Author: Kate Sloan

Fancy a Girly Juice Cocktail?

Kate Sloan

I should’ve known, when I started dating a cocktails aficionado, that eventually he would invent a drink called the Girly Juice.

Truth be told, given that the name of my blog was originally yoinked from an ex-lover who used to refer to my vaginal fluids as such, ideally this drink would include a splash o’ vag. But I’ll leave genital imbibement to bukkake enthusiasts and the author of Semenology.

If anything, I wanted my blog’s namesake beverage to include ingredients I adore – and since my partner has ample experience ordering for me at restaurants, he’s very aware of what those ingredients are. I love bright, sweet drinks made with citrusy juices (see, for example, the Southside or the London Calling), and I love warm spices like cinnamon and ginger.

Obviously a drink inspired by me and my blog should also have, at the very least, a pinkish tinge, because I’m a feminine femme through and through.

So, without further ado… here’s how to make the ~official~ Girly Juice cocktail!

Ingredients:

  • 2 oz London dry gin (we used Tanqueray but my partner also recommends Sipsmith)
  • 1 to 1.5 oz pink grapefruit juice (more if you like a fruitier flavor, less if you like a boozier flavor)
  • ¾ oz cinnamon syrup
  • 2 dashes ginger bitters or cinnamon bitters (we used Dillon’s ginger bitters)

Pour all ingredients into a shaker filled with ice, and shake. Strain and serve in a chilled coupe glass. Garnish with a cinnamon stick and/or a grapefruit peel twist.

Health note: grapefruit juice is known to interact poorly with certain medications, so do some research and make sure it’s safe for you to consume before partaking of this drink! If you want a suitable replacement, my beau suggests an equivalent amount of orange or blood orange juice.

If you try this cocktail, let us know what you think!

My Phone Sex Setup

Kate Sloan

I talk a lot about phone sex on here, but I’ve said almost nothing about the actual logistical tools I use for this particular lascivious act.

And that stuff’s important! The wrong phone sex setup can make you feel farther from your partner when you want to feel closer. You don’t want to be stuck fiddling with Bluetooth settings and charger cables when you could be focusing on your paramour’s pretty moans.

My partner and I have had phone sex almost every night for over a year (YEESH) so I have ample experience and opinions in this arena! Here are some of my phone-sex must-haves…

The phone itself

My current phone is an iPhone XS; it was a Christmas present to myself, because my old 6S was barely functional after being thrashed for 3 years. I love the XS! It’s sleek and sexy, and it sounds great.

My only real beef with this phone is Apple’s decision to remove the headphone jack and force you to use the Lightning port at the bottom for both headphones and chargers – which could be impractical for phone-sex purposes, but I’ve found workarounds, which I’ll explain below…

On occasion, I’ve used other WiFi-enabled devices, like my iPad, to talk to my partner. It’s good to know I have a backup incase my phone ever needs to be repaired or something.

Phone accessories

Call me a basic bitch if you must, but my #1 must-have iPhone accessory for phone sex is just a pair of those basic white earbuds that come with the phone. They have a little remote on one side which lets you control the volume level and even answer calls with one click, and there’s also a little microphone on that remote. Occasionally I’ll switch to my big noise-canceling headphones if I want to hear additional depth and richness in my partner’s voice – like if we’re doing a hypno scene – but for the most part, those standard Apple earbuds work just fine. (I have to use a Lightning-to-headphone-jack adapter when I mix up my choice of headphones, unfortunately. What are you doing, Apple.)

Speaking of that fucking Lightning port… I got tired of having to choose between wearing my headphones and plugging my phone in, so I bought a wireless charging pad for my nightstand. Initially this seemed like a frivolous expenditure, but I use it ALL THE TIME and it comes in handy when my phone battery dwindles while my partner is whispering sweet hot things at me.

On that note, regardless of what type of phone you have, I would recommend getting a super-long charging cable for it (AmazonBasics makes the ones I like). Trust me, you might not think you need a 10-foot-long charging cable right now, but the extra mobility and convenience are worth the $10-20 you’ll spend on it.

Software

My partner and I use FaceTime audio for the vast majority of our aural communiqué. It sounds way better than a normal phone call, and you can hear things like breathing and soft moans more clearly, which, as you might imagine, matters. We’ll also occasionally use FaceTime video if we’re in the mood to see each other (or, y’know, each other’s junk). If I’m having WiFi troubles and FaceTime starts turning me into a low-res robot, we’ll switch to a regular phone call – but it’s definitely not preferred.

When we want to watch something together, we use Rabb.it – which I mention here only because sometimes we indulge in some porn as foreplay of sorts. This app has its problems (it always seems to take us a good few minutes to figure out how to join the same room, because the interface is unnecessarily complicated), but I haven’t really found anything else that does what it does.

Very occasionally, my partner instructs me to look at something – like, say, a spiral or some looping wink videos during a hypno scene – in which case I usually open it up in QuickTime or Preview on my MacBook.

Miscellaneous equipment

Speaking of watching spirals/gifs/porn while talking on the phone – if I want to do that in bed, rather than at my desk, I’ll pull out my lap desk from IKEA (this one is similar) and prop up the computer on that. You don’t want to worry about your laptop overheating while you’re trying to, um, get overheated yourself!

Clothing-wise: this might seem silly, but I love my MeUndies lounge pants for the early stages of phone sex, when we’re mostly just flirting and saying mildly suggestive things. (Clothes start to come off after that point, although sometimes I wish they wouldn’t!) I love these for simple reasons: they are comfy as hell, they’re loose and stretchy enough that I can get a hand or even a vibe inside them without needing to take them off, the fabric is thin enough that I can easily use a vibe through it if I want to, and – best of all – they have FOUR pockets, each of which is big enough to fit my phone. So if I have to get up during phone sex – say, to wash a sex toy or go get a snack – I can just tuck my phone in there while my headphones remain on. Perf.

As with any kind of sex, it’s good to have lube somewhere nearby and easily accessible. I keep a bevy of options on my nightstand. It goes without saying, surely, that my favorite sex toys are also always close at hand, and my Eroscillator is always plugged in.

Finally, I try to always have snacks and water available if I’m gonna have phone sex. You’re saying a lot of words and making a lot of sounds; you should keep your voice lubricated! The snacks come in handy for aftercare; sex across vast geographical expanses obviously doesn’t allow for cuddly, body-based aftercare, so we double up on the verbal kind (compliments, jokes, contented sighs) and yummy treats to bring our bodies and brains back to normal.

What are your must-have tools and supplies when you have phone sex?

Review: Uberrime Night King

Kate Sloan

The email said, “I think we have something that may interest you. Finally, an A-spot toy.” It was from Savva at Peepshow Toys, and he had my fucking attention.

The A-spot, as you might know if you’re a dedicated reader here, is a crucial erogenous zone of mine, located deep inside the vagina, in front of the cervix. The problem Savva alluded to in his email is that there are remarkably few toys made for hitting that spot. My pal Kenton at Funkit Toys makes the Armadillo for this purpose, and I heard a rumor once that one of Fun Factory’s toys was designed with the A-spot in mind, but that’s about it. My fave toys for deep stimulation, like the G-Spoon and the Eleven, are not really meant to be pushed so deep, so they have their problems when used this way: not enough handle length to properly thrust with, for example, or a slightly too-wide head that can only burrow into the A-spot at certain finicky angles. It’s a sad state of affairs, but it’s the best I’ve got, for the most part.

The Uberrime Night King, though, is pretty indisputably an A-spot toy, which is why Savva thought of me when Peepshow started carrying it. It’s absurdly long for a dildo – 9″ total, 8″ insertable – so, much like the Tantus Uncut #1, it can get all the way inside me with a couple inches to spare for thrusting leverage. You could use this toy on your G-spot, but it would be an awkward feat for both hand and vag. It begs to fill up an orifice.

Uberrime is a company that popped onto my radar seemingly out of nowhere. They make individually handmade silicone dildos more beautiful than any I’ve seen in a long while. Peepshow carries various other Uberrime toys, and I hear good things about many of them, but the Night King is the one I’ve fallen head-over-A-spot for.

I first noticed this toy’s increasing indispensability in my sex toy collection when my Sir started commanding me to use it during phone sex more and more. He’s methodical about his toy choices for me, selecting the exact tools he knows will produce the sounds he wants to hear, or will satisfy a craving he can sense in me. (Yes, my boyfriend is a phone-sex genius.) From the very first time I used the Night King at his bidding, he told me he liked the sounds it brought out of me. They are A-spot sounds: deep, warmed-honey grunts, entirely different from my high-pitched G-spot squeaks or desperate clitoral wails. I know when a toy works well for me from how it feels, but I also trust my boyfriend’s opinion on this, since he listens to me much more intently during sex than I ever listen to myself – and he says I fucking love this toy.

He’s right. While I’m not normally a big fan of textured dildos, the swirly, vein-like ridges all over the Night King’s shaft feel delicious rubbing along my vaginal walls. But more importantly: the combination of the head, the coronal ridge, and the curve make this a stellar A-spot toy. Uncharacteristically for a dildo, the head of the Night King is slightly thinner than the 1.7″-wide shaft, and that barely-there taper allows the tip to slide right up into my reclusive A-spot, no problem. The dildo’s perfect upward curve guides it smoothly toward that spot; no cervix-jabbing here. And then there’s that magnificent coronal ridge – deep, but not sharp – providing a satisfying “popping” sensation every time the dildo moves in or out of the snug cul-de-sac in which my A-spot resides. I don’t know if Uberrime meant for this to be an A-spot dildo, but either way, they fuckin’ killed it.

Despite its vaguely extraterrestrial aesthetic, the Night King feels just dicklike enough that I can fantasize about dicks while I use it. (I mean, you can fantasize about dicks while you’re using any toy, or none at all, but I often like my toys to match my fantasies at least a little.) The dimensions of this one are in the same ballpark as my partner’s cock, and it hits my A-spot with similar aplomb, so this dildo is a mutual fave when m’dude and I have phone sex involving good ol’ PIV. Uberrime’s silicone is firm but with just enough squish to feel comfortable, so – much like flesh-and-blood dicks – the Night King feels absolutely decadent when it’s buried deep inside me while I come. Squeezing and clenching around something so simultaneously thick and spongy is… yum.

I like the Night King’s sturdy base, too. It’s easy to grip onto and thrust with – very important in a toy like this that makes me want to thrust a lot. One of my fave weird features of my Night King – which other ones probably don’t have, due to the handmade nature of these toys – is that there’s a little silver marking on the base which helps me keep the toy oriented the right way, with the curve pointed up. With a lot of other dildos, I’ll tend to rotate them slowly over time without noticing it, and often have to take them out and adjust their orientation; there’s no need to do so with the Night King, because I have a visual indicator right on the base.

The Night King is technically harness-compatible, what with that hefty base and exaggerated length; it will especially be a hit if your strap-on recipient likes getting fucked deep. But it’s also so long that it’ll tend to flop around in a harness. If you want something easier to control, I’d recommend one of Uberrime’s shorter toys, like the Splendid or the Essential. Or you could just deal with the floppiness. It won’t move around much once it’s buried deep inside someone, after all. (Cue vaginal drooling here.)

Being a sex toy snob of the highest order, I’m almost never this enamored with a new toy these days. But the Night King has worked its way into my regular rotation, because it’s just that fucking good. If you love deep penetration and can contend with this toy’s girth and texture, I think you’ll find this dildo heavenly. Finally, the sex toy industry has acknowledged us A-spot fiends. I hope this is the start of a trend!

 

Thanks so much to Peepshow Toys for sending me this toy to review! Check out their complete selection of Uberrime toys.

Love Through a Voyeuristic Lens

Kate Sloan

In the age of the internet, it’s normal for our private lives to play out in public. In just a few clicks, you can peek into a beauty influencer’s medicine cabinet, peruse a sex toy blogger’s prized collection (hi), or visit voyeur house private cams where you can watch the life of real people. Not everyone is thrilled about all this openness and exhibitionism, but it’s undeniably part of our culture now.

So, as a sex writer and certifiable member of the Oversharers Club, it surprised me how private I was about my current relationship in its infancy. I talked about it in oblique terms on Twitter, and mentioned to a few friends that I’d been texting with a promising new dude who lived in New York, but for the most part, I wanted to hold those cards close to my chest. Our courtship happened primarily late at night via FaceTime and iMessage, encrypted end-to-end, cordoned off from the rest of our lives. It felt weird to bring it out into the open by talking about it too much – like someone throwing open the door of a darkened closet during a heated game of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

But because this private intimacy was shared between only me and my new crush, it felt almost like it didn’t really exist – like it could be a mirage, a hallucination, a midnight fever-dream. It brought me back to my early days on the internet, when I’d build elaborate romances with strangers in IRC chats and then just go to school the next day like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed. Even as we escalated to using weightier words for each other – partner, boyfriend and girlfriend – still, part of me felt like: here is my “real life,” and here is this relationship, and scarcely the twain shall meet.

So it was quite a jolt the first time my new love – mb – came to visit me in Toronto. Seeing him in familiar locales, like my bedroom, my parents’ living room, and the coffee shop I go to every week, was as jarring as a bad green-screen sequence in a low-budget movie. How could such a cute, sweet person, who had taken on an almost mythical quality in my mind, exist in the world at all, let alone in my life? I felt like Rob Gordon, the antihero of High Fidelity, when he looks up his long-lost college girlfriend: “She’s in the fucking phone book! She should be living on Neptune. She’s an extraterrestrial, a ghost, a myth, not a person in a phone book!”

He met my family. He met my friends. I took him to my birthday party. But none of it quite felt real – until, shortly after leaving the party, I got a text from my friend Suz, who had left at the same time as us. “Okay, so, creepiest thing I have ever done,” she wrote, “but when we departed at the subway, I could see y’all from the other side. You both looked so in love, so I took some creepy stealth pics for you.”

mb and I giggled over the photos, crowing “We’re so cute!” and zooming in to examine our amorous body language. Something clicked. Seeing my relationship from the outside allowed me to believe in it from the inside. I felt validated: Yes, he really exists; yes, he really is that cute; yes, he really loves me! Some part of me had been continually nervous that he would evaporate somehow, that I would wake up from the dream or forget to save my game, and he would be gone. But there he was, in a handful of .jpegs, flirting with me on a Toronto subway platform, irrefutable.

Feeling observed in a feeling can make that feeling all the more palpable. Maggie Nelson writes about it in Bluets: “We sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.” Beauty vloggers know this, as do reality TV stars, theatre actors, Instagram influencers, exhibitionists and voyeurs. Like Schrodinger’s cat, sometimes it is the very act of seeing that heralds the seen object into existence. My relationship would have been real with or without spectators, of course – but my rock-solid, comfortable, life-affirming belief in that relationship? Maybe not so much.

 

This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own. Thank you to Suz for the photos; we love them!

Sexting, Spanking, Stroking: What “Counts” As Sex?

Kate Sloan

In the 12th grade I took a psychology/sociology/anthropology class, the first day of which was spent debating what constituted “sex.”

Our teacher said it was a useful exercise to get us thinking about the nuances of the class’s subject matter – and he was right. The ensuing discussion was psychosocial and sociocultural, surprisingly thoughtful for a roomful of horny teenagers.

One person suggested sex could be defined as a physical act meant to invoke sensual pleasure in oneself and one’s partner, but someone else pointed out that under this definition, holding hands could be considered sex. Another person thought orgasm should be part of the definition, but of course that leaves out all the perfectly valid sex that doesn’t involve orgasms, whether by choice or not. We debated whether sex had to involve romantic feelings (no), penetration (no), mutual pleasure (no), genital touching (mayyybe?). Despite feeling fairly certain we knew what sex was, we couldn’t agree on a definition that we felt included all the things it ought to and excluded all the things it ought to.

This was years before the “galaxy brain” meme became popular, but damn if that wasn’t a galaxy-brain moment for me. If I didn’t know what sex was or wasn’t, then could sex be… almost anything? Could I experience sexual pleasure from… almost anything?

I’ve been writing about sex online for the better part of a decade now, and my understanding of what “sex” is has only become broader and murkier as time has progressed (not to mention, as acts like sexting and phone sex have become a bigger and bigger part of my life). I’m not sure I know what sex is. I’m not sure I ever knew.

I’m playing Scrabble and drinking wine with a cute, toppy enby at their house. It’s our second date. They’re really, really good at Scrabble; they beat me spectacularly. And then I ask if they want to beat me in another way.

They are amenable, and I sprawl over their lap, face down and ass up, like a good girl. They warm up my ass with light swats and then transition into more substantial smacks. The impacts get louder and the pain gets worse and I almost want to cry and it’s so so good.

When we mutually decide we’re done with impact, I sit in their lap and kiss them, our hands roaming lazily along each other’s skin. I feel like a sweet, petite princess under their gaze. The kisses fade out like the end of a pop song, and they gesture at the Scrabble board. “Wanna play again?”

Does this count as sex?

Kink, as you may well know, makes everything more complicated.

Where previously I might have said that a sexual activity had to involve genital touching for me to consider it “sex,” the deeper I’ve waded into my kinky identity, the less certain I am that that’s true. When you’re a spanking fetishist, for example, your butt basically is a genital region, or at least, your brain and body respond as if it were (and isn’t that the whole point?). Does that make the feet a sexual organ for foot fetishists? Is the brain a sexual organ for hypnokinksters?

I keep a sex spreadsheet, and currently my threshold for including an encounter there is:

  1. At least one person’s genitals must be touched by at least one other person
  2. The purpose of the interaction must be for sexual pleasure
  3. It must “feel like sex” to me

Of course, that last point is the most nebulous, and probably the most important. Some spankings leave me panting and dishevelled, satisfied and wrecked, like good sex; others just feel like a few fun swats from a pal. Some sexting sessions feel obscene and all-encompassing; others just feel like typing words into a phone. Maybe it’s okay for your definition of sex to be subjective. But then, what happens if someone thinks they’re fucking you, deeply and fully, and to you it just feels like a bit of rollin’ around?

My fuckbuddy is looking particularly cute tonight – but I swear I think that every time I see him. He’s naked in the pool at the sex club, sipping a cider, not a trace of self-consciousness in his body. We’ve been chatting for a good few minutes, but suddenly the cadence of our conversation shifts. I set my drink down by the side of the pool and he starts kissing me and it is the most natural thing, the most familiar treat.

His hand is in my hair and his other hand is on my back and his legs are pulling me closer and I’m tugging on his chest hair and his beard is scraping my cheeks. There are so many sensory details I associate with him and basically no one else: a splash of chlorine, the squeak of wet skin on skin. He is also a certified master of dry-humping: his hard cock finds my clit underwater with perpetually startling precision. Our most sensitive spots slide against each other as our kisses get deeper and more frenetic.

After languorous minutes of this, I am turned on – but tired. It’s been a long day. Normally at this point we would progress to sex, but I want to stop here; this was enough. I explain, and he understands, and we kiss goodnight. I get out of the pool and towel off, feeling glowy and gorgeous.

Does this count as sex?

I hate the narrative that sex without penetration isn’t sex at all. This myth is rampant, misogynist, homophobic, transphobic, and so many other things that make me shudder. In Laurie Mintz’s book Becoming Cliterate, she reports – based on a survey she did – that while two-thirds of women consider it “sex” when someone goes down on them, only one-third of men consider it “sex” when they go down on someone. The clitoris is the anatomical equivalent of the penis; it’s absurd that when the latter is stimulated, it’s widely considered sex, while the same isn’t true for the former.

And yet… when my clit is merely grazed, or lightly rubbed, and there’s nothing inside me, often it doesn’t feel to me like sex. It feels like something that could’ve happened accidentally, if I was squeezing past strangers on a train or enjoying a particularly deep kiss.

Have I internalized the concept that “foreplay” alone isn’t real sex? Or do I simply know what I like? Is it okay to build one’s own definition of sex based on what one finds subjectively sexual, or does that inherently exclude people who experience sex differently? Maybe it’s inevitable that humanity can never agree on a universal definition of sex. Maybe that’s okay.

My boyfriend calls me up, as he does almost every night. After a few minutes of catch-up conversation and goofy giggles, some particular piece of flirty repartée makes his voice drop an octave into a distinctly dommy register. We’ve been sexting on-and-off all day; we want each other, and on the phone, we can almost have each other. The game is on.

Dictating my every move, he guides me through gentle touches, a satisfying spanking, and a deep hard fuck with a dildo and vibrator. My body provides motion while his voice provides direction, excitement, encouragement. My eventual orgasm feels collaborative, like a canvas we both slung paint at until it was beautiful.

Does this count as sex?

I thought I was at peace with my (lack of a) definition of sex, and then I got into a long-distance relationship.

Sexting and phone sex are hugely popular endeavors, as the plethora of free sexting sites and phone sex operators on the internet will attest. But are they sex?

For a long time, I didn’t think so. I didn’t record these encounters on my spreadsheet; I didn’t say “We fucked,” but rather, “We had phone sex.” Meanwhile, my partner was viewing those late-night phone calls as sex with me, which was a bit of a weird disconnect. It was like that scene in Down With Love when a smitten Ewan McGregor tries to get Renée Zellweger’s blasé, love-wary character to sleep with him: “So I can make love to you – heartfelt, passionate, worshipping, adoring love – and you can still have meaningless sex with me, right?” It’s strange to have a vastly different conception of sex from the person you’re having it with.

So I stayed open to the idea that sexting and phone sex could feel like sex, could be sex. And after a year of getting lascivious on the phone almost every night (why are we like this??), I can now report that it indeed feels like a sexual act to me. I look forward to it like sex; I get fully engrossed in it like sex; it satisfies me like sex; it brings me and my partner closer like sex. And it’s upwards of 70% of our sex life together, so it would feel odd to write it off as “illegitimate” in some way. I still don’t record it in my spreadsheet alongside IRL encounters, only because it doesn’t pose a risk as far as STIs and pregnancy, so I have less of a need to track it. But maybe someday I’ll start doing it anyway.

As our culture goes deeper down the rabbit hole of stuff like sex robots and teledildonics, we’re going to have to broaden our definition of sex. And that, I think, is a very good thing.

 

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