Every Time I Wanted to Give Up On Love

Kate Sloan

2004. A girl I sort of know is sprawled out on the grass next to me in a park on a sunny afternoon. We’re barely friends, but we’re whiling the day away by playing a game together anyway. The game is this: we pick someone in our sixth-grade class and rate their attractiveness out of 10. How do preteens pick up the concept of reducing people to numerical scores in the first place? Who knows; our culture sucks.

Eventually we run out of subjects and decide to turn our harsh spotlights on each other. I give her what I think is a charitable 8 out of 10, because frankly, rating someone lower than a 7 to their face is unspeakably rude. But then she tells me my rating, and it’s a 4, and I am floored.

Is this why none of the boys in my class have ever seemed interested in me, except for the shrimpy nerd who aces all his English tests (who I secretly would kiss if not for the social stigma)? Am I really that ugly? And am I therefore banished to a loveless life? Will my big nose, big forehead, and wide hips curse me and deprive me in perpetuity of what I want more than anything – love?

I laugh it off, like I’m taking it in stride. But the truth is I can’t take it at all.

2006. The man I think I love is 23 years older than me. And he’s gay. And he’s about to move to New York.

I have a well-developed tendency of obsessing over people I see in plays and musicals, but this is the worst it’s ever been. I paste photos of his face dutifully into a scrapbook; I set up a Google alert for his name; I comb YouTube and Vimeo for any sign of him. I crowd all my romantic hopes onto him without him even knowing. When we say hello at the stage door during the run of his last Toronto show, I blush hard and my guts feel like disco balls shattering. How can someone mean this much to me and not even know who I am?

He isn’t the first gay man who’s swept me up and bowled me over; he won’t be the last. Part of me believes this is how it’ll always be: I’ll fall over and over for people who don’t know me, don’t want me, don’t even want anyone of my gender. Maybe love, to me, will always be lopsided. I carefully resign myself to this until it feels a little less sad. After all, being in the presence of someone who lights you up is a pleasant experience, so long as you can divorce yourself from the hope of them ever noticing you, let alone loving you.

2008. The purple-haired gender-weirdo I call my ex-girlfriend is distracting, vexing. They send me a piece of confessional writing in which they converse with a fictional god, trying to convince the deity to “get me back” for them even though they ended our short relationship – but, they’re careful to add, they don’t actually want me back. We made a terrible couple, and we’d make a terrible couple again. I’d be inclined to agree if I wasn’t so goddamn hung up on them that my grades are actually starting to suffer.

It seems – as it always does when you’re in this situation – that there is no one as smart, as funny, as perfect as my ex in my entire world. Every face except theirs in the sea of students bores me; classes we don’t share are easily forgotten and classes we do share are spent staring at them to the detriment of my studies. Nothing feels as important as this love that could have been.

This, my first real crush on a non-dude, is world-opening in ways I’ve never felt before. It’s easy to suspect, in the wake of such glorious wreckage, that no one will ever be this wonderful and wantable again. And so I lean into my misdirected lust and limerence, and when other people try to get close, I only push them away. This non-love feels realer than anything else that could develop if I only let it.

2014. Predictably, I cry, ending my first serious relationship on a street corner. Three and a half years in, I’ve simply fallen out of love: poof, whoops. My once-beloved is holding me; it’s hard to imagine letting go of such a steady presence. But eventually I do, and I get into a car and never see him again.

Established love began to feel so itchy and insular; I ran out of energy to wrestle my doubts into submission. So I gave up, cut ties, let go. But now I wonder if this means love is out of reach for me in general. Do I alienate everyone who cares enough to get close to me? Does devotion raise my hackles, or worse, bore me? Am I an emotionally stunted oaf who deserves for fuckboys to never text her back until one day she dies alone with nary even a cat to keep her company?

I take some time to myself, solitary, single. I learn what it feels like to breathe in my own body again without someone else breathing down my neck. I think: I just want to be alone for a while. And then, one day, months later, I think: Okay. I think I’m ready to be not-alone again now.

2016. Drunk, I spill my guts to my fuckbuddy-turned-crush on my couch after everyone else has left the party. It, shall we say, doesn’t go well. He knows I like him. He probably knows I love him. I wish he didn’t know. I wish I didn’t love him. I wish a lot of things.

“I feel like you have this crush monster inside you, and seeing me awakens it and makes you feel terrible about yourself,” he says, brow furrowed in a concern I can’t help but find touching. He’s embarrassingly right; seeing him always feels like an illicit high, and always ends in a catastrophic crash. “I think we should just be friends for a while,” he offers, and I nod as tears slide down my cheeks.

The question that has plagued and haunted me for months is: Why doesn’t he love me? I’ll never get an answer that feels satisfying, because the answer is as simple and as awful as it always is: He just doesn’t. I know neither he nor I can force him to love me. I know it’s time to stop trying. Maybe one day we’ll actually be friends.

2017. My oldest friend makes me a gin and tonic and I cry into it until it’s closer to a briny martini, because I’ve just been through the most traumatic breakup of my life. “It’s okay,” she says, “you’ll get over it,” but I can’t imagine how I will.

He was my first daddy dom, the first person I trusted enough to let into that sector of my sexuality. He told me he loved me, treasured me, wanted to be with me for years. He lied.

I lock away my heart in a metaphorical box and tuck it into a metaphorical attic; it’s of no use to me now. But I do that with my kinks too, pushing them away self-protectively. If I never want, need, and enjoy anything that deeply again, I can never be this devastated again when it’s taken from me. I take another swig of my salty G&T and tell my friend, “I don’t know how I’m ever going to trust anyone again.”

But 4 months later, I go on a first date with someone whose daddy-dom vibes are off the charts. My inner submissive little girl stirs and stretches, but I shush her. It’s not safe for you out here, little one. Go back to sleep. She won’t. She’s starry-eyed. She wants to play.

So little by little, I let myself fall in love. I let myself open up. I let myself feel hope and safety and comfort and all those dorky feelings I thought had been smashed out of my heart. Love grows back like a stubborn seedling. I water it, and wonder if this time it’ll finally take.

Current Fave Lubes

Kate Sloan

It’s been a while since I’ve done this, so… here’s some current faves of mine in the lube category!

Best general-purpose lube: Sutil Rich (available at SheVibe and Come As You Are)

This water-based formula is, indeed, rich. It feels much more luxe than most lubes of this type; its viscosity is almost more akin to a thick silicone-based lube, though there are no silicones in it. I would happily use this for hand stuff, vag stuff, butt stuff, on toys and on dicks and on fingers… Gimme more!

Best for vaginal sex: Sliquid Organics Natural Gel (available at SheVibe, Come As You Are, and Peepshow)

Water-based lubes work great for vaginal sex because they don’t dry up when they can get re-lubricated by your natural bodily fluids throughout a session. This one is thick and gel-like, non-irritating, and not as expensive as Sutil, so it’s an absolute staple for me. And it comes in a pretty huge bottle that lasts me a long time.

Best for handjobs: The Butters (available at Peepshow)

You just can’t beat the all-natural slip-‘n’-slide of this oil-based formula for an HJ. It’s creamy, long-lasting, and it smells and tastes not-entirely-awful incase you’re gonna get your face down there afterward. It’s got a bit of grittiness to it, so it’s best if you or your partner like a little friction. It also sinks into the skin after a while, so it’s ideal if you enjoy a well-moisturized cock. Just don’t try to use it with condoms (oil breaks down latex), and at this point I’d recommend against using it vaginally because it may have given me an infection once or twice.

Best for handjobs (runner-up): Slippery Stuff Silicone Lubricant (available at SheVibe)

This is one of the thicker, more gel-like silicone lubes I’ve encountered, making it great for HJs. My partner says it feels luxurious and cushioned, so you can use it to stroke hard and fast without discomfort. They also say this one feels more like vaginal lubrication than the Butters, if you’re into that. However, like most (if not all) silicone-based lubes, it tastes pretty gross, so I would recommend against this one if you think your HJ is gonna transition into a BJ.

Best for butt stuff: Sliquid Silk (available at SheVibe, and Peepshow)

This hybrid lube – that is to say, mostly water-based, with a small amount of silicone mixed in – marries the longevity of silicone lubes to the cushiony slip of water-based ones, making it ideal for anal play. The silicone content is low enough that you can even use it with silicone toys (though you should spot-test beforehand to make sure), so it’s one of my faves for pegging.

 

What are your favorite lubes these days?

How to Look Like a Sex Doll

Kate Sloan

Being a sex doll is a recurrent fantasy for me. It’s hard to say whether I would actually like it – I haven’t tried pretending to be a doll in a scene yet – but it definitely holds some appeal. Being blank-brained and helpless while someone (consensually) handles and uses my body for their pleasure? Yes please.

That said, it’s possible a large part of my excitement about this fantasy really centers on the beauty and fashion aspects of it. What can I say; I’m a femme! I pored over the beautiful babes on Joy Love Dolls to figure out the best ways to make yourself look like a sex doll, if that’s something you want to do for kink reasons or just for fun, and here’s what I came up with…

Preparation

While obviously it’s not required for fulfilling this fantasy, because you and your partner can both suspend your disbelief a little, it could be fun to shave or wax large swathes of your body to play the role of a sex doll. They’re almost always hairless from the neck down, after all. Afterward, exfoliate the hell out of everything, with a body scrub or a dry brush, and then moisturize. That way your skin will be as smooth and uniform as it can be.

The skin on your face could use some love, too. A scrubby clay mask (like the rose clay mask from Origins) would be my go-to if I was prepping for a dollification scene, because it’ll gently exfoliate your skin while pulling some of the gunk out of your pores, leaving a smoother surface that’ll look slightly more like TPE or whatever sex dolls are made of. Don’t forget to moisturize!

Makeup

When sex doll designers aren’t opting for the youthful “natural look” (which, let’s face it, is boring for the purposes of this article), they tend to give their dolls lots and lots of eyeliner. You can smudge it for a sexy, rock-star vibe, or keep it precise if you prefer. It’s usually black or dark brown and goes all the way around the eye, sometimes with a winged flick at the outer corner. This serves to emphasize the eyes, one of a sex doll’s most prominent facial features. If you want to make your eyes look extra big and wide, you could run a white or pale skin-colored eyeliner pencil over your waterline (though I, admittedly, am too squeamish to do this because it feels like sticking an eyeliner pencil directly into my eye). Lots of mascara is also crucial.

As for the mouth: sex dolls usually have big, full, pouting lips. You can use mildly lip-irritating plumpers like Lip Venom to achieve this effect, or you can fake it by blending a lighter-colored lipstick onto the center of your lips on top of whatever other lipstick you’re using. This creates the illusion of fuller lips and is famously a trick that Marilyn Monroe’s makeup artist used on her (and if she isn’t an aspirational icon for sex dolls everywhere, then who is?!). Many sex dolls wear a lipstick shade that’s fairly natural and low-key, but you could also go with a bright pink or purple if you want to be bolder. In any case, a shiny gloss on top is a must.

The rest of your face is less important than those two major features, but you can still increase your “dollishness” quotient by doing a full face of foundation and concealer to even out your skin tone so it looks vaguely plasticky. Make sure to set these products with powder – sex dolls’ skin is almost always matte. Some subtle, well-blended blush on the apples of your cheeks completes the look.

A note for all the makeup you choose: assuming you’re not pursuing a smudgy look for kink reasons (some people love to see mascara streaks on a teary-eyed submissive’s cheeks, for example), you should choose products that are waterproof and rated well for longevity. (Look at reviews on the Sephora website or MakeupAlley for this.) Dolls’ makeup is firmly painted on and unlikely to flake or smear, so yours should be, too!

Hair

If you only need to look like a sex doll (say, for photos) and don’t plan on being touched/fucked/manhandled like one, a wig is the obvious route to take. Long blonde hair is a popular choice, but there are a million wig options out there waiting to be explored.

If, however, you plan on being “used” when you’re a doll, a wig probably won’t cut it, because your “user” might want to pull your hair. Wear your real hair down, or in pigtails if it’s long enough; those are the two easiest styles to pull on. (Securing the pigtails with cute, colorful hair ties is a nice touch, particularly if you’re going for a youthful look.)

Clothes

It goes without saying that most sex dolls are probably mostly naked most of the time. That’s fine if your dollification scene will be limited to your bedroom, but if you plan on going out first (or even starting the scene with some kind of seduction/warm-up), you’ll probably want to be wearing something.

Some popular choices for sex-doll clothes include shiny bikinis, tight cropped T-shirts, miniskirts, tiny shorts, matching lingerie sets, and low-cut form-fitting dresses. It’s best to wear something that another person could easily remove from your body without your cooperation, since you might want to remain perfectly still as part of the fun of a dollification scene. So, tight jeans and restrictive dresses are probably a no-go, unless your partner wants a challenge!

Most sex dolls are remarkably busty. If you want to beef up your boobs (so to speak), you could wear a padded bra under whatever else you’re wearing. By the same token, some shapewear can help give you the hourglassy shape sex dolls are known for, but it can be hard to remove and doesn’t always look sexy once all your other layers of clothing have come off, so keep that in mind when selecting your ensemble.

A lot of sex dolls are barefoot, but if your partner likes heels, boots, or some other specific type of footwear, you might as well give it a shot. Knee-high or thigh-high socks can also amp up a playful, girlish aesthetic if that’s what you’re going for.

Facial expression and behavior

The way you act and move when you’re in sex-doll mode really depends on what you’re hoping to get out of your scene, but generally, you’re probably gonna wanna be blank-faced and stationary. Practice letting your eyes “zone out” the way they do when you stare out the window of a moving vehicle, say, or when your mind wanders while you’re standing in line somewhere. (Not to be too much of a hypnokink evangelical, but staring at a gif of a spiral can help you unfocus your eyes in the sexy, mindless way we’re talking about.) You don’t wanna look bored, so keep your eyes open wide for the most part, but just soften your gaze a little.

As for the rest of your body, traditionally sex dolls are rigid and posable. Your partner doesn’t have to manipulate your whole body weight every time they want to move you around – you can agree beforehand that you’ll help them out when they move you, so long as it doesn’t ruin the illusion for either of you.

 

How would you attire yourself if you planned on doing a dollification scene? Or, alternatively: if you were going to fuck someone who was pretending to be a sex doll, what would you want them to look like?

 

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

How They Fuck Me

Kate Sloan

Gender is a sex toy. That’s not all it is, but it can be that.

I remember the first person I dated telling me they’d always been gender-weird and sort of wished they’d been born a boy. I remember their backwards baseball caps and baggy cargo shorts and strong, angular fingers. I remember my heart swelling, like a classical music sting in an overwrought rom-com, every time their boyness pressed up against their girlness. They could be flirtatious and dapper and charming, and none of these things felt gendered to me, or if they did, they felt multi-gendered, a prismatic rainbow of light they cast all around them. We both referred to them then as my “girlfriend” but that word seemed inadequate and small next to the bursting gradient I felt them to be.

In the coming years, several friends and partners came out to me as trans or non-binary, and each time, it felt like a shimmering gift. The trust they placed in me was so powerful, so surprising. I took it seriously. I did research, and asked questions, and said thank you.

And sometimes one of the questions was “How would you like me to affirm your gender during sex?” and sometimes the answers were very, very hot.

I remember my high-school FWB’s admission that they thought they were genderqueer, or genderfluid, or trans. We spent hours on a baby names website together, scrolling through androgynous names, until we found one that fit. They tried it on like a suit jacket and I saw them glow when I used it. That made me glow too.

I took them shopping for smart vests and vintage ties. Thus kitted out, they looked – and looked like they felt – handsome and whole.

The way they fucked me changed. Their approach became more confident, their touch more sure. One day after school, they had me pinned against my front door, hands roaming all over me; I said, nervous about curfews, “Maybe you should get going soon,” and they deadpanned, “Or I could have sex with you.” I felt the shivers of gender euphoria-by-proxy; we felt more aligned with each other now that they were more aligned with themselves. I tugged on their tie and they smiled like a wolf.

There have been other flitting hints of gender variance throughout my love stories, sometimes overt, sometimes covert. There was the high school boyfriend who tried on my red lacy bra and panties on a dare at a party, and loved how he looked in them so much that I bought him a bra for Christmas (to the chagrin and mystification of my mom, who accompanied me to the mall). There was the college boyfriend who told me he’d feel just as at peace in his gender if he’d been born a girl. There was the beardy beau who scoffed at my admission that I’m attracted mostly to masculinity; “I’m not very masculine,” he said, and I saw him suddenly through new eyes. Almost everyone I’ve ever loved, or passionately liked, has stepped outside their appointed gender box in some way. It’s my privilege to have seen these people how they hopefully wanted to be seen. I’m always searching for ways to do that better.

When Matt first told me they were questioning their gender, we were sitting in an ornate, empty bar in Montreal, cocktails in hand. “I’ve been having some… gender feelings lately,” they said, “like really enjoying it when you call me feminine words.” This hadn’t been purposeful on my part – I calls ’em like I see ’em, and what I always saw when I looked at my partner was a person who at once embodied handsomeness and prettiness, beauty that transcended gender lines. We’d played before with dressing them up in my clothes, adorning them with lipstick and eyeliner, for scenes that then portended only power exchange and not a shift in identity. This revelation wasn’t a surprise; it hit me in the gut with a thump of Oh. Okay. Of course.

“What resources do you think I should look at?” they asked next, and I recommended My New Gender Workbook, Kate Bornstein’s seminal text, which I’ve gifted to many a gender-curious friend. I can’t advise directly on these issues but the other Kate can, and I trust her to. She did.

It was a few weeks later that Matt breathed into the phone late at night, “I think I’m non-binary.” A few weeks after that, we went shopping – first for eyeliner and lipstick, then for shirts and bags – and I very nearly cried each time they emerged from a fitting room in something sweetly feminine or starkly androgynous. I couldn’t, and can’t, fathom such bravery. Every coming-out is a feat and a blessing.

The next night, we got sloshed at a Toronto tiki bar, and they asked me, voice shaking, if I had any reservations about dating a gender-weird person long-term. If perhaps I had envisioned a more binaristic trajectory for my life story. I wiped tears from my eyes at the very thought that anyone would reject such a gorgeous, wonderful person for something as unobtrusive as their gender. I told them I love them and that’s what matters. When you love someone this deeply, the fleeting states of what they are never seem as important as who they are, that seed at the center of their heart that stays the same even as the outside changes. Gender variance never scared me away from someone whose hand I wanted to hold. They could still hold my hand, as we walked through life together.

Once again, I saw gender confidence translate into sexual confidence. When my beloved murmured at night, “Daddy’s gonna slide their cock so deep inside you,” or “Do you like it when daddy makes you come in their mouth?” nothing felt different, and yet it all felt even better. When they kissed me roughly until our lipsticks mingled together, or let me put their eyeliner on them before they put my collar on me, I felt assured again and again that nothing had been lost. My Sir, my daddy, my partner, is still all of those things. They simply embody those roles now with truer self-expression and more gender-fuckery – two things that have never scared me and have always pulled me closer to people, wanting to bask in their bold beauty.

Love and lust can take many forms and can flow in many directions. I feel lucky every day to be with someone I love this much – no matter what or who they are, what I call them, what they wear, or how they fuck me.

5 Frank Sinatra Songs That Are Definitely About Kink

Kate Sloan

I’ve Got You Under My Skin

The addictive, all-consuming qualities of love often described in these Tin Pan Alley-era love songs remind me so much of my kinky relationships. Modern-day dating is so much about “chillness,” or the illusion thereof, that it’s refreshing to hear these old-fashioned confessions of feeling utterly un-chill. I’ve mostly experienced this “I’d sacrifice everything, come what might, for the sake of having you near” level of devotion in kink dynamics, not vanilla relationships.

The moment that really kills me in this song, kink-wise, is this: “Don’t you know, little fool? You never can win. Use your mentality. Wake up to reality.” In the narrative of the song, it’s the voice of Frank’s own anxiety and inadequacy whispering this to him – but it’s also something the most merciless humiliatrix might spit at a submissive. And it makes me feel all tingly. Oh, Frank.

Can I Steal a Little Love?

This is pure submissive Frank. “Hug me, kiss me, til I’m red,” he sings, “til my eyes bug out my head.” Consensual violence ahoy!

Later in the song, he swears, “With a smile, I will lead you down the aisle. I won’t even need a shove.” He’s talking about marriage, sure, but it’s also this super subby promise that he’ll happily do things other men find scary or uninteresting, because he’s so devoted to his darling. Aww.

Fly Me to the Moon

This charming classic reminds me of how immersive and otherworldly kink can be. Unlike vanilla sex, it takes me out of my head and makes me feel like a temporarily different person in a temporarily different place – like I’m in outer space.

“Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars,” he sings. “In other words: baby, kiss me.” Oh, swoon.

Somethin’ Stupid (featuring Nancy Sinatra)

Look, it’s a little weird that Frank Sinatra sang a romantic duet with his daughter. Asked about the song 40 years after it was recorded, Nancy said, “Some people call that the Incest Song, which I think is, well, very sweet!” What a strange non-response, perfectly in line with the overall strangeness of the song and its enduring popularity.

Setting aside any implications of actual incest between Frank and his daughter – of which I haven’t seen any suspicion or proof – this song makes me picture Ol’ Blue Eyes as a Daddy dom. Several of my favorite Daddy dom tropes are based in traditional 1950s masculinity: well-tailored suits, protectiveness over women, shellacked hair, an easy and assumed dominance. That type of gender dynamic was less than consensual in actual 1950s nuclear family units (well, most of them, anyway), but it’s hot to imagine consensually reclaiming it in a contemporary context. And handsome Frank would make a hell of a father figure.

My Way

When I told friends I was working on this post, they all insisted I had to include this song – because what could be a more dommy sentiment than “I’ll do it my way”?!

However, examining the rest of the lyrics, there’s not much of kinky substance in this tune. I think what makes me think of dominance, moreso than the lyrics, is the calm confidence with which Ol’ Blue Eyes performs this big, showy song – and that same confidence when it shows up in karaoke aficionados’ performances, since this is a mainstay of that genre. Listening to this song stiffens my spine with pride and surety, so this shy little submissive can get a taste of what it might feel like to be a whole-hearted dominant.

What are your favorite kink-tinged jazz standards?