Review: Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror

As amateur porn legend Heather Harmon slurped down her husband’s dick on my laptop’s tiny screen, I turned to my boyfriend and said, “This is weird.”

“Why?” he asked, reasonably.

The porn itself wasn’t weird. In fact, if anything, my inner erotic rhythms feel tuned to Heather’s, after adoring her porn for at least half a decade. I’m well used to the mischievous twinkle in her eyes, the slick facility with which she swallows her man’s entire dick, the pleasingly predictable sounds he makes as she brings him closer to orgasm. What felt weird was sharing this all-too-familiar experience with another person – albeit a person whose dick has been in my throat. “I dunno, it’s just, you’re here, and I’m having private-time feelings,” I attempted to explain.

My darlin’ snuggled a little closer to me and our eyes drifted back to Heather’s eager mouth on-screen. “It’s okay,” he said, over Jim Harmon’s formulaic moans, “because I’m right next to you having private-time feelings too. And later, you’re gonna put that BJ mirror on me and suck my cock.”

A shiver went through me. Had he planned this on purpose? A perfect evening of weed-smoking and blowjob-ogling, all in the service of making me more comfortable with the Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror I had to review for my blog? If so, apparently my boyfriend was a fucking genius.

The mirror scared me, you see. Don’t get me wrong, I had requested it to review, because it scared me in the same way as certain edgy kinks like knifeplay do: they’re a little hot and more than a little terrifying. What worried me about the mirror was being literally face-to-face with myself during a BJ, after fearing my own sexytimes visage for my whole adult life. I don’t like eye contact during sex, or being aware that my face is someone’s erotic focal point, or feeling my face twist up into aroused contortions when a partner can see. The whole idea makes me incredibly, inexplicably anxious – to the point that I’ll often wear a blindfold during sex on bad anxiety days, to limit the amount of my face a partner can see, and to free me from being expected to watch them in return.

We kept putting off testing the mirror – me because it made me anxious, and my boyfriend because “the thought of it didn’t do anything for him.” I found this surprising, because, months earlier, he’d told me, “The most intensely arousing thing for me is to force my lovers to do things I know they want to do, and have previously consented to.” I thought it would turn him on to watch me do something he knew made me consensually uncomfortable – in this case, watching myself give a blowjob.

After a few more Heather Harmon scenes and a little more weed, my mouth was sufficiently horny that I did something I rarely do with my mega-dominant boyfriend: I got bossy. “You should take your pants off,” I said, in a tone of voice that was closer to begging than commanding.

“Okay,” he said, laughing. “I can do that.” I watched as he shed all his clothes, smiling at me all the while, all chest hair and strong muscles, my toppy masculine angel.

And then he slipped the hole of the BJ mirror over his half-hard dick and I burst out laughing.

Even after he laid on the bed and I set to work, I couldn’t control my giggles. Sometimes laughter is how my body responds when I’m enjoying myself in bed, and sometimes it’s a nervous response to discomfort; in this case, it was decidedly both. The tactile pleasure of his dick in my mouth, coupled with the visual assault of my own face devouring his cock in up-close-and-personal HD, felt so sinfully sexy to me that I was almost uncomfortable being that turned on in front of another person. These were, once again, “private-time feelings,” and my partner was watching me have them. And I was watching me have them. From inches away.

My boyfriend, who is prone to mid-beej dirty-talk, cleared his throat and began to speak. I steeled myself for a filthy missive, but instead, he said, “If you deepthroated me all the way, you could kiss yourself!” It was more a gleeful proclamation than a salacious jibe. I laughed around his cock until I couldn’t breathe, and then I took it out of my mouth and laughed some more, nose tucked into the warm crease of his thigh. Some doms try to cut you down with critical jeers, and here mine was, essentially encouraging me to love myself. Through BJs.

I eventually caught my breath and returned to the task at hand. It was at this point that I began to notice how much I was drooling. Sloppy BJs are increasingly my jam – especially since I read Aerie’s blowjob guide where they advocate “drooling uncontrollably and making a giant mess” for the lubrication and visual appeal – but this was on another level. I have never gushed this much spit during a beej before. It reminded me of when you see a commercial where someone takes a big bite of a juicy hamburger and your salivary glands immediately kick into gear – except in this case, the burger was a dick, and the commercial was my own fucking face. It was absurd, and delightful, and wet.

It helped that my boyfriend was holding the mirror in place, and moving it back into my sightline whenever it slipped off to one side, as if to demand, “No, seriously, look at yourself.” I imagine that the mirror would stay put better if it was draped over a huge dick – the hole has a diameter of 5.5 centimeters or about 2.2 inches – but it might also dig in uncomfortably if used on a dick of that size. It didn’t bother my boyfriend to have to hold the mirror still, except that he couldn’t fully relax.

I snuck peeks at myself from time to time, but mostly my eyes remained closed, as they usually are during BJs. It allows me to concentrate on the sensations in my mouth, and keeps me focused on the steady rhythm that’ll get my partner off. Every time my eyes drifted open for a moment, though, I felt seized with a strange blend of arousal and guilt: seeing myself give head was unbelievably hot, but it felt arrogant for me to enjoy the sight of myself that much. And it embarrassed me to imagine my boyfriend watching me watching myself, as if he’d think I was being arrogant, too – even though he told me later that it turned him on to see me viewing this act from a different angle than I would normally get to.

The mirror didn’t just induce arousal and embarrassment in me, though – it also made me competitive. With my damn self. Seeing myself give head from the angle at which I’d usually watch porn stars doing the same, I saw that what feels like intense deepthroating to me isn’t actually that deep. That real-time view made me want to do a better job: go deeper, faster, harder, put on a better show for my love (and for myself). I could see I was bringing my A-game, but it didn’t feel effortful – it just felt fun.

When my darling started to come, he grunted, “Deepthroat me,” just like Heather Harmon’s husband does in all the porn clips I like best – and I did as I’d been told. Though it would’ve been hot to watch my own face at that crucial moment, doing so didn’t occur to me; I squeezed my eyes shut with the effort of keeping that dick as deep as it needed to be, and enduring the intense contractions of muscles against my tongue and throat. I swallowed, and swallowed, and kept on swallowing, and I couldn’t breathe for a while but it didn’t matter.

When it was over, I pulled myself up and gently slid the mirror off my boyfriend’s dick. He lay there panting and raised one finger as if he had something to say, but couldn’t get it out quite yet. I curled up beside him and waited patiently for him to catch his breath.

“That was the best blowjob you’ve ever given me,” he said finally.

You know that silly adventure-movie trope where the hero uses a powerful artefact to beat the bad guy, only to discover afterward that “the power was within them all along”? I feel that way about the Stockroom Cocksucker’s Mirror. Like a good coach, it brought out the best performance of my career thus far – but it did so by pitting me against myself, challenging me to meet my own standards. It literally reflected my own capabilities back at me, and made me better in doing so.

And y’all, I looked hot.


Thanks so much to Stockroom for sending me this product to review!

It’s Different With You

The first time anyone slapped my face, it was because I asked for it, and it was an experiment.

He was an ostensibly vanilla man I’d met an hour earlier, at a sex club. His posh British accent and shy befuddlement set me immediately at ease: this man was no threat to me. He could fuck me, maybe, but he could not fuck me up.

Face-slapping had been on my mind lately. I had no idea if I’d like it. I liked certain types of pain, but getting hit across the face seemed like it’d be uniquely disorienting and extra risky, physically and emotionally.

Normally I like to try new kink things with a safe, trusted, established partner. But I had no such partners available to me. It had been a while since I had. That was starting to feel disheartening. I tried not to think about it too much.

So when this nice English boy had his fingers deep inside me and his lips on my lips, I leaned back and said, “Can you do me a favor? Can you slap me across the face?” His expression, then, was shock muffled by politeness. “Not too hard,” I clarified. “Like, a 4 out of 10.”

To his immense credit, he did not balk. He was vanilla as fuck (or so I assumed from how he later repeated the phrase “good girl” at me like it was a magic arousal spell in and of itself), but he was nonetheless willing to do this for me. Good boy, I thought, as he wound up his batting arm.

The slap landed. It hurt. It shook me. But it did not turn me on.

Huh, I thought. Guess I’m not into that. We did not speak of it again, he did not attempt it again, and the evening progressed in an otherwise vanilla but quite enjoyable way. And that was that. Or so I thought.

The first time you slapped my face, I had also asked for it. But it felt entirely different.

We’d been dating for a few weeks, and having kinky sex in massive quantities. All traces of vanilla had been flushed from my system, it seemed. I thought about going on Tinder dates with other boys, letting them put their hands on me gently and fuck me in entirely standard ways, and the whole idea just bored me to death. Sex with you felt exciting not only because you were rough with me, but also because I trusted you to be rough with me. I wanted to show you how much I could take. I wanted to be good for you. I cared.

We hadn’t talked about it yet, but I felt strongly enough to bring it up nonetheless: “I think I’d like you to slap my face.” You got that devious domly smile on your face I like so much, the one that means you’ve got some mean tricks up your sleeve and I’m gonna like ’em. “I don’t know if I’ll enjoy it, but I want to try,” I added. You nodded and I saw you file this info away for later.

Later came. Long minutes into hard makeouts, you climbed on top of me, straddling my thighs in bed, and grabbed my hair by the root in one hand. “I’m gonna slap you across the face now,” you muttered against my mouth, and I nodded.

My eyes are normally closed during sex; it’s how I process sensations best, and one way I manage my sexual anxiety. But the moment stretched out and I wanted to see. I opened my eyes just in time to see your hand cocked back, ready to strike. A split-second elapsed and you hit me, hard but not so hard it scared me. I felt jolted. Grounded.

My eyes had fallen closed, and after a moment, I opened them again. I did a thing I almost never do during sex: I looked up at you – coyly, through my lashes – and smiled.

You smiled back, and then you hit me again.

Some vanilla people can talk all day long about how romantic their sex can be, how intimate, connective, sweet and life-affirming. That’s fine. I’m glad they experience it that way. But kink can be those things, too. That moment where I’m smiling up at you, knowing you’re about to hurt me, and then you go ahead and do it? That’s the safest and the sweetest. I feel romantic toward you when we’re cuddling or kissing or holding hands in public; I feel it even moreso when you’ve got me pinned and you’re about to leave a handprint on my cheek.

The first time anyone fucked my mouth, it was an accident and I hated it.

He was a submissive boy – which, fine, whatever. Banging other subs isn’t my favorite, but I can deal with it, if it’s only an occasional thing. Submissive guys can still enjoy receiving BJs, after all, so at least there’s some overlap between our tastes.

Reclined on a soft hotel bed, he moaned and mewled as I bobbed up and down on him. I was doing a great job and I knew it. If this was the only fun thing we could do together, I’d be okay with that. It was pretty stellar, as far as BJs go.

But then he started thrusting into my mouth, and I froze.

My gag reflex is off the charts. I have, more than once, accidentally thrown up from scrubbing a toothbrush too far back on my tongue. I like BJs where the recipient is lying on their back, in part because it gives me optimum control over the depth of the dick. When I lose that sense of control, sometimes I gag. Sometimes I panic.

I tried to be chill about it. But after a few minutes, I could not. “Hey, can you stop that?” I mumbled during a pause, pressing my hand against his hipbone to still him. “You’re gagging me.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to stop.” He tried. He didn’t really succeed. I get it; sometimes thrusting isn’t entirely voluntary. But I spent the rest of that BJ trying to get it done, instead of enjoying it for what it was. My throat didn’t trust him anymore.

The first time you fucked my mouth, it was highly negotiated, and I was ready.

A few days previous, I’d mentioned – in one of our many chats about desires and boundaries – that my skittish throat was a frequent buzzkill for me. “It’s why I don’t really like choking or face-fucking,” I said, “even though I’m totally obsessed with deepthroat porn and find it so hot.”

The conversation meandered in a different direction, but a few minutes later, there was a lull, and you mused, with a soft smile: “So no face-fucking, hey?”

The way you say “hey” instead of the more familiar-to-me Canadian “eh” is somehow so endearing to me; it sneaks into your dirty-talk when I fantasize about you, a signature feature of your vernacular that puts an instant smile on my face. With anyone else, I probably would’ve just said, “Yep, no face-fucking,” and moved on. But you – your pressureless demeanor, your easy handsomeness, and that gentle little prod of a “hey” – gave me pause.

I meeeeean,” I began, in that way I begin sentences when I know I can be swayed. “I haven’t liked it with previous partners. Maybe I’d like it with you.” You grinned. I grinned back.

Later, after embroiling me in subspace in all the pervy ways I like best, you arranged me on the bed so my head hung off the edge. You placed my hand on your warm upper arm and said, “I want you to tap my arm if you want me to stop, okay?” And then you slowly slid your cock into my throat.

There was an ease to it I had never experienced with this act before, an instant and eager facility. I could feel myself getting wet as I thought about you using my mouth, fucking all my holes like I was your personal sex toy.

At some point, I started to gag, and tapped your arm. You stopped immediately, made sure I was okay. But I wasn’t scared or shaken. I was smiling. I wanted more.

The first time anyone choked me, I was fucking furious.

“I told you I don’t want to be choked,” I practically shouted. His hand had snuck onto my neck too many times. He knew what was up. This was the last straw.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled. “My other partners all like being choked. I keep forgetting that you don’t.”

I rolled my eyes. He had used this excuse more than once before. I had no idea whether to believe it. It did seem that his memory was genuinely bad – he’d often tell me a story he’d already told me, or stare at me blankly when I referenced an anecdote I’d relayed the week previous – but it also seemed like a half-assed attempt to eschew my boundaries.

He was the first polyamorous person I’d been involved with, and the whole situation made me doubt that poly was right for me. If mixing up your partners’ sexual preferences was an occupational hazard of poly, could I ever really trust a partner? Could I ever truly enjoy myself, knowing someone could badly fuck up at any moment?

Months after I stopped seeing him, I talked to another former partner of his. She told me he was always “forgetting” her boundaries, too. Maybe that’s not a thing poly people do, I thought; maybe it’s just a thing abusive shitheads do.

The first time you choked me, we had – again – talked about how I’d never liked it before, but thought I might like it with you. You tend to have that effect on me.

“I’m going to put my hand on your throat,” you told me, your face so so close to mine, “but I’m not going to choke you.” You were true to your word. It didn’t scare me. Instead, weirdly, I felt safe.

“When you go home tonight,” you continued, “I want you to masturbate thinking about my hand on your throat. I want you to think about how small and defenseless it makes you feel – and how happy it makes me.” When I relayed this episode to my journal later, I wrote, Damn, he’s good. And indeed, I jerked off thinking about what you’d told me to think about. And it made me really fucking wet.

The first time you actually put pressure on my throat, I squeezed my eyelids shut from the intensity of the sensation. It didn’t feel bad, it was just… a lot. “Open your eyes. Look at me,” you commanded sternly, calling me back to earth. I did as you’d asked. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay.” And I knew you were right, and I was safe.

You released the pressure slowly, and I wanted to cry. Never knew I could feel like this, I thought, a love song from Moulin Rouge echoing in my brain. It was a strange thought to have immediately after being choked, maybe, but it was what came to mind.

See? Kink can totally be romantic.

Review: Fleshlight Stamina Training Unit

My boyfriend is a lucky guy. I buy him Tenga Eggs practically every time I’m in vicinity of a sex shop (which, as you might imagine, is often), and this past month I asked him if he’d be interested in reviewing a Fleshlight with me. Naturally, he said yes.

After poring over all the options, he settled on the Stamina Training Unit, or STU. It’s marketed as an aid for guys who want to last longer, but it only “helps” with this problem because it’s so stimulating that lasting five minutes with this Fleshlight is supposed to be like lasting ten minutes in a real vagina. My boyfriend just wanted it because the texture looked awesome, though.

Like I said, he has tried a few Tenga Eggs, including the Clicker, the Wavy, and one of the limited edition models. He reported to me that the Fleshlight actually feels very similar to the Eggs – soft, squishy, textured – but that the Fleshlight is better overall.

Why is it better? Well, one obvious reason is that it’ll last longer. If you take care of a Fleshlight properly, it could conceivably last for hundreds of uses, unlike a Tenga Egg which tend to start to fall apart after 5-10 uses, even with diligent cleaning.

The Fleshlight is also significantly quieter than an Egg. The Tenga products we’ve tried have always produced loud squelching noises that could definitely be heard by a bedmate or roommate. The Fleshlight does make sounds in use, but they’re quiet and subtle. You might even be able to get away with using it while someone sleeps in the same room as you, if you can control your moans.

For my boyfriend, the biggest factor giving it a leg up over Tenga Eggs is the cushiony “vulva” which he can press into his pubic mound. He likes pressure at the base of his penis, not only because it feels like “the real thing” but also because it just feels good, so he appreciates that he can apply that kind of pressure to his heart’s content with the Fleshlight.

There’s also a suction function, controlled by the screw-off cap on the end of the toy, which he doesn’t really dig, though he says that plenty of guys would like it.

He likes that the Fleshlight allows for “a level of disconnect” that the Eggs don’t. Using the Fleshlight almost feels like he’s not jerking off, like someone else is in charge of the motion – perhaps because he doesn’t have direct control over the tightness of the Fleshlight’s grip, unlike he does with the Eggs.

I asked him what he thought of the visual of his penis going in and out of a rather realistic-looking vulva. He said he’d prefer if it was just a plain slit, because as is, it “feels a little objectifying.” I asked him if he thought my realistic dildos were “objectifying” and he wasn’t sure what to say to that. (My boyfriend is such a feminist. It’s nice.)

As for the actual texture of the sleeve, it’s very intense. He’s uncut and very sensitive, so I was worried that this texture might overwhelm him, but he really likes it – as long as it’s thoroughly lubed. I gave him a bottle of a thin Sliquid lube to use with it (the Fleshlight’s material can only handle water-based lubricants), and he says he likes it but it dries out too quickly. Something thicker and more gel-like would probably be a better choice.

The main downside to owning a Fleshlight is that cleaning it is a big fuckin’ deal. You have to clean it after every single use, as soon as possible (i.e. ideally within an hour), or it risks becoming gummy, tacky, or even mouldy. You can’t use soap, only water and maybe some isopropyl alcohol if necessary. You can’t turn it inside out, or it’ll tear. And once it’s clean, you have to set it out to dry, and you can’t put it back into the case until it’s completely dry or it’ll get mouldy. Does this sound like a process you want to go through when you’ve just had an orgasm? Not so much.

Another “con” of this product is that it’s not discreet in the least. For a company that has built an entire line of toys on the idea of “looking like a flashlight,” the STU really doesn’t. It’s way too big and bulky to be a flashlight, plus it’s gold, plus it has the word “Fleshlight” emblazoned on the side of it. Yeah, real subtle. Needless to say, my boyfriend would prefer if the case was plainer and looked less like a prop from a Las Vegas burlesque show.

I asked him for an overall rating out of 5, and he said 3.75. At $70, the Fleshlight STU would be worth the money if he was single, he says, but as a guy in a happy sexual relationship, he just doesn’t use it often enough to make it worth that price tag. It feels great, but the impending cumbersome cleanup makes him reluctant to use it as often as he’d like to. Still, he likes it more than I was expecting him to.

Thanks so much to Sex Toys Canada for sending us this toy to try out!

In Praise of the Uncut Cock

I have this very vivid memory from when my boyfriend and I had only recently started dating. I hadn’t seen or touched his penis yet, and I was nervous about it. We were sharing a plate of greasy food at a bowling alley and I told him about how my female friend had given me a “penis lesson,” a little lecture on what to do with a dick when I finally encountered one. I told him that her advice had included the foreskin, since her boyfriend had one – and my man said to me, “Well, I’m uncut too. Just so you know.” And I suddenly felt ten times more nervous than I had before.

I went home that night and started researching intact cocks. Everything I’d learned from scouring the internet, everything I’d picked up from porn, all of it was in reference to dicks sans foreskin – I had to start fresh.

In the process of trying to understand how foreskins fit into handjobs or blowjobs, I learned plenty about the politics of intactivism – like how circumcision is largely based on archaic religious or moral beliefs, and how medically unnecessary circumcisions on babies are ethically wrong because the child doesn’t get a chance to consent. Having grown up in a Jewish home (albeit a very secular one), I didn’t know much about foreskins and certainly had never seen one in person – but the more I learned, the more the idea appealed to me.

After the month or two it took for me to acclimatize to dealing with dick, I knew for sure that I love ‘em uncut. My boyfriend’s foreskin is perfect. It’s soft to the touch, like the way his lips feel when I run my finger across them. I don’t need to use lube when I’m jerking him off, because his foreskin makes it smooth regardless. His glans is kept safe all day so it remains pink and moist, as it should.

I think what I like most about his being uncut is that it makes his dick act like my clit. We’re both way too sensitive to be touched without the barrier of the foreskin or clitoral hood in the way. We both get off on indirect stimulation. This similarity made it much easier for me to learn how to please him. And in return, I think his sensitivity has given him a better understanding of how my junk works.

I recently got into a debate with my friend, who’s dating a Jewish guy, about routine infant circumcision. She argued that some guys are grateful that their parents circumcised them at birth. Okay, yeah, I’m sure that’s true. But the bottom line is, I cannot fathom making an irreparable change to someone’s body when they’re unable to consent, unless it’s strictly medically necessary to do so. And in the vast majority of cases, it’s not. So if I ever have a baby boy, there’s no question in my mind that I’ll leave him intact – for his health, for his sexual enjoyment, and for the pure moral standpoint that what he does with his body is up to him, not me.

Bonus reading: Check out the blog Uncutting, which is rife with information about intactivism, foreskin restoration, and the cruel pointlessness of routine infant circumcision.

Note: No pro-circumcision tirades in the comment section, please. I’ve heard it all before and I still disagree. Also, keep in mind that this post is intended as a celebration of underappreciated intact penises and not an admonishment of cut ones, so don’t take this as an attack on your cut cock – it’s not!

Sexy Adventures: Side-By-Side Masturbation

I’m really not a fan of the term “mutual masturbation,” because I feel it’s so often used incorrectly, at least in my view. The word masturbation traditionally refers to manual stimulation performed by oneself on oneself, i.e. self-pleasure. So to say that you and your partner exchanging handjobs is “mutual masturbation” would be a misnomer. Why not just say you exchanged handjobs?

That said, this past week, I participated in some actual mutual masturbation… i.e. my partner and I each masturbated, in each other’s presence, for one another’s entertainment, and for self-gratification. We’d never really done it before and it was pretty awesome.

I’m a pretty pro masturbator, as you might guess from reading my blog. I jerk off a lot, and have done since I was a child. Using fingers, toys, and even the occasional bath faucet, I can usually bring myself off in under ten minutes.

It’s different when someone else is present, though. This is something I’ve never been able to do comfortably. My ex-girlfriend used to ask me to jerk it in front of her, because she thought it’d be hot, but I just never wanted to. My current boyfriend has asked me to do it many times as well, for the same reason, but the only way I’ve been able to do it is if his dick was inside me at the same time and he couldn’t really see what was going on. I don’t know exactly why, but the idea of someone watching me masturbate makes me nervous and self-conscious.

The other night, though, we were both horny and exhausted, so I suggested that we lie next to one another and get ourselves off. All the intimacy of sex without the physical entanglement and obligation. My boyfriend agreed immediately.

He busted out a Tenga Egg from his backpack (I’m so proud), and I handed him my finger bunny vibe, which he likes to use on his balls. Then I grabbed my Tsunami, Eroscillator, and a bottle of lube for each of us, and we got down to business.

It was fun, though I still found myself feeling self-conscious, especially when I heard him re-applying lube or adjusting the vibrator’s settings, since I knew that meant his eyes were probably open and looking at me. It’s so silly that I still feel weird about this, considering how many of my orgasms this man has witnessed (hundreds upon hundreds). Maybe I just still think of masturbation as an entirely private thing, someone for no one’s eyes but my own.

This is a similar feeling to the time that my ex-girlfriend suggested she could use one of my dildos on me while eating me out. At first, I thought that sounded great, but as soon as she slid it in, my mind changed. “Nope. This feels way too private. I don’t feel right doing this with you.” It was absurd, but I couldn’t help it. I felt exposed and weirdly displaced.

Of course, now, I’m perfectly capable of having a partner (albeit a different partner) use toys on me during oral, and at other times. So maybe this mutual masturbation thing is something I just have to work on and slowly acclimatize myself to.