Author: Kate Sloan

10 Activities That Are More Fun With a Butt Plug In

Kate Sloan

image

I am always looking for “life hacks” that will make my day-to-day feel more joyful, more decadent, and more rewarding. I think this stems partly from my struggle with depression: if there’s any way I can convince myself to get out of bed on a bad day, I’ll try it, even if it’s something small and silly like putting on red lipstick, cranking some uplifting tunes, or – yes – inserting a butt plug.

If you like anal play, wearing a plug can bring a little extra magic into just about any endeavor. Slather your plug with anal lube, slide it in, and try any of these activities – if nothing else, they’ll be more interesting!

Penetrative sex. You may have tried this already. It can be a grand old time. If you have a prostate, the plug will rub against it with every thrust – and if you have a vagina, wearing a plug will make you extra tight, which your partner might enjoy. I’ll never forget the time I got fucked while a large-ish plug was in my butt, and my partner exclaimed, “Jesus Christ, you’re so tight! Who turned the sleep number up to 100 in your vagina?!”

Receiving oral sex. Gettin’ head can feel fantastic, but sometimes it just isn’t quite enough to get me off. A partner’s fingers inside me can add a little extra stimulation if need be, but that requires a lot of co-ordination on the part of the giver. Using a butt plug while receiving oral can circumvent this problem. The plug will shift and undulate slightly with the turned-on pulses of your pelvic muscles, creating a mild sensation of getting fucked that might help push you over the edge.

Giving oral sex. Going down on your sweetie can be a massive turn-on; even moreso if you have something to squeeze around while you do it. The giver’s enjoyment and enthusiasm are a make-or-break factor in good oral sex, so you’re doing a favor for both yourself and your partner if you find a way to crank up your pleasure even higher.

Getting spanked. Sex educator Tina Horn has said that one of her favorite things about spanking is just getting to handle a butt, because butts are great. In my experience, this isn’t uncommon: oftentimes, when someone is into doing stuff to butts more generally, they’re into spanking, and vice versa. So if your partner likes smackin’ your ass, they might enjoy the added excitement and extra squirming that results when you wear a plug while they do it.

Running errands. Look, no one said grocery shopping or going to the bank was going to be a rip-roaring good time. But you can make these things slightly more thrilling by doing ’em while plugged. It’s a fun secret you can carry around with you. (Bring extra lube so you can pop into a public bathroom for a quick reapplication if needed!)

Housework. I loathe cleaning my room, putting away my laundry, and organizing my desk. If I have to do these things (which I do, because I’m an adult and I don’t have on-staff maids), I might as well have a happy butt while I’m adulting. Bonus points if you put on some Taylor Swift or Carly Rae and dance around while you clean your space.

Working. I wouldn’t recommend wearing a plug at an actual workplace, although I know people who have. But if you work from home (or from cafés comme moi), wearing a plug can stiffen your spine and wake up your brain. This is especially true if you’ve got a dom-y partner who’s told you, for example, that the plug should serve as a reminder that they are expecting you to get your work done or you’ll get a punishment…!

Facing a fear. Speaking of dom-y partners: often it is easier to do something that scares you if someone you adore has commanded you to do so. A plug can be a tangible reminder of this, as you take on whatever’s terrifying you, from public speaking to air travel to returning the clothes your ex left behind at your house. Even without a partner bossing you into bravery, a plug can still give you something to focus on while you tackle your fears, like how meditators are instructed to focus on their breathing. It sounds silly, but the sensation of something in your butt can ground you and keep you present when your anxiety-brain is pulling you out of your body.

Posing for pictures. Tyra Banks famously advocates “smizing”: the modeling trick of smiling with your eyes, not your mouth. It creates an approachable warmth that looks lovely in photos. I think wearing a butt plug could do the same thing! You’ll have a glimmer in your eyes that says, “I have a secret.” The goofiness of this situation might even help relax you, so your natural charm and beauty come through in whatever boudoir shots or glamorous headshots you’re posing for.

Getting ready for a date. If your beau is into butt stuff, you can prepare your ass by wearing a plug before and/or during your date – how thoughtful of you! But even if not, sporting a plug during your pre-date prep could help get you in a sexy, flirty headspace. As your butt muscles relax around the plug, so too will you relax, loosen up, and lighten up!

What are your favorite activities to pair with a butt plug?

This post was sponsored by lubezone.org, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

Unmistakeable: Myths and Realities of Attraction at First Sight

Kate Sloan

3751263279_386d2a7c84_b

It’s funny how sometimes, the beliefs you hold most firmly are the ones you most need to dismantle.

I have a core belief about relationships that’s probably stunted my romantic possibilities on many an occasion. That belief is: if someone is meant to be my next beau, I’ll know it. I’ll have a good feeling about them from the first. The sight of their face, the jokes they make, the words they use, the energy of their presence – these things will all feel immediately captivating and right to me. I’ll have a hunch, and if I trust that hunch, it’ll lead to good things.

A few weeks ago, on a romantically distraught evening, I wrote this prayer of sorts in my journal:

I am ready to let go of my unrequited crushes and welcome a new person into my life.

I am ready, but I need that person to incite feelings in me that are unmistakeable. I need to be SURE – in my gut if not in my overzealous anxiety-brain – that this is a person I could and should be with.

Their presence should light me up, set my sparkly heart ablaze. I should crave them, but not in that NRE-soaked way that’s clearly a flash fire headed toward burnout. I should want them because of my neurons, not just my neurotransmitters.

They should embody the word “crush” for me, take up space easily and obviously alongside that word in my life. Zing, bang, boom!

This preference for immediate attractions even shows up in how I navigate online dating. Lately, when I swipe through potential matches on Tinder, I do it mostly based on gut feelings about people’s pictures. Some part of me believes that when I see someone who would really make me happy and enrich my life, I’ll know. Like one of those movie moments where two protagonists meet serendipitously, look into each other’s eyes, and are rendered speechless by their sudden mutual attraction.

Writing that journal entry put words to this idea I’d long held, and those words punctured holes in my logic. I’d never thought about it before, but those “zing, bang, boom!” moments have actually been almost nonexistent for me – even with regards to people I adored, who became crucial to my life story.

My first girlfriend was one of the most intense crushes I’ve ever had, but the first time I saw her, I didn’t have romantic feelings for her at all. She was giving a presentation in ninth-grade English class. Though she was funny, smart, and adorable, I didn’t notice those qualities until I looked back at that memory months later through my newly idealistic lens.

Similarly, when I went on my first date with the man who would become my first serious boyfriend and my first love, sparks didn’t fly right out of the gate. I was intensely anxious about the date and didn’t even want to go. We chatted easily for three hours and I liked him, but I wasn’t sure about him, not by a longshot. We didn’t even kiss until the end of our second date, because it took me that long to figure out how I felt about him. And he ended up being one of the people I’ve loved most in my life.

My unrequited attractions haven’t been instantaneous, either. My biggest high school crush didn’t ensnare my heart until, weeks into improv team practice, he sat down at a piano and started playing Vince Guaraldi tunes. My favorite podcast host, whose voice makes me swoon every week, didn’t capture my attention til I noticed his stellar pun skillz a few episodes in. The cute local theatre actor whose career I follow avidly didn’t turn my crank until after I’d seen him in a few different roles.

It’s obvious, when I look at the actual evidence, that my attractions are rarely immediate. In fact, off the top of my head, I can’t think of a time that an initial “good feeling” about someone led to anything substantial. A bad feeling about someone is usually worth heeding, but I can’t identify a future life-changing individual when I see one.

It’s easy to get swept up in myths popularized by romance novels and cheesy chick-flicks. We want to believe love is simple and binaristic: someone’s either right for you, or they’re not. But as with many facets of human existence, the truth is somewhere in the grey area. The love of your life could be hiding behind a face you wouldn’t give a second glance.

I grew up precocious and too smart for my own good, and sometimes that does me a disservice. I can be so sure I know what I want, what I need, and what works for me – but those notions get turned on their heads time and time again. It’s like the universe keeps trying to teach me the importance of staying open and going with the flow. It keeps teaching me, because I keep forgetting.

You think you know what you want, but maybe you don’t. Maybe your next big adventure is hidden behind the door you never would have chosen. Maybe your perspective is skewed, your lens is dirty. Maybe falling in love is best when it’s like a literal fall: terrifying, unexpected, but rewarding as hell if you survive it.

These days, I’m trying to give the benefit of the doubt to the world and everyone in it. I’m trying to give people a fair chance, even if at first they don’t seem to be what I’m looking for. I’m trying to accept that I don’t know everything, and that sometimes I should let fate take the wheel instead of desperately clinging to it myself.

That means saying yes to invitations from people I might’ve said no to before, and sometimes swiping right when I’m tempted to swipe left. It means setting aside my prejudices about how people look, and choosing to find out more about their brain and heart before I decide how I feel about them. It means being open, which is the scariest and loveliest way to be.

But I’m still a baby, at just 24. There is still so much about love that confuses and defies me. What are your experiences with attraction at first sight? Does it mean magic is about to happen, or is it a red herring? Were the greatest loves of your life a slow burn, or an instant inferno? Did you ever see a face on a dating app, think “I could love this person,” and find out later just how right you were?

Pieces You Left Behind

Kate Sloan

IMG_5684

Girl with the purple hair, I’m sad we didn’t date for longer. I know we’re 15, and 15-year-olds are fickle. I know you said the break-up wasn’t about me, that you’re just “not in a good place to have a girlfriend right now,” that you feel “trapped” by labels and that our views on drugs are incompatible. I know all of this. But still I want you.

I daydream about you in class, so flagrantly that stern teachers chastise me and kind teachers ask me if I’m feeling alright. I know which hallways you walk down in between classes, and sometimes I walk where you’ll be, and sometimes I avoid you because you make me feel things that scare me.

I write in my journal, “I could marry that girl.” I put down my pen, stare at the page, and sigh. Because it’s melodramatic and it’s also true.

A contingent of twelfth-graders have organized a clothing swap. It’s one of the minor events written in my calendar; everything that isn’t you feels minor to me lately. Nonetheless, I show up at our school’s sunny, sprawling art room at the appointed time, bag of unwanted clothes in tow to trade away.

I spot you instantly. My eyes are attuned to you, like how cheetahs must have gazelle-dar. (Cheetahs need gazelle meat to live. I don’t know what I need from you, exactly.) You’ve brought some old clothes too, and you’re laying them out on the table to be picked through by intrepid art-school fashionistas.

I say hi to you, because I have to. There isn’t another option. But then I slip away into the throng of girls. I have blushed and giggled in front of you too many times. It feels redundant to do it again, especially now that you don’t want me.

2537272455_c90e77cb96_oExamining the sartorial offerings on the table, I find, long minutes later, a jacket I’ve seen you wear. It’s brown, with pinstripes, and big masculine shoulderpads. It looks like something Oliver Twist might wear if he was a character in The Breakfast Club. I would never, ever, ever wear this jacket. It offends my femme sensibilities on every level there is.

But it’s yours. So I take it. I make sure you’re not looking my way, and I tuck your jacket under my arm, and then I get the hell out of there. My cheeks burn with shame. Look at you, always making me blush in a million different ways.

Almost a decade later, a friend helps me excavate my closet, harshly insisting I expunge anything I haven’t worn in six months or more. I appreciate her authoritarian approach – but when we get to that brown pinstriped monstrosity, I feel icy fear rush into my veins. I beg. I plead. I clutch the jacket to my chest. I even cry a little. I just can’t give this damn thing away.

My friend lets me keep your jacket, and my sick secret is still safe. From you, at least.

4102861067_39e2f2429b_oFemmey friend-with-benefits, you are too too sweet. There are limited ways for 16-year-olds to give each other expensive presents, but you have found one. In my lap there is a plastic grocery bag containing two cashmere sweaters your grandmother gave you, which you insist you won’t wear and don’t want.

“Are you sure?” I ask, lipsticked pout gaping with surprise. “Aren’t these, like, really expensive?”

You rake a hand through your hot pink pixie cut. You’re like if Mia Farrow and James Dean had a baby who grew up to be Ramona Flowers. “I want you to have them,” you say. “They’ll look better on you anyway.”

This is a bald-faced lie. You are slim and slight, and I am ample and curvy. If these sweaters have a certain baggy, laissez-faire, Kate Moss-esque charm on you, they’ll cling to me like woollen skin. And indeed, when I try them on in front of you, the one that’s supposed to be a sweaterdress scarcely conceals my hips and ass. But you tell me, “You look hot,” and then we fuck on my twin bed while your sweater’s still hugging me tight.

Grandma, I’m sorry we’re pillaging your house. You always kept it so neat and sparse when you were alive, and now it looks a fright. But we’re doing this with the best of intentions. We need to clean your house up, clear it out, get it ready to be sold. We won’t be here much longer, I promise.

Toward the end of a long, hard-working day, mum says to us: “If there’s anything you guys want to take, you can do that now.” Max and I both bolt. He heads for the basement; maybe there’s a board game or stuffed animal he wants. As for me, I beeline to your bedroom.

I know exactly what I want to take, and I find it sooner than I expect to: the knitted shawl in autumnal tones. It used to cloak your shoulders through falls and winters, but now it’s draped over the headboard of your bed. It was painstakingly crafted by your brother-in-law, my great-uncle, who passed away mere months after you did. I saw this shawl on you so often, warming your cold bones. It looks like a Mondrian painting in sepia tones. When I bury my face in it, it smells like you: fruity soap, hearty dinners, the vaguest hint of a feminine perfume.

When I leave the house carrying your shawl, I wonder if mum will stop me, tell me she wants it instead, or tell me there’s someone else who deserves it more. But she doesn’t. It’s mine now, and I never ever wear it because I want it to always smell like you.

First love, I don’t know how I managed to plan so poorly for this break-up, considering I’ve wanted to bite the bullet for months. I should have given you back all your things before I tearfully told you on a bustling street corner that we shouldn’t be together anymore. Now I’m sitting numbly in my room with a cardboard box full of three and a half years’ worth of love’s detritus.

A graphic novel you lent me ’cause you said I would like it (you were right). A few sex toys you tested so I could review them on my blog. A stuffed doll of my favorite Pokémon, Ampharos, that you scouted out for me on eBay. A pair of your boxers, printed with black-and-white comic strip panels, found under my bed from a passionate moment somewhere along the way.

For weeks and then months, I think about delivering this box to you – leaving it on your doorstep and fleeing. But I don’t want to risk seeing you, even if the risk is small. This wound still feels fresh, this deep sense of failure, like I fucked up something that ought to have lasted.

As 2014 slips away and 2015 fades into view, I decide it’s time to unpack the box. It’s been sitting in my room taking up physical and psychic space, and I want it gone, along with the illusion that I will ever be completely rid of you. I put the graphic novel on my bookshelf, hide the toys in my toy drawers, set the Ampharos next to my Mudkip – and put the boxers on.

Years later, they’ve interwoven with my life the way any beloved item of lounge clothing does – just something to throw on when I’m lazy or sad or sleepy. I rarely remember their romantic origins; it’s only when another boy tells me, “Cool boxers!” in hazy post-coital lamplight that I feel embarrassed to be wearing them. I’m not a comic nerd; the men I date are. “They were my ex’s, and I kept them,” I explain sheepishly. He ruffles my hair and says, “Well, they’re still cool.” Yeah, I guess they are.

imageTragically unfeminist ex-boyfriend, you were right: I look better in your green-and-blue plaid shirt than you did. I spot it in your closet and want it it not because it’s yours but because it’s bright, beautiful, cozy and cute. That should be a warning sign that you’re not as perfect for me as I think, but I don’t see it that way yet.

We’ve been lying around naked in the morning light, in your filthy bachelor apartment perched high above the city. Well, I’m naked; you’re almost always clothed around me, guarded, distant, clinical. Your constant sexual rejections and occasional body-shaming barbs have pricked my heart and I feel depleted, but I haven’t noticed that yet. All I know is it feels weird being naked around you. So I put your shirt on.

When you tell me to keep it, I skip home in it, vibrating from the familiar glee of wearing a reminder that somebody likes me.

Weeks later, when your charm has unraveled, I sit in the window of a café with a friend. “I have to break up with him,” I realize aloud, capping off a torrent of complaints. “I have to. Like, today.” I grab my phone and text to ask if you can meet me after your show later. My eyes fall on the shirt I’m wearing, and it’s yours. “Guess I should go home and change out of this before I go break up with him, huh?” I ask my pal, a bitter laugh breaking my voice.

Days after the deed is done, you text me. A post-break-up text: that rarest of things. “Hey you! Hope you have fun on your trip,” you tell me (I am reading your words in a car on a highway, two days deep into a nine-day road trip with friends). “Oh, and keep the shirt!”

It had not even occurred to me to give the shirt back. I’ve earned it, after that shitshow of a relationship. “Haha, thanks,” I text back, and roll my eyes.

5 Ways to Know You’re Buying From an Ethical Sex Toy Shop

Kate Sloan

image

You always remember your first… The first sex shop you went to, that is.

Mine was well-lit and well-stocked. Friendly sales associates checked in with me just enough to make sure I was doing okay. Products were labeled descriptively and helpfully. I felt neither rushed nor judged as I perused the wares, picked out what I wanted, and paid for it.

I don’t recall many details, because what matters is how that shop made me feel. Sex is so tied up in our emotions – everything from shame to joy – that a sex shop needs to not only be good but feel good, too. You are giving these businesses not only your money, but also your vulnerability and your trust. They have to earn that shit.

Here are five ways that sex shops can prove they’ve earned that shit.

They emphasize body-safe products. Despite the known dangers of phthalates and porous toys, some shops continue to sell products that are demonstrably unhealthy. Jelly vibes, rubber dildos, butt plugs that lack a flared base, lubes chock full of glycerine, “numbing” creams for anal sex – none of these things should be present in the stock of a decent sex shop. High-quality shops carry toys made of body-safe materials like silicone, hard plastic, glass, and stainless steel. Your body deserves only the best, and trustworthy shops know that!

They offer plentiful, accurate information about their products. Brick-and-mortar shops should have salespeople who are knowledgeable about toy materials and how their products can be used (both on- and off-label uses). Online shops should list product materials and/or ingredients on each product page, so you can make informed decisions. You shouldn’t have to ask a barrage of questions or click through a zillion pages to find the information you need: good shops want to equip you to make the best sex toy decisions for you. This should be true whether you’re buying something small, like a bullet vibe, or something pricey, like a fancy realistic dildo.

Their language is sex-positive and inclusive. It’s problematic as hell to say (or even just to imply) that only women have vaginas, only men have penises, all couples are cis straight couples, all bodies are thin and mobile, or every member of “x” group likes “y” sex act. Sex is a sensitive topic, full of nuance and variation, and the employees of any good sex shop will be aware of that. Steer clear of shops whose salespeople, marketing copy, or website makes assumptions about what kind of body you have or what kind of sex you have. Also avoid any shop that plays up themes of “naughtiness” or shame around sex – you deserve to get your toys from stores that ensure they’re accessible, joyful and welcoming for everyone.

Sex toy professionals speak well of them. Some shops send products to reviewers (like me!), and our opinions on those shops will tell you a lot about them. Ethical companies treat their reviewers, suppliers, affiliates and colleagues with respect and kindness. You already know we’re a wealth of information about sex toys themselves, but we also know shit about companies and shops. If you’re looking for a quick opinion, ask a sex toy pro who you trust!

They fix their mistakes. I’ve seen sex shops make countless missteps, from partnering with transphobic corporate sponsors to abruptly changing their rewards program to accidentally invoking sexual assault in their newsletter. The measure of a good shop is how they react to these mistakes. It’s no good to sweep errors under the rug, tell complainants they’re overreacting, or shut down the dialogue entirely: shops should step up and take accountability for what they’ve done, express genuine regret, and explain how they’re going to do better in the future. This is about so much more than sex toys; it’s about creating a shopping environment that feels safe and respectful. That is absolutely vital, especially in the sometimes-fraught world of sex.

What are your red flags and green lights when it comes to sex shops?

Sponsored by EdenFantasys.com

Review: Liberator Jaz

Kate Sloan

13259665_496915117164873_1609118308_n

“Hang on, stop for a second, I wanna put something under my hips,” I told my beau when he’d been fucking me for a few minutes. It felt pretty good, but I wanted to feel him more: deeper, harder, more insistent. I grabbed my Liberator Jaz from beside the bed and slid it underneath me. When he pushed back inside me, everything felt instantly better for both of us. The intimacy and pleasure had both been cranked up in one fell swoop.

I used to think it was silly to spend exorbitant amounts of money on “sexual positioning aids,” when you could so easily just use pillows to achieve the same ends. However, that was before I actually tried some of these positioning aids. Sure, they’re a luxury, and regular ol’ pillows approximate the effect. But Liberator products feel effortless and exact in a way that pillows don’t. There’s no shuffling them around, fluffing them up, or stacking them on top of each other to achieve the ideal height. You just stick one where you want it and it does what it’s supposed to.

13385668_1603315256648799_542192948_nI already own a Liberator Wedge, and it’s huge. I appreciate its support when I’m reading (or blogging) in bed, but I don’t pull it out during sex that much, because it’s just awkwardly wide for my purposes. It’s great for leaning on when I’m getting fucked from behind, but I almost never use it during missionary PIV sex or masturbation because I find it takes me too long to get into position on it, due to how big and bulky it is.

The Jaz, by contrast, is about 15 inches wide to the Wedge’s 24. It’s like the difference between tongs and tweezers when you’re trying to tame your eyebrows. I certainly don’t mean to throw shade at the Wedge or folks who use it, but the Jaz is just soooo much better suited to how I tend to have sex. It’s small and convenient enough that I actually use it, instead of thinking, “Nah, that’d be too much work and take too long, so I’ll just keep getting fucked flat on the bed even though I want a better angle.”

Speaking of angles… There is a difference between the Wedge and the Jaz in that category too, and it’s subtle but important. The Wedge’s angle is supposedly 27 degrees, and the Jaz’s is slightly less steep than that. For my particular body, the Wedge feels a leeeetle bit too high, tipping my hips so my belly and ribs feel squished. The Jaz’s angle is marginally gentler and I love it.

The Jaz also has the benefit of being substantially cheaper ($59) than the Wedge ($90). It has one of the most reasonable price tags in the whole Liberator catalogue. Yay!

As with most Liberator products, the outer fabric casing of the Jaz can be zipped off and laundered. It has a moisture-resistant liner so it can contend with your squirt and lube, but if you tend to really soak the bed, you might wanna toss a Throe over top for convenience’s sake. My Jaz’s microsuede material is soft and comfortable to the touch, but grippy enough that it doesn’t slide around when I’m getting fucked on it.

13259556_1691384554455629_1685692224_n

Here, ranked, are my favorite uses for the Jaz:

  1. Under my butt while getting fucked in missionary. This is truly primo. It allows my partner to get super deep inside me, pressing deliciously against my G-spot and A-spot as he does so. It also makes it easier for him to leave a little room between us, so I can use my fingers or a vibe on my clit to get myself off. But if he does drop his body down onto mine so we’re pressed together, it feels like we get even closer and more intertwined than we do without the Jaz. My hips push up against his with no effort on my part, and everything feels better and more intense.
  2. Under my butt while a partner goes down on me. It’s like my vulva is being served to him on a silver platter, except the platter is made of hot pink microsuede. Some partners have also told me there’s less of a strain on their neck or jaw when I use a positioning aid during oral sex.
  3. Under my hips and lower belly while getting fucked from behind. My partner can stand at the edge of the bed to fuck me this way, or just lie on top of me. These positions create intense G-spot sensations on their own, but the addition of the Jaz makes them even more mindblowing. Elevating my hips also allows my partner to get in there deeper – always a plus for me, what with my love of A-spot stimulation.
  4. Under my hips and lower belly while getting spanked. This creates a butt-exhibiting elevation similar to when I’m draped over a partner’s knees. There is something so vulnerable and hot about having your ass in the air and ripe for a smackin’.
  5. Under my butt while getting fingerbanged or pounded with a toy. Angling is less of a struggle with fingers and toys than it is with a penis, but somehow the Jaz still manages to make these acts feel more intense to me.
  6. Under my butt while masturbating. My hips get tilted toward me so I have easier access to my clit and vag, even with my chubby belly in the way. I particularly like to use the Jaz for masturbation sessions I know will be marathons, involving lots of hard and fast thrusting. I can go for much longer when I don’t have to strain to reach the toy I’m fucking myself with.

I haven’t yet had the opportunity to use the Jaz during blowjobs or anal sex, but I’d imagine it would help with those things too. Basically it’s a genius invention, so simple and yet infinitely useful. I adore my Liberator Jaz and I know I’ll use it for many years to come!

 

No one sent me this product to review. I bought one my own damn self because I wanted it that much!