silly storytelling, and fun times with friends. I’m so excited!

My pals at Spit are running an erotic boudoir photography session for all attendees who want to go, and asked if I’d like to lend them some “props” for folks to use in their pictures. I’m always happy to assist with this sort of thing (what’s the point of having a huge sex toy collection if I’m the only one who ever uses it?!) so I picked out some stuff I thought they might like.

Here’s what I packed into a bag to hand off to the Spit folks today…


An assortment of dildos! I selected some good ones that I thought would look nice in photos, and boiled ’em yesterday so they’d be all clean and pretty for Spit and their subjects.

To keep things balanced and to provide a wide array of options, I chose three realistic dildos and three that are less so. In the penis-esque category: the Tantus Adam O2, Tantus Mark O2 and Tantus Uncut #1. (Um, I like Tantus. And, possibly, I didn’t want to part with my VixSkin for a weekend.) In the less-realistic camp: I pulled the Topco Rascal El Diablo (it’s huge!!), Maia D3 DIL, and Fuze Wilde. All of these toys are really gorgeous and I think they will translate well to photos.


Naturally, you can’t lend someone harness-compatible dildos for photos without also lending them a harness! I’m hesitant to trust anyone with my Aslan Jaguar, but I know if anyone’ll take good care of it, Spit will.

The great thing about the Jag is that it’s suuuuper adjustable, so folks of most body sizes and types will be able to sport this beautiful harness in their photos if they want to. Yay, inclusivity!


I can’t seem to find my Aslan cuffs at the moment (WHAT IS THE POINT OF LIVING, am I right?!), but these pink metallic cuffs from Unicorn Collaborators are just as pretty and just as effective. And they have hearts and stars on them!

I bought these at the Erotic Arts & Crafts Fair a couple years ago, and ever since, I’ve been dearly wishing that Unicorn Collaborators had an online shop so I could recommend their kink wares to everyone I know. Ah well, maybe one day…!

tumblr_inline_mp5uuejhiW1qz4rgpThis silk and leather pearl-studded blindfold is from the Lelo Bridal Pleasure Set, and while you might recall that I kind of hate it, it sure does look pretty in pictures.


What sexy props would you want to have on hand if you were posing for boudoir photos? And, more importantly: will I see you this weekend at Playground?!


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He’s so damn smart. He knows all my big words and even teaches me some new ones. His eyes sparkle with intelligence. He gets all my references and odd turns of phrase because he’s whip-smart, quick and responsive.

He’s funny as hell. Makes me laugh so hard I can’t breathe. Comes up with dumb puns to impress me, and high-fives me when I pun back at him. His celebrity impressions are spot-on and he’ll valiantly try even ones he’s not confident about because he wants to make me laugh. Sometimes I say something that strikes him as so funny he can’t help but dissolve into giggles, gasping for air, eyes squeezed shut.

He smells amazingly good. I can nuzzle my nose into his chest, inhale deeply and immediately feel at home and comforted. He lends me a shirt he’s worn and I wear it all day and feel swaddled in sexiness and sweetness.

He’s a total kinky perv like me but his consent ethics trump everything and always come first. He’s into long conversations about likes and dislikes, and debriefs while we cuddle naked after trying something new. He values safewords, safe-signals, 1-to-10 scales, check-ins. He only wants to do things we’re both excited about.

He’s a gentle kisser and cuddler but a rough fuck. He pins me down, grips my wrists above my head, manipulates me like a doll. He growls things in my ear that make me dripping wet and then follows through on them. He values the clit, understands its fragility and what it likes, but can also pound the fuck out of my G-spot with fingers or cock or toys. He’s hungry to make me come, to challenge me and himself, to change things up, but still fall back on old faithfuls. He’s quick with a condom and a bottle of lube and can accomplish both while biting my neck, grinding a thigh against my pussy and announcing in salient detail what he’s about to do to me.

He’s tender and affectionate. An arm around my waist while we walk in public. Gently stroking my hair while we lie on the couch watching Netflix. Offering me an arm to cling to, like an old-fashioned gentleman. A quick kiss on the top of my head or the back of my shoulder whenever he feels like it. Long aimless cuddle sessions.

He’s romantically and sexually adventurous, but deeply rooted. He sees no reason we shouldn’t explore, diversify, experiment with other people, but his first priority is always making sure I feel safe, cared for and valued. His heart leans monogamous while his brain excitedly explores other avenues with me.

His creative vocation (whatever it is) wows me every time, even as it’s old hat to him. His talent is so singular and sexy it makes me want to swoon and kiss him hard. And in turn he’s in awe of my talents, respects and supports them, thinks I’m the cleverest Head Bitch in Charge.

He plays no games. He says what he means. He acts like he likes me, because he does. His word is dependable and binding; what he says he’ll do, he does.

He’s so cute, it boggles my mind. I look at him in a grey sleep T-shirt or a lavender button-down or a zipped leather jacket and just think about how much I want to kiss that sweet face or get it between my thighs. He still gives me butterflies whenever he walks into a room, or shows up wherever we’re meeting for a date.

His written communiqué is on point. His sexts are delicious. His romantic emails are worth printing out and rereading late at night. He writes me dorky notes on post-its stuck to the sides of takeout containers or the inside covers of borrowed books. He’s all about words of affirmation, like me, and the words we exchange are affirming as hell.

Mainly what I remember when we’re apart is how he makes me feel. That’s more consequential than how he looks, how he fucks, how he talks. The very thought of him makes me giggly and swoony, but I also feel safe and affirmed in his presence. He’s “similar enough to me to make me feel comfortable, and different enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.” I want us to challenge and comfort and comfort and challenge each other for as long as we possibly can.