My Favorite Kinds of Blowjob

The first blowjob. The phrase “knock your socks off” is too mild and clichéd for what I plan to do to you. You’ve probably read my blog posts or tweets where I profess my oral enthusiasm, but I don’t want you to mistake those for boasting; I’m no more skilled than the average cocksucker, I’m just preternaturally excited about the act. So lay back and let me figure out what you like, through minuscule experiments of tongue and lips. I want to map your tastes like a cartographer of cock. Let’s depart on this voyage together.

The drunk blowjob. Sloppy and slurring, we grin and giggle, thick as thieves. If you were a stranger, I’d be nervous, but you’re not, so I just laugh and laugh. “I kinda wanna go down on you,” I mumble in your ear. Our bottles clink together, inadvertently punctuating my sentence. “I kinda want that too,” you mutter back at me. I take another swig before replacing my beer bottle with something even more phallic.

The subby blowjob. “Come here.” Yes sir. “Lie across my lap.” Yes sir. “Are you going to take your spanking like a good girl?” Yes sir. “Does that hurt, little one?” Yes sir. “Do you want some more?” Yes sir. “Does that feel good?” Yes sir. “You’re getting wet for me, aren’t you?” Yes sir. “Do you want a bruise on your pretty little ass?” Yes sir. “Had enough yet?” Yes sir. “I think you can take a few more.” Yes sir. “There you go, baby. You took that so well for me.” Yes sir. “Think you’ve earned a reward?” Yes sir. “Do you know what that reward might be?” Yes sir. “I think you want my cock in your mouth.” Yes sir. “And I think you deserve that.” Yes sir. “So get on your knees for me, princess.” Yes sir. “Now unzip my pants and kiss my cock.” Yes sir. “You’re going to do such a good job for me, aren’t you?” Yes sir. “Okay, you can take me in your mouth now, little girl.” Yes sir. “Mmm. You like that, darling?” Yes sir.

The established-partners blowjob. I know precisely what works for you but I’m going to take my time getting there. I love those familiar noises you make, the predictable tensing of your muscles, the telltale quickening of your breath. I love knowing I’m doing a good job for you. I love that this is neither expected nor demanded but instead, freely given: an enthusiastic expression of enduring affection. I am not winning your heart, but instead, showing you how much I value it.

The stoned blowjob. I’m not even sure how I ended up here. Here between your knees. My hands skim across your thighs: the coarse wisps of hair, the familiar scent of your skin, the warmth of the blood pumping underneath. My head in your lap is a comfort to both of us. I slide your cock along my tongue and it lights up every nerve ending, one by one, stacking and unspooling. Everything tastes so good. Your salty skin, normally a fact of life, is now a cascading symphony. I sense a hint of precum at the tip of you and lap it up slow but eager, determined to make that happen again. All my senses just want this, want you.

The morning blowjob. You get so hard in the morning, you could practically cut steel. With your consent, I adore sliding down your body under the bedsheets and taking you in my mouth. A sweet and surprising wake-up call. Whether this blooms into other activities or remains a simple and singular pre-coffee treat, I am content here, with the early light streaming through the window, making these moments feel languid and full of fresh hope.


Though I’ve had seemingly infinite crushes in my short, limerence-loaded life, few of them were magnetic in the way often described in pop songs. Usually my physical attractions are clipped onto the sides of more romantic lures; it’s rare for that sexual pull to exist loudly and fully as its own boisterous thing.

But three times in my life, I have met a magnet. I hope I meet many more.

“I wanna touch your knee, but very casually. I’m gonna get so near you, so I can hear you, silently sitting very, very close.”

The cute boy in my improv class is ruining my entire academic year.

His open face and unreserved grin, his sloping shoulders and sharp collarbones, his long fingers and strong arms, his tall stature, his dirty sneakers, his tight jeans, his barking laugh. I can’t handle any of it. I can handle exactly none of it.

He is very fucking distracting, in a molecular and neurological way I’ve never quite experienced before. One day I’m journaling before class begins and find my pen wandering off the page as my eyes drift toward him. He’s not even doing anything important, just goofing off with the other boys using props lying around in the classroom, but my gaze stays affixed to his form. I feel like a fucking creep. I am a fucking creep. I don’t know what to do about it.

Another day, I’m talking to some friends in the hallway, and suddenly he walks by. I absorb a cloud of his teenage-boy cologne through deep inhalations and lose my words completely. “Kate?” a pal asks me. “Kate, you just trailed off mid-sentence. What were you saying?” I can’t fucking remember what I was saying. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way his shoulderblades look, pressing sharply through the lines of his sweater as he saunters down the hall. Fuck.

We perform together in an improv set, and between scenes, I sit beside him in the wings. I am infinitely, uncomfortably aware of his warm thigh alongside mine. I can feel my body singing, humming, buzzing at a frequency that aches to match his. My molecules purr meltily and moonily at his. But he doesn’t even notice. I am nothing to him. I’m just some girl he kind of knows. This pull I am feeling exists only in my body and I just can’t understand how that can be true.

“I’m a magnet. And you’re a magnet. And we are pushing each other away.”

My second magnet is someone else’s boyfriend. Nothing to be done about it but feel it, and try not to feel it.

This time, at least, I am certain he’s feeling it too. We sit close together at a party, our chairs side-by-side so our eyes don’t quite meet, because that would be Too Much. Other partygoers engage us in conversation and we laugh and talk and sip our drinks, but the inches of air between us are warm and whirring. I want to get just a little closer, feel him just a little more, but I don’t. I can’t.

Flirtatiously, tipsily, I admit to him in a low tone, “I really want to make out with you, but I don’t think that’s allowed.” He smiles like the sweetest little imp and neither confirms nor denies – which is, of course, a “no.” I figured as much. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.

Once or twice, I get up from my seat, beer in hand, to totter to the bathroom. Opening the door afterward, I half-expect to see him just outside, forehead pressed to the doorjamb, mumbling, “I just had to come kiss you.” But he doesn’t. He is good. For the most part.

Past 3AM that night, when I’ve long departed the party and am half-catatonic in bed, I get a text from him: “I really wanted to make out with you tonight too.” I know he did, is the thing. It radiated off him like waves of heat. What an awful, wonderful, terrible thing.

I start avoiding parties where I know he’ll be, because resisting that magnetic pull is possible, but not pleasurable. I’m tired of torture. One evening of aching was enough.

“What is the centre between two centres of attention? Is there a centre between two centres of attention? Or only tension between two centres of attention?”

Sometimes you don’t recognize a magnet right away when you meet them. Sometimes the magnetism has to sublimate, stagnate, before it roars to life.

I meet my Sir in a Manhattan coffee shop, before I know he’s going to be my Sir, before I know he’s going to be my anything. He’s wearing a blue button-down that sets off his cornflower eyes, and the excited-but-guarded smile you flash at your Twitter crush when you’re nervous they’re not gonna like you IRL. I suppress my swooning, because we are in public, for fuck’s sake.

We’ve been talking animatedly for almost an hour before I realize the boy across from me is, indeed, a magnetic forcefield. “Would it be too intimate,” he begins, slowly, watching my eyes widen, “if we traded phones and looked at each other’s podcasts?” And then he leans across the table, ostensibly to show me his screen, but really it’s to dial that electric current up to eleven. My eyes want to slam shut as he gets that close to me, because I feel it, I feel the pull, and it’s such a rare and marvelous thing that I want to savor it in every fizzing atom of my little body.

“Love a good table-lean,” I say to him weeks later, over the phone, making fun of him for those perfect flirtations on our first date. But I know it wasn’t so much purposeful flirting as it was his desire to get closer to me. I know this because I wanted that, too.

Our second date comes after weeks of planning, sexting, flirting, and dirty-talking over the phone. I’m so nervous, I sweat through my winter coat. I’m so nervous, I swill his peppermint tea from a paper cup I’m clutching with trembling hands. I’m so nervous, I start exhibiting actual goddamn panic attack symptoms at dinner. He talks me through it all, and holds my hand, patient and forgiving and endlessly kind.

After dinner, we wait in the restaurant’s entryway for our Lyft to arrive. It’ll take us to the hotel where we’re going to fuck each other’s bodies and minds all night – but all moments until then are torture. He steps toward me and gives me a soft kiss, quick, like he’s releasing a little air from a valve so the whole machine doesn’t fucking explode. I whimper and keen and swoon forward against him, my whole body wanting the kiss to continue, but it doesn’t. Not yet.

“I feel like a magnet,” I mumble, and it has never felt more true. The heat of my skin and the knot in my gut and the twinge in my heart are all insisting: Touch this boy. But I am good, and I wait.

“Me too,” he says, the bridge of his nose pressed into mine, and then our car arrives, and we get in, and I pray for the invention of time travel solely so I can skip this goddamn car ride and be naked in bed beside this perfect boy in an instant.

I meet his eyes in the dim backseat, and I can see my smoky desire mirrored back at me. I can feel our pulses pounding in sync. I know what’s going to happen. And I know I’m going to like it.

5 Things I Love About Erotic Hypnosis

Have you ever discovered a new kink and instantly wanted to know everything about it?

This happened to me with age play, it happened to me with bootblacking, and most recently, it’s happened to me with hypnokink. What’s interesting is that these salacious fixations aren’t necessarily driven by genital stirrings – I’m not a dyed-in-the-wool fetishist, mostly just a kinky dilettante – but where my brain goes, my junk will often follow.

Not only is erotic hypnosis fascinating to me intellectually; it also appeals because I’m dating someone new who’s deeply, deeply into it. When I’m super attracted to someone and desperately want them to want me, my service kinks make all their kinks seem much more alluring all of a sudden. Aren’t brains strange?!

Here are 5 of my favorite things I’ve discovered about this unique kink in the couple months I’ve been exploring it…

It’s a completely new sensation to me. Remember when I told you I wanted to try electrostimulation because I thought it’d be utterly different from any pleasures or pains I’d felt before? Being in trance is like that too. The first time my partner tranced me was actually an accident (that’s a wild story for another time!) and I immediately noticed that it felt like sleepiness, but different; like subspace, but different; like post-yoga relaxation, but different. When I’m in trance, I feel warm, comforted, lulled, and thrillingly malleable.

There are times now when I actively crave trance, just like I do with any other sexual sensation. I miss it when I’ve gone too long without it. And then when my Sir drops me down, it feels all the more delicious.

It loosens my inhibitions. Being a sexually anxious person, I’ve found lots of tricks that work to reduce my anxiety – such as wearing a blindfold, telling my partner what I’m nervous about so they can reassure me, judicious use of weed or booze, or enduring pain so intense it clears my brain.

Being tranced makes me feel a little loopy, like being drunk, high, or super sleepy. This makes it easier for me to ask for what I want and to genuinely enjoy myself in the moment. But beyond that, a partner can also specifically plant a suggestion while I’m in trance that’ll make me feel more confident and less inhibited. A few weeks ago, my Sir used hypnosis to temporarily remove my verbal filter so I would just spout whatever filthy shit entered my mind while we had phone sex, and I monologued at him for like 40 minutes about thigh-grinding, boot-licking, blowjobs, and exhibitionism, among other things. As someone who’s normally pretty shy about dirty talk, I was amazed this could happen!

You can do it without even being physically together. Unlike most “standard” sexual activities, hypnokink lends itself well to long-distance relationships. Many hypno-tops cultivate a mesmerizing voice they only use when hypnotizing someone, and oftentimes, their voice and their words are their primary tools. My Sir’s tranced me many times over the phone but only once in person so far, and I didn’t even notice much of a difference between the two, in terms of the depth of trance I was able to reach.

I’ve long been resistant to long-distance relationships because I felt I needed the intimacy and satisfaction of regular sex with a partner to feel fulfilled by them, but the combination of polyamory and distance-friendly activities like hypnosis has helped diffuse this problem for me. My darlin’ may be 500 miles away from me, but when he’s easing me down into a warm, relaxing trance with just the power of his voice, it feels like he’s right beside me in bed.

There are tons of resources about it. When you’re doing something precarious and scary like messing around with someone’s brain, you’d better know your shit. And fortunately, there’s lots you can learn on the internet, in books, and at workshops about this kink.

My Sir recommends the books Mind Play (which I read and loved; it’s a thorough and titillating introduction to erotic hypnosis with lots of actionable tips) and Hypnotic Amnesia. There are plenty of hypnotists doing good stuff on YouTube if you want a little taste of what trance can feel like; I particularly like Alicia Fairclough. And finally, you should poke around on Fetlife to see if there’s a hypnokink group in your local area; I’ve discovered cool people doing interesting hypno things in my city that way, and you’ll often learn more from seeing an in-person demo than you ever could from a web video.

It requires deep trust and vulnerability. This is my favorite thing about most kinks, and hypnosis is no exception. You can’t – or at least shouldn’t – attempt it with someone unless and until you trust that they know their stuff and would not harm you. Once that trust is earned and established, it opens up so much space for play and exploration.

Sometimes when I watch hypnosis videos on YouTube, part of me feels a little reserved – “What if this person is evil and plants a harmful suggestion in me while I’m under?” – and it makes it trickier for me to go into trance, even though I know mind control isn’t really a thing. But I never feel that apprehension with my Sir. I know that whatever he says to me or does to me, it will be in service of fun, pleasure, and intimacy for us both. That level of trust is not only electrically hot, but also deeply nourishing to me in a way I can’t even quite articulate. That is what’s beautiful to me about any kind of consensual power exchange, and I’m so glad to have found yet another manifestation of that feeling in hypnosis.

Have you ever experimented with hypnosis, in either sexual or non-sexual ways? What did you think?

Take Your Sweetheart to a Sex Shop

Sex shops feel drastically different depending on whether you’re there alone, with a friend, or with someone you like to bang. Some sex-shop trips are meandering, some are matter-of-fact, and some are mushy as hell. If you want to learn something new about a person in your life, whether they’re just a friend or something more, try taking them to a sex shop (with their consent, of course) – you will see a new side of them, I guarantee it.

Taking romantic partners to sex shops is a unique experience, truly. And it doesn’t have to be as simple as “show up, pick something out together, take it home, and try it out.” There are lots of ways to jazz up this relationship milestone! Here are five suggestions…

Pick out a surprise for each other. I helped a couple do this when I was working in sex toy retail and it was such an adorable joy. They each separately crept around the shop, surreptitiously sleuthing out a secret token of love for the other. Agree on a budget beforehand if you like, try not to peek at what your partner’s picking out, and keep your treats concealed from each other until you arrive home and swap ’em. It’s like Secret Santa, except more specific, special, and sexy!

Attend a workshop. Some sex shops host classes that’ll teach you new sexual skills. I’ve attended local lessons on handjobs, blowjobs, butt stuff, squirting, fisting, and much more. Some classes are specifically designed for couples; some aren’t but offer discounted pricing for pairs. If workshops like this exist in your area, you and your sweetheart should flip through the calendar together and choose a session that excites you both. Go, take notes, ask questions, exchange knowing glances at relevant moments, be cute little astute pupils together, and then go home and try out what you learned.

Make it a date. When my friend Bex was working in sex toy retail, they often recommended that customers buy their partners a gift card rather than a toy, because it’s hard to shop for someone else in this area, even if you think you know their tastes fairly intimately. Throw in another gift card to your partner’s favorite restaurant, and maybe a small indulgence like a massage candle or a good-quality flavored lube, and you’ve got a fun date night on your hands. You and your darlin’ can dress up fancy, go for dinner, drop by the sex shop to pick up a pleasurable new treat, and then go home and debut your new treasure. Fun!

Try on lingerie. When visiting a shop that sells sexy apparel, there are few joys more satisfying than modeling something strappy or revealing for your paramour (or being the audience for such a spectacle). It’s so so sweet to see someone’s eyes light up when you step out of the fitting room looking devilishly divine. And then you can buy whichever ensemble revs your honey’s engine the most, and take it home to try it on again in a more private setting.

“If we had [x], I would [y]…” You don’t actually need to spend money at a sex shop to get an erotic charge out of visiting one. Take a look around a shop with your babe, mentally select a few items you’d love to use on/with them, and then whisper those filthy fantasies in their ear later when the two of you are home and canoodlin’. Injecting freshness into sexual relationships is always a good idea, and there are so many ways to do it!

Have you ever taken a partner to a sex shop? How did it go?


This post was sponsored, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Swallow Your Fear: A Deep Dive Into Deepthroating

Author’s note: A few weeks ago, I complained to my Sir that I wished I was better at deepthroating, and he mused, “Maybe I should design a curriculum.” He put together a list of resources (see the end of this post for the list, if you’re curious) and issued me an assignment: “Read, watch, and listen to the following media, and prepare a written reflection on what you learned and how you plan to incorporate these ideas.” What follows is that written reflection. (I got a grade of 90 out of 100, which is an A+, by the way!)

“Feel the fear and do it anyway.” –psychologist and self-help author Susan Jeffers

“Jump into the fear; it’s super fun.” –improvisor and improv coach Matt Folliott

“I have learned that there are two things I need in order to comfortably jump into a fear: a supportive, loving, respectful environment, and a little push.” –my journal, 2011

Over and over in my sex life, I have resolved to overcome a fear, pushed through it, and arrived on the other side blushing, grinning, and safe.

Sexual anxiety is a microcosm for anxiety I experience in my life more generally. Each discrete fear has a period of development and simmering, a point at which it reaches its terrifying zenith, and (provided I ever find the nerve) a moment when I face the fear head-on and inevitably learn, once again, that nothing is ever as scary as I initially believe it to be. When I conquer sexual fears in this way, I see afresh that any fear worth conquering can be conquered like this: through incremental efforts and then one big leap.

I’ve long feared deepthroating, despite it being a significant kink of mine for several years. The discomfort of cramming a foreign object into one’s throat, the subsequent panic when one’s gag reflex is tripped, and the sense of failure when it doesn’t go as planned all contribute to my view of deepthroating as more daunting than arousing (and I find it plenty arousing, so that’s saying something). However, in devouring the deepthroating curriculum thoughtfully prepared for me by my Sir, I encountered countless iterations of an idea I already knew but had never really applied to deepthroating before: that sometimes, the way to get over a fear is simply to wade into the intense feelings it brings up, stay there, and sit with those feelings awhile.

Much has been written on the technical skills involved in deepthroating. Many guides recommend isolating and becoming aware of your throat muscles, through methods such as yawning and swallowing, so as to be able to relax them voluntarily. Many also recommend certain positions, like the classic “head hanging upside-down over the edge of the bed” pose, which align the throat with the mouth to minimize gagging. Most also suggest practicing on a dildo, so you get the hang of coordinating throat relaxation with carefully-timed breathing and head-bobbing before bringing a partner into the equation.

But beyond physical tricks, almost all these guides insist that you relax, stay with the discomfort instead of running away from it, and push yourself a little further each time. This advice is easy to dismiss – “Tell me something actually helpful,” I’d often think with an eye-roll while reading these so-called tips for the umpteenth time – but it’s a process you shouldn’t knock until you try it. It’s also the same process I’ve used to face – and successfully overcome – almost every fear I’ve ever vanquished.

This recurrent advice also forced me to realize how much of my deepthroating apprehension relates to what a partner will think of me if I deepthroat him “unsuccessfully” or clumsily. Will I look silly? Will he be disappointed or annoyed? Will he think me sexually unskilled? As with most of my sexual anxieties, these are largely unfounded: most folks are thrilled to receive enthusiastic oral sex, even if it lacks technical finesse. Besides which, sex is best when there is a mutual agreement – whether explicitly stated or implicitly understood – to accept each other as you are, in all your potential silliness and ineptitude, because sex is about your connection, not arbitrary benchmarks you try to hit like sexual athletes.

Part of what appeals to me about other intense sex acts, like spanking and fisting, is the mutual trust and vulnerability involved in one partner consensually pushing the other to their physical and emotional limits. I see no reason I can’t view deepthroating through that same lens: as something I attempt, and may find scary, and may fail at, but will be supported in my fear and my failure by my partner (and, hopefully, myself).

It is okay to be bad at things. It is okay to find things scary. Just push yourself a little further, try a little harder, relax a little deeper, and be a little gentler with yourself. Day by day by day, you will probably improve. And also it’s okay if you don’t.

Deepthroating curriculum as prepared by my Sir:
“What are some good tips for deep throating?” (Quora thread)
iDeepThroat instructional video (starring my fave, Heather Harmon)
“17 people reveal how they learned to deepthroat” (ThoughtCatalog article)
“Learning to deepthroat and relax your gag reflex” (Slut Academy article)
“3 women get super honest about deepthroating” (Cosmopolitan article)
“Adventures in deepthroat” (Girl on the Net guest post)