What’s In My Sex Bag? (January 2017)

There is a sick-‘n’-satisfying voyeuristic joy in peering into someone’s bag. I love finding out what someone carries around with them, whether it’s shared in blog posts or Flickr groups or Instagram hashtags.

But while the contents of my everyday purses are kinda interesting, what’s in my sex bag is really interesting, methinks. Here’s a glimpse, for all you nosy pervs out there (she wrote, lovingly)!

I left for New York on Saturday morning, and my trip itinerary includes a sex-date at a pre-booked hotel room with a fuckbuddy of mine. I’ve packed my petite House of Plume zip-up travel bag with a variety of items for all sorts of saucy eventualities.

Firstly and most importantly: vibrators. If I’m going to get off with a partner, typically vibes need to be involved. At home, I normally use my Magic Wand Rechargeable or Eroscillator, but both of those are bulky and thus not terribly travel-friendly. I’ve compromised by packing my Lelo Siri 2 and We-Vibe Tango, two delightfully rumbly and super-adjustable external vibes small enough for my jetset sexcapades.

I’ve packed my Tantus Ryder because of this wonderful text my FWB sent me while I was deciding which toys to bring: “I mean, if you wanted to do PIV with a butt plug in again, I wouldn’t say no.” This is the plug I was using the last time we did that, and he liked it because it made my vag even more preternaturally tight than it normally is. The Ryder’s fairly big, though, so I’ve also packed a smaller plug (the Lelo Bob) to help me warm up for it.

My FWB and I also share an appreciation for clit pumps, so I’ve packed mine. It pairs very well with weed, which I’m unsure if we’ll have access to… but even if not, I’m looking forward to experiencing this odd sensation with a partner for the first time.

The Funkit Signet is small, so it’s easy to travel with. As it’s made to enhance fingerbanging, I’m always excited to use it with people who have skilled fingers to begin with. Unf.

Next up: dildos. Most of my favorites – like the Double Trouble, G-Spoon, and Eleven – are too big, heavy, or valuable to bring with me when I travel. Occasionally I risk it, but I always worry that the airline will lose my bag or the TSA will take my dildos away from me, and I care too much about them to let that happen! So this time, I’m only bringing my Jopen Comet Wand. It’ll work well for any masturbation I do during my trip, and my FWB can also pound me with it if I’m in the mood for intense G-spot sensations.

I’m also lucky enough that my hostbean-with-the-mostbean, Bex, owns a fuckton of sex toys. So if I decide I need to borrow a Double Trouble or an Eleven or a Pure Wand or something, I’ll be able to. Yessss.

Condom-wise, I just threw in a few of what I had on hand: Crown and Naked condoms, sent to me by Condomania. It’s hard to travel with a bottle of lube, so I’m bringing some sample packs of Blossom Organics, Sliquid H2O, and Astroglide Natural, as well as a teensy sample-size bottle of Sutil.

What kinds of things do you pack when you go on sexy adventures? Got any toy-travel tips?

You’re Vanilla. I’m Not. But I Love You.

It’s a giddy-hot summer in Toronto and I am out having lunch with my new boyfriend (soon to be ex). My collar is chafing my neck in the sticky heat, so I unclasp the buckle and slide the leather off my neck and into my purse.

Boyf looks up from his menu. “You took it off,” he comments softly. “You should’ve asked first.” A wicked grin creeps over his boyish face.

I giggle and blush, but it’s perfunctory. When he says dom-y shit to me, it’s like I’m watching a porn scene: it turns me on, in an abstracted sort of way, but it doesn’t thrill my innermost subby self because it doesn’t feel like it’s happening to me.

Because he’s not my dom, not really. You are. And you don’t even know it.


I am a kinkster who loves a vanilla person, and it feels like this:

I plunge my hand between the bones of my chest until I find my heart. Closing my fist around it, I pull it out of me til it’s freed from my body with a sickening pop.

With the gingerest touch, I reach out and place my heart in your open palm. We both watch it, beating, twitching. My blood drips between your fingers and onto the floor. When at last I feel brave enough, I drag my gaze up to meet your eyes… and you look horrified.

“What the fuck,” you mutter under your breath, and toss my heart into the gutter. “Gross.”

I know you don’t mean to make me feel that way. But you do. It’s no one’s fault you make me feel that way. But you do. You didn’t choose to be the vanilla-est vanilla boy in all the land. But you are. And I didn’t choose to be collar-over-heels, sweetly-starry-eyed, dreamily-devoted in subby love with you. But I am.


I notice it first in the way I always sit below you if I can help it. The night we met, you sat on my piano bench and I sat cross-legged at your feet, staring reverently up at you like I was six years old and you were telling me a story (you probably were). It becomes a pattern with us: at your place or mine, in the bedroom or the kitchen, surrounded by friends or just the two of us, if you’re on a chair then I’m on the floor. It just feels… right.

You’re barely taller than me, and when we crunch down crowded streets together, we look like equals. I don’t want to be your equal, have never felt like your equal. Sitting at your feet restores a natural equilibrium I can feel but you can’t. I know you can’t feel it because you always ask me, “You sure you don’t wanna sit up here? You’ll be more comfortable.” You don’t get it. I’m comfortable when I’m where I belong: on the floor, looking up at you.

We trade sex secrets and carnal confessions over pints in the brew pub. Your eyebrows knit together in that way they do when you’re trying to understand something incomprehensible. In this case, it’s my kinks.

“I just kind of fall apart when someone calls me ‘little one,'” I tell you. What little nonchalance I can muster is being channelled into keeping my voice steady, trying not to betray how much this means to me. “If I’m having trouble coming, sometimes that’s The Thing that finally makes it happen.”

You stroke your chin in a broad gesture of thoughtfulness and reply, simply: “Interesting.” I wonder if you are filing away this piece of information to be used at a later date. But probably, you’ll just forget. You never call me “little one.” You never call me “princess” or “babygirl” or “sweet darling.” You just call me my name, sometimes. And never in bed.


Names are important to me. Names frame my understanding of a sexual situation. Names are the real-world manifestation of the archetypes and roles floating around in my white-hot kinkster brain. Names matter.

When you’re fucking me – with your fingers, a toy, or your cock – sometimes I want to call you names. They float at the periphery of my awareness; sometimes they ghost across my lips. My mouth forms the syllables “Oh, Daddy” or “Please, Sir,” but no sound comes out. I’m ashamed. I hide these silent pleas in the crook of my elbow, bury them in the warmth of your shoulder. I don’t want to ruin the moment or make you uncomfortable.

It’s agony that the words which would flip your switch from “on” to “off” are the same words that rev my internal motor. Sometimes you ask me, “How can I make you come? What would you like me to do?” and I list physical acts I know will work on the mechanical level, because I don’t dare ask for the mental-emotional-psychological stuff that might scare you off.


You ping my teacher’s-pet kink without even realizing it. One night I send you a draft of something I’m writing, wanting your feedback, and your critique jokingly begins, “Well, if you want to earn an A+ from me…” Of course I fucking do. I make all the changes you suggest, even the ones that conflict with my own taste and voice. I feel that old familiar sense of surrender I’ve experienced while tied up or getting spanked: the deep belief that someone else knows what I need even better than I do. When I show you the finished piece, you tell me it’s perfect, and I feel a rush of something halfway between “just got a 95% on my philosophy exam” and “just gave the best blowjob of all time.”

On bad mental health days, I feel like a useless, unsalvageable failure. Friends remind me I’m smart, funny, talented, kind, and valuable – but I don’t fully believe it until I hear it from you. Earning your A+ makes me feel accomplished, whether you’re complimenting my sexual skills, my writing, or my overall value as a human being.

One night, I’m anxious as hell about an impending deadline. It feels like an end-of-the-world emergency: if I don’t get this article done in time, or if my editor hates it, all will be lost. My head is swirling with panic; I hyperventilate at you via text. “You’ll get it done and it’ll be great,” you tell me, with more confidence than I have ever felt about anything. And suddenly, I know that you’re right. In the hours that follow, I get it done. It’s great. It’s all for you, and you’ll never know.

“Service submission” has never particularly resonated with me. I’ve occasionally fantasized about it, but I’ve never done it with a real-life partner, because I’ve never wanted to. Until I met you.

When I show up at your place with the exact kind of beer you like, or accompany you to events you’re nervous about, or ask a waitress to move us because a wobbly barstool is hurting your bad back, you tell me, “You’re a good friend.” But that’s not really what this is about. I’m not being generous; I am serving you. Being your good girl. Of course, you don’t see it that way, and I’ll never tell you.

When you go out of town to attend a work conference, I sit at home fantasizing about how I’d serve you if I was your plus-one. I picture myself bringing you your coffee first thing in the morning, made exactly how you like it. I would organize your schedule, prepare the documents you needed, choose and press your outfits. At the end of a long day, I’d kneel in front of you, slip your shoes off, and ask you if a nice blowjob would help you relax. I’d suck you off and then bring you a beer, and watch you drink it from my favorite vantage point on your floor.

Service-submission feelings toward a vanilla person are essentially a deep, carnal desire to be their unpaid personal assistant. I’m a feminist and so are you, so I get the sense you wouldn’t accept my “help,” even if you knew what it meant to me. We speak different languages; my word for “purpose and fulfilment” translates to “heartless exploitation” in your native tongue. This can never work. But I still sometimes think about shining your boots.


It occurs to me one day, as I’m walking home in a shirt you let me borrow because I misplaced my dress amid your bedsheets somewhere, that you’ve never left a mark on me. Other partners smack bruises onto my ass, bite toothmarks onto my fleshy hips, carve crimson hickeys into my neck – but you’ve never left so much as a friction-burn on my thighs. It’s ironic, I think, as I pull the sleeves of your shirt down over my chilly hands, that you’ve marked my heart more deeply and irrevocably than anyone else I’ve banged, and yet signs of you have never shown on my skin.

My one souvenir of you – which embarrasses me to even contemplate – is a dime on my bedroom floor. It fell out of your jeans pocket the first time we made out in my bed, and after you left in the morning, I just… kept it there. For the better part of a year. Friends who knew me well would visit and say, “So that dime’s still there, huh? When are you gonna move it?” I’d respond, “It makes me happy to look at it. I’ll move it when that’s no longer true.”

The day I decide to get over you, I text my best friend: “I picked the dime up off the floor.” They reply with a blue heart emoji. There’s nothing else to say, really.


Once, we’re out to dinner, and the subject of kinks comes up. (It always fucking does.) “I just feel like you could be such a good dom if you tried,” I lament for like the twentieth time. I’ve had too much rice wine and am being an asshole.

“Being dom-y makes me anxious,” you tell me through half a mouthful of sushi. I know this. You’ve told me this before. I hate myself for not wanting to accept this answer.

“I dunno, a lot of things used to make me anxious before I got good at them,” I counter. “Maybe if you practiced more, you’d feel more confident about it.” The conversation stagnates and we switch gears.

I’m wracked with guilt for days afterward, and text you: “Hey, I’m sorry I got kinda pressure-y the other night. You said taking charge makes you uncomfortable and I should just respect that. I won’t ask you about it again.” It’s the only decent thing to do, but it feels like giving up on the thing I want most in the world.

“It’s okay,” you text back. I sigh, from relief, or sadness, or something.

12 Days of Girly Juice 2016: 3 Fave Encounters

Today’s “12 Days of Girly Juice” instalment sums up my three favorite bang sessions of the year, and I have an embarrassing secret to confess: unlike last year’s diverse trio of fucktimes, all three of these encounters were with the same person.

It’s embarrassing because it implies that he’s the only good partner I’ve had all year, out of the 12 partners I had in 2016, and that none of the others were worth remembering or writing about. That’s not true at all; I had so much good sex this year and all of it was worthy of celebration!

But there are emotional factors at play which affect how I think about all those encounters. Many of those people have peaced out of my life, after messy break-ups, painful rejections, and/or shocking betrayals – and that drama retroactively mars the memory of the sex I had with those folks. What was amazing sex at the time just feels sad in retrospect.

The following three stories are about a fuckbuddy I’m still friendly with, one who doesn’t make me feel sad, resentful, angry, or betrayed. As such, my memories of sex with him have been left untouched by chaotic emotions, so I’m free to recall these memories in their full splendor. They seem every bit as hot, fun, exciting and transformative now as they did then.

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I snapped this selfie for Bex before embarking on my BJ date. “Do I look pretty?!”

Impromptu blowjob date

On the evening of February 11th, I sat in a lukewarm bath, realizing my sex life was about to change.

A few days earlier, I’d blown a fuckpal whose dick just jived with my mouth. Craving blowjobs was a completely new thing to me, so it’d taken a few days to sink in: not only did I enjoy blowing him, not only did I want to do it again, but I couldn’t stop thinking about doing it again. This was, for me, unprecedented.

In a sudden fit of impulsive bravery, I leapt out of the bath, grabbed my phone, and tapped out this DM to the aforementioned good-dick’ed dude:

Apologies if this comes across as crass or un-“chill,” but I have been thinking a lot about going down on you and would 100% be down to do that again sometime soon. Just lemme know. Sincerely, girl who is totally not this much of a BJ perv with most people but just had to speak what’s on her mind(/vag).

His reply was, shall we say, enthusiastic. We hammered out details, I threw on some clothes, and then I ventured out into the icy Toronto evening, en route to dat dick.

I gave him two blowjobs that night: one when I arrived, amid giggles, blushing, and R&B slowjams – and one later, after we’d gone out for drinks and dinner, when he muttered darkly into a kiss, “I’m thinking about your mouth…”

Sexual tastes take time to shift; it’s rare for a kink to spring up, fully formed, overnight. So maybe my descent into the Blowjob Fandom was more gradual than I realized. But for me, this is the night I’ll always remember as The Beginning of My Blowjob Obsession. Some dicks are so good, they make history in your life. Some dicks are so good, they rewire your brain. Some dicks are so good, they conjure desire where before there was only distaste.

Some of the toys I brought with me to our hotel-buttsex date (and a bottle of gin).
Some of the toys I brought with me to our hotel-buttsex date (and a bottle of gin).

Anal sex in a sketchy hotel

When we went out for dinner and drinks between Blowjob One and Blowjob Two (which sounds like a duo of Dr. Seuss characters I’d dearly love to meet), we discussed the possibility of him being the first person to fuck me in the ass.

It hadn’t occurred to me before that night in that Distillery District pub, but this particular fuckbuddy was really the perfect person to usher me into the world of anal sex. I liked and trusted him, we had good sexual rapport, and he had experience with butt stuff from both sides of the dick. He outranked me in the realm of Butt Wisdom, and I trusted him to guide me through the experience.

We booked a cheap hotel for the following Monday night and met up there, both nervous as hell and self-medicating with weed (him) and gin (me). We set the scene by cuddling, talking, and joking around. And when we were ready, we started into a sex sesh that lasted about four hours in total. Four languid hours of messing around, laughing, and trying things out. My butt got fucked at some point during the proceedings, but it didn’t feel like the Main Event; everything else was so much fun that the actual butt stuff felt very low-pressure and almost like an afterthought.

This night confirmed what I already knew: that goofy, relaxed sex is my favorite kind, that a shared sense of humor and rapport is vitally important to my sexual enjoyment with a partner, and that – yes! – I like getting fucked in the ass.

I don’t know that it’s always useful to agonize over who should be “your first” when it comes to a particular sexual act. I’m endlessly picky about who I want to fist me first, for example, whereas the first person I ever had sex with was just a friend, for whom I didn’t have sexual feelings. I think the importance of the person really depends on the specific act – and because anal sex is highly intimate, emotionally risky, and physically tricky, I’m super glad I held out for someone I deeply trusted and adored. The experience could not have been any better, truly. I think back on it with immense fondness and gratitude, and I hope my butt gets fucked more in 2017!

28042689031_dbf0210c7d_oBAMF threesome

One night in April, my then-boyfriend was over an hour late to meet me. I complained to Bex, who said, “You know who’d never be late to meet you?” and then they said the name of my fuckbuddy, who, at that time, I hadn’t seen in quite a while and missed a lot.

Bex was joking about my FWB being better for me and nicer to me than my boyfriend, but they were also right. That boyf was disrespectful, unfeminist, and made me feel terrible about being a sexual person. He always wanted me to “warn him” in advance if I wanted sex, acted like it was a favor he’d begrudgingly do for me, and talked about my body less like a hot piece of ass and more like a mildly distasteful science experiment. Though I didn’t want to admit it, I missed having sex with people whose approach to sex was spontaneous, enthusiastic, and joyful. Like that far-away fuckbuddy.

After tweeting about Bex’s remarks, I went to bed, because I had work early the next morning. By the time I woke up, Bex had a) had a conversation with said fuckbuddy about my tweet, b) explained that my boyfriend was basically the worst, and c) established that me, Bex, and the FWB should totally have a threesome. Bex makes dreams come true. They hadn’t gotten the go-ahead from me to set this up, but they didn’t need to: months earlier, on a streetcar, I’d randomly turned to them and said, “Hey, hypothetically, would you ever want to have a threesome with [my FWB]?” to which Bex immediately said, “Yeah!” So there was a precedent. And now that plan had been set in motion.

Over the next six weeks, we planned, brainstormed, sexted, and negotiated. I booked a bus ticket to New York and wrote a decidedly sex-centric packing list. We titled this landmark event “the BAMF threesome” – “Bean (Agender)/Male/Female threesome” – or, alternatively, “The Great Threesome of 2016.” I broke up with my boyfriend, in part because I realized I’d never been half as excited about him as I was about this threesome.

We wore matching rainbow socks, 'cause we knew the dude liked 'em.
We wore matching rainbow socks, ’cause we knew the dude liked ’em.

I took a 10-hour overnight bus from Toronto to New York, and then trekked from the bus station to Bex’s Queens apartment with my little suitcase and backpack full of sex toys. When I arrived, I found that we were wearing the same shirt, which just reiterated the whole “we are gonna sexually team up on a dude tonight” vibe.

The threesome itself was fucking adorable. Dude came over, showered, and the three of us nervously cuddled on a couch for an hour or two, talking and catching up. Then we semi-awkwardly transitioned to kissing, moved to the bed, and took some clothes off. What followed was a blurry mess of blowjobs, fingerbanging, spanking, fucking, biting, dirty-talking, and laughing. It was a magnificent synthesis of two people I love very much and all my favorite aspects of sex. So, basically: the best.

Despite all the threesomes I’ve been involved in, they’re not really my jam – I prefer the unbroken focus and intensity of one-on-one encounters. But sometimes the stars just align, and a magic threesome materializes from the ether like a stroke of genius. This was one of those. More than a sexual encounter, it was a bonding experience, a true test of friendship, some serendipitous playtime. I felt so lucky to know both of those people.

When we were done fucking, we ordered Mexican food, ate it while sitting unselfconsciously naked on Bex’s bedroom floor, and then climbed into bed for a cuddly three-way snooze. I’ve rarely gone to bed so happy, comfortable, and satisfied in my life.

 

What were your favorite sexual encounters of 2016?

Monthly Faves: Handsex, Hot Doms, & a Happenstance Threesome

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I was very smitten with November. After coming back from a two-week stint overseas, I felt even more in love with my hometown of Toronto than I normally do – not to mention, extra appreciative of the friends I had left behind here. I spent a lot of this month laughing, talking, and/or having sex with people who are super important to me, and all of it felt cozy and affirming. ❤️ Here are some of the products, ideas, and experiences I loved most this month…

Sex toys

• Kenton from Funkit Toys sent me a prototype of his Signet, a textured ring meant to be worn on the fingers for added stimulation during handsex. I wore it out to some events and several people marveled at my “elegant” ring, which I found hilarious. I was excited to use it with my FWB, since he’s already one of the best fingerbangers I’ve ever encountered – and holy jeez, it was great. As soon as he started fucking me while wearing the Signet, my decibel level rapidly increased, such that he laughed and said, “Oh, you like that, huh?!” Indeed: the texture adds an intensity that makes fingerbanging – already a favorite act of mine – even more delicious. Go buy a Signet; you only have until December 9th to do so!

• I spent the first 8 days of the month in Europe with no sex toys at my disposal except the G-Spoon and Tango I’d impulsively decided to bring. When I’m at home, these are both “second-string” toys for me: I’ll reach for the G-Spoon if I’m not up to the task of accommodating the Double Trouble or Eleven‘s girth, or if I specifically want to fantasize about having my A-spot fingered, and I’ll grab the Tango if I want something more pinpoint than the Magic Wand or that I can take in the bath. But maaan, they sure did the trick. The easiest formula for getting me off is a rumbly clit vibe + an A-spot-focused dildo, and this combo totally wins by those criteria.

• I bought a Hole Punch Fluke in a gorgeous blue ombré colorway. My vagina is deeeeeply enamored. It’s moreso a vaginal plug than a dildo; I like keeping it inside me while I watch porn and hold a Magic Wand to my clit. It’s the laziest possible way to administer G-spot stimulation and I love it.

Fantasy fodder

• When I’m in the mood to watch a dominant lady boss people around and be mean to ’em – a rare craving for me, but a potent one when it does come up – my first choice is always Aiden Starr. She’s one of the best dirty-talkers in the biz and she follows through on her smack-talk. I like this clip of “mad scientist” Aiden studying Daisy Ducati’s ejaculations, and Aiden forcing an orgasm out of Sara Luvv with a clit pump and a wand vibe. Good gawd, lady’s got game.

• I mentioned this in my Double Trouble post, and probably repeatedly on Twitter, but I’m not over my usually-vanilla-but-sometimes-vaguely-dominant FWB telling me, “See what happens when you trust me?” after I took his advice to relax into pleasure and he made me come. He told me later that he keeps his dom-y dirty-talk infrequent, partly because it makes him nervous but partly because the effect is heightened if his quips are few and far between. Um, yup. Very yup.

Sexcetera

• Mid-month, I had some friends over for a get-together, and among them were my favorite fuckpal and a beautiful lady. The day before, Suz had dreamed we had a threesome, so it was on my mind… as was the fact that each of these people had independently told me they’d be down to threesome with the other one. I took them each aside to separately ask if they were feelin’ threesome-y, and they both said yes – so later that night, after my other guests had skedaddled, a magical threesome materialized in my bed. It involved marijuana, a double blowjob, fingerbanging, toy-ramming, ample use of the Magic Wand Rechargeable, and lots of giggly makeouts wherein me and Suz kept squealing “You’re so pretty!” at each other. Overall: fantastic.

• Remember earlier this month when I told you all about how weed makes sex better for me? Yeah, I really practiced what I preach this month. At one point, my FWB and I got super high and he did stuff to my nipples with his hands and mouth, and I actually felt like I was sailing out of my body and into the astral plane from the sheer ecstasy of it. “That was hot,” he told me afterward. Yes, it certainly was.

• Some of my work elsewhere this month: I enthused about temperature play and ranted about buying partners sex toys for Ignite. I have a column about the decline of PIV in the latest issue of This. And on our podcast, Bex and I talked about handsex, PIV, butt stuff, and sexting. (Are you subscribed to our show yet?!)

Femme stuff

• I wanted to buy something glamorous while in Italy (’cause “When in Rome”!), so I stopped into a Sephora and picked up Armani Rouge d’Armani lipstick in “Lucky Red.” It’s the exact kind of red I like best: classic, cool-toned, and creamy but not glossy. The magnetic-closure tube makes me feel like a futuristic megababe, and the shade itself is a hot pop of confidence. I loooove it.

• When I’m feeling sartorially uninspired, I like dressing with a particular character or occasion in mind. When I went to an Andy Shauf show this month, I dressed like a navel-gazing hipster so I’d fit in with his crowd. When depression made it hard for me to get out of bed on American Thanksgiving weekend, Bex sent me a picture of them in their fancy family dinner outfit and told me to wear what I’d wear if I was going to their dinner with them. Other recent “costumes” include “hot grown-up Wednesday Addams,” witchy goth babe, and “butch greaser.” Hey, whatever works.

• I’ve been wearing my hair very curly lately (see also, and also, and also). My hair is naturally wavy, but a little wizardry with DevaCurl gel and a Turbie Twist can kick it up to eleven. Having giant hair makes me feel powerful, and I dig it.

Little things

This guide to helping a partner who’s having an anxiety meltdown (potential suitors, take note!). Putting lipstick on my five-year-old cousin at her request. The extreme peacefulness of the Ġgantija ruins. Curvy-lady statuettes. Hazelnut gelato, tiramisu, and cacio e pepe. Artistic advice from people I respect. My friend Lilly’s post about the BlogSquad. My SAD lamp. Going clothes shopping with hot friends and gasping dramatically over how gorgeous they look. Dancing to the Elwins in a dim basement with a new friend. Crackin’ jokes with my ex in a blessedly not-awkward way. “I’d die if I saw you; I’d die if I didn’t see you there.” Friends who happily accept my introvert-y proclivities. Making sweet potato risotto while listening to The Adventure Zone. Meeting a guy with swoopy hair at a party and telling him he looked like a Pokémon villain. Intoxicated BJs. Getting sex toys in the mail (always). Touch the Skyrim. Laughin’ it up with Brent and a bunch of nerds at a Use Your Words playtest. Makin’ New Year’s Eve plans with some babes I adore. Telling stories at TMSG (ideally when the people the story’s about are sitting in the front row and giggling at me). Sleeping At Last’s Atlas: Year One and his new Christmas album. My FWB doing a spot-on impression of my sex noises for my amusement.

What were your fave sexy thingz this month, babes?

A Year With the Double Trouble (+ Win My Favorite Toy!)

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November. I creep to the post office with a harried desperation in my step. Once there, I slink to the service counter and slide my “missed delivery” notice toward the clerk, hoping she won’t ask me what’s inside the package she fetches for me. She doesn’t. I clutch it to my chest the whole way home, protecting it from the world and the prying eyes of others, like it’s my baby. It kind of is.

imageDecember. I’m enthusing about my new toy – the Fucking Sculptures Double Trouble – to an equally new fuckbuddy. “Why don’t you marry it?!” he jibes, and I think through this scenario like it’s an actual possibility. Already, the Dub Trubz has given me more orgasms than this fuckpal has, so it seems like a decent contender for spousal consideration.

A few weeks into fucking me on the regs, my FWB’s getting frustrated that he hasn’t been able to make me come. It’s not his fault, I tell him; it takes me a while to warm up to new partners, and for them to learn what I like. “Show me how to get you off,” he texts, and I come over to his house with my Double Trouble and Tango crammed into my bag.

Post-makeouts and foreplay, I lube up my favorite side of the D-Trub – the slightly thinner, longer side – and push it inside myself. I let him grasp the other side and take the reins, but I offer a running commentary of directions to help him along: “Tilt the handle down so the tip hits my A-spot better. Move it in small in-and-out motions. A little deeper, please. Harder. Just a liiiittle faster. There. Yes. Like that. Right there.” It doesn’t take long. I fall to pieces in front of him, the Tango handily handling my clit while he strokes the DT over my spot again and again. He finally got to see me come. He’s thrilled.

imageJanuary. I masturbate constantly with my not-so-new-anymore treasure. It’s like the honeymoon phase in a relationship; I just can’t see anything wrong with it, nor do I want to. It makes me squirt, it makes me giggle, it makes me come and come and come. I take it in the bath, to fuckbuddies’ houses, to coffee-dates with friends so I can show them my fave toy. Sometimes I’m lying in bed and I catch sight of it on my nightstand, and I have to use it immediately. It’s that good.

February. Planning my first anal sex experience, I’m sexting with a handsome hookup who loves using toys on me. “Any particular toys you want me to bring?” I ask him, nervous and excited. The hotel room is booked; this is really happening.

image“It’s about what you like,” he replies. “Even if I’m having a good dick night, that’s gonna be three rounds, max, with variable stamina. But if you want to get rammed with a toy for another 20 minutes, bring that. ;)” My heart quickens and I slide the Double Trouble into the toy bag I’ve already packed well beyond its capacity.

When the moment for toy-ramming actually arrives, there are really only two choices worth considering, and they’re both on the nightstand of our hotel room. “It’s up to you,” I tell him when we’re trying to decide which one should be the one to get me off. “The Eleven is more G-spotty, and the Double Trouble is more A-spotty.”

He fingered me a little, earlier in the night, so he’s bang-on when he intuits, “It seems like you’re in an A-spot kind of mood tonight.” (This is before I realize that I’m pretty much always in an A-spot kind of mood.) He fetches my Hitachi and lubes up the dildo, and I give him my same old detailed play-by-play of how to fuck me with this blue glass behemoth. He absolutely nails it. “I wish my dick was shaped like this,” he mutters, mere minutes before making me come so hard I practically black out.

March. “Some orgasms are quick, small, and barely noticeable,” I tweet. “And some orgasms involve the Double Trouble.”

April. I have a lacklustre Tinder hookup in Minneapolis. It sates my BJ craving but doesn’t get me off – one-night stands almost never do – so I wreck myself with my Dub Trubz after the dude drives me back to where I’m staying. Once again, a damn good dildo saves the day.

May. I’m on antidepressants for the first time in my life, and suspect that they might be affecting my sexual sensitivity. During a threesome with Bex and my favorite fuckbuddy, he uses his fingers and then the Double Trouble on my A-spot, and I don’t even get close to coming. That’s when I know for sure that my orgasmic capabilities have been stunted by the medication. If that dude’s fingers can’t get me off, something is wrong; if the D-Trubz can’t get me off, something is really wrong. I quit the pills the very next day.

June. I declare on Twitter that if my vagina were a polyamorous person, the Double Trouble would be its primary partner. (Truth be told, when I’m between partners, this toy feels like it’s my primary partner.)

28796671452_838a1a04bf_oJuly. I have a new kinda-boyfriend, and my fave fuckpal is in town. I have a lot of sex. No, really, a lot of sex. And a lot of it involves the Double Trouble. It’s fascinating to observe different partners’ approaches to using it on me.

One memorable afternoon, me and my fuckbuddy are gettin’ down to business in my bedroom in an Airbnb, while Bex shoots porn in the next room. While warming me up with his fingers, he reminds me in a low, vaguely dom-y tone, “We have to be really quiet.” I nod and pull a pillow over my face as a preemptive measure. He hands me my Hitachi, then lubes the Double Trouble and pushes it into me. I thought I could be quiet. Now I’m not so sure.

When we go out for dinner, I say to Bex, “You’re gonna lock the door, right?” and without missing a beat, they reply, “Duh. There’s a Double Trouble in there.”

August. I bring my Dub Trub to Woodhull so the other sex bloggers can ooh and aah over it. They do. One afternoon, horny and socially overwhelmed, I skip a session and sneak upstairs to my hotel room for an introvert break that is also a masturbation break. I work myself up with deft precision, Tango in one hand and Double Trouble in the other. It’s quick and easy. I feel instantly better.

Later in the month, I bring a new beau back to my place, and we hook up for the first time. “I want you to show me where your A-spot is,” he whispers darkly; he’s obviously been reading my tweets. I help him find it with his fingers first, and then I arm him with the DT. He picks up the necessary skillset admirably fast. After I come, he tells me, “That was hot,” and I radiate a glowy grin.

img_3885September. I’m miserable. Heartbroken over a recent romantic rejection, bitter over a couple of nasty break-ups, and as dour and depressed as I’ve been in recent memory. My genitals feel foreign to me, and most days, masturbation is too much work to contemplate. But when I need it, the Double Trouble is there. It sleuths out my A-spot. It makes me come. I don’t have to think, or try, or fantasize. Paired with the Magic Wand or Tango, it’s nearly instant. I’m unspeakably grateful for sex toys, because they make my life a little easier when it seems very, very hard.

October. I go to Malta and Italy for two weeks. Knowing I’ll be sharing a hotel room with my mom the whole time, I give minimal thought to masturbation. At the last minute, I decide to pack my Tango and G-Spoon, just incase. They end up being indispensable to me, since travel stress makes me horny as hell – but I still wish I’d brought my Double Trouble. True, I would’ve panicked the whole time that it’d get lost or stolen somewhere in an airport or a cargo hold, but nonetheless, I miss it. It’s my go-to guy.

November. I have an impromptu threesome with a handsome friend and a pretty lady. She plays with my nipples, kisses me, and tells me how cute I am, while he fucks me with the Double Trouble. He stands by the edge of the bed so he can fully harness the strength of his quads to ram me. At one point I start to get anxious and ask him, “Are you tired? Do you want to stop?” and he all but rolls his eyes, because he knows I’m prone to insecurities about taking too long to come. “You just lie back, relax, and feel good,” he instructs me. While I’m coming hard a few minutes later, he quips, “See what happens when you trust me?” and it’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard.

The next morning, Suz has to go home early, so it’s just me and Handsome Pal snugglin’ naked in bed. One thing leads to another, and once again, he’s got that big chunk of blue glass buried in me. “Harder,” I pant. I want more sensation. I want it to almost hurt. I want to come so hard for him. “If I go any harder, I might impale you,” he comments, “but I think you want to be impaled.” And then he presses the DT’s tip even more insistently against my A-spot, slamming the toy in and out of me faster. My yeahs and right-theres and don’t-stops coalesce into gasps and screams. The orgasm hits me like a train. I haven’t come that hard in months.

The 20th is the one-year anniversary of the Double Trouble’s arrival in my life. I decide I want to do something to mark the occasion. I ask the many-times-aforementioned friend with benefits – the person who’s handled my D-Trubz the most, other than me – for a mini-review to include in this post, and he writes back: “Fucking a partner with the Double Trouble fulfills my fantasy of having some kind of prehensile sci-fi alien penis… Recommended!” I simultaneously laugh and get turned on, a thrilling Pavlovian response. Unf.

dtrubz

I have the most exciting news for you, my loves: you can win a Double Trouble!! Last week, I reached out to SheVibe and Fucking Sculptures to ask if they’d provide a gift card that one of my readers could win and potentially put towards a DT, but both companies are fuckin’ superstars and they each generously offered an actual goddamn Double Trouble for my giveaway instead. Amazing!!

If you win one, SheVibe or Fucking Sculptures will ship you the toy for free if you live within the U.S. If you’re located elsewhere, you’ll have to pay the shipping yourself (but trust me, it’s worth it).

The giveaway goes until December 1st. I’m so so happy I get to hook up two of my lovely readers with my very favorite sex toy!

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