Author: Kate Sloan

7 Ways Weed Boosts My Libido

Kate Sloan

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My relationship to marijuana has been a journey. There was a time, years ago, when I was “straight-edge,” but now I firmly consider myself a member of the #StonerFemme contingent. Weed helps me on a near-daily basis with my anxiety and depression, my chronic joint pain, and – yes! – my libido.

I get a lot of questions about this whenever I mention it on Twitter, largely from people who are confused because they haven’t experienced this effect from marijuana. I can’t really explain it; I’m sure it depends on your body chemistry, your method of consumption, and what type of weed you’ve got. As for me, I find that sativa-dominant hybrids work best if I’m trying to amp up my libido, but really, almost every strain I’ve tried has made me feel this way. (The first Leafly review for my favorite sexytimes strain just says “Yo I was vibrating and shit,” so apparently I’m not alone.)

Hopefully I don’t have to tell you that intoxicants can complicate consent. If you need a refresher on that, read the first four paragraphs of this article I wrote. But with that caveat, I want to tell you today about the seven (!) key ways that marijuana helps raise my libido and my enjoyment of sex and masturbation…

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Arousal. Oftentimes, when I go several days without masturbating, it’s because it just feels like too much work. My sex drive is more responsive than spontaneous, so if I want to jerk off, I have to spend some time warming myself up and getting turned on: watching porn, reading erotica, and/or gently touching myself in places that aren’t my genitals until that area is ready to be touched. That process is lovely when I’m in the mood for it, but sometimes it just feels like an extra barrier to entry that isn’t worth the hassle. So I skip masturbation entirely.

Weed, amazingly, helps me circumvent the arousal process. If I smoke up, I’ll reliably get turned on within about 10 minutes, without having to actually do anything to make that happen. My genitals start to feel all warm and engorged like they do when I’ve been engaging in foreplay for several minutes – except I haven’t. It’s brilliant.

I remember one time, I smoked some weed at my then-boyfriend’s house just before leaving to head back home. On the walk home, I felt my own wetness start to drip down my leg. That’s a level of lubrication I usually only reach after, say, an hour of teasing and edging and fucking with someone I find colossally attractive. And weed made it happen without any effort or work at all. Strange and lovely!

Sensitivity. There is science to back this up: weed increases our capacity to feel physical sensations. Whether it’s a partner’s fingertips trailing along your spine, someone’s soft lips pressed against yours, or a vibrator nestled against your clit, sensory information tends to feel amplified when you’re high.

I wouldn’t say that weed makes my orgasms come more quickly or easily – I’m still a tough nut to crack, even when I’m stoned – but the lead-up to orgasm does feel better than it normally would. It’s as if I’ve never felt those exact sensations before, and my body and brain are experiencing them anew. It’s pretty magical.

Worth noting: this increased sensitivity isn’t always a good thing. When I had anal sex for the first time, my fuckpal – a seasoned stoner – advised me not to smoke beforehand, because anal penetration is already an intense sensation and weed could make it so I’d feel every bump and vein. I’m glad I listened to him. But for less overwhelming sex acts, that boost in receptiveness can be positively delicious.

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Tactility. So, yes, weed makes me more physically sensitive, and it also makes me more excited about the whole notion of touching people. Or touching myself, as the case may be.

I once smoked weed with a beloved fuckbuddy while at a party, and when it hit me, I became obsessed with his arm hair. We were standing close together and I kept brushing my arm against his, sloooowly, to feel his comforting hairiness slide against my porcelain smoothness. It felt shockingly intimate and sexy, despite the fact that we were fully dressed and not even looking at each other – he was absorbed in conversation with someone else and I was pretending to listen to that conversation, too. But my attention was reduced to just those few inches of skin on skin, and how fucking delightful he felt against me.

This obsession with tactile information also means that oral sex on weed is a damn good time. You know what they say about “the munchies”…! When I’m high, I’m equally thrilled if there’s a Reese’s cup in my mouth or a dick in there, and for roughly equivalent reasons.

Visualizations. I wrote about this a bit when I had my first stoned orgasm. Weed isn’t a full-on psychedelic, in the sense that you’re probably not going to have a spiritual breakthrough or an LSD-esque “trip” on it, but it can create some visual and sensory hallucinations sometimes.

For example: once, Bex was sexting with their long-distance Sir while high, and when the topic of a blowjob was broached, Bex says they could actually feel their Sir’s cock in their mouth. I’ve had similar experiences when I’ve combined weed with fantasies, sexting, or porn: I become very suggestible, such that the mention of, say, a fist in my vagina can create the sensory illusion that there actually is a fist fucking me. When I try to sexually fantasize while sober, my mind often wanders and I can’t focus enough to get a vivid fantasy going; weed makes that process a lot easier and more fun.

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Disinhibition. Much like alcohol, marijuana can loosen your inhibitions so you don’t feel as self-conscious. For an anxious person like me, this is a godsend. Anxiety triggers my sexual brakes, making it hard for me to get turned on and relax into the moment. Weed lifts the oppressive weight of anxiety off my shoulders, so I can be in the moment and quit worrying about shit that doesn’t matter.

While this effect is, like I said, similar to the disinhibition alcohol can facilitate, weed is physiologically a far better pre-sex choice than alcohol. Due to how booze affects the blood vessels, being drunk stunts our sexual sensitivity, our capacity for orgasm, and our ability to maintain an erection (penile or clitoral). They don’t call it “whiskey dick” for nothin’!

Joy. Gala Darling has written that regular exercise creates “a constant undercurrent of joy” in her life; I feel similarly about marijuana. It melts my stress and transports me to a place of childlike delight, where I can see the present moment for what it is: an opportunity for happiness, growth, and play.

There is certainly a time and a place for sex that is emotionally intense, focused, and serious. But that type of sex is a rare craving for me; what I want, far more often, is the goofy, giggly, relaxed kind of sex. I firmly believe that sex is grown-up playtime. I’m happiest in my sex life when I remember that and take it to heart. Weed makes that even easier to do.

When I’m depressed, or recovering from some kind of heartbreak, I often find it difficult to get turned on, because my sexual thoughts and fantasies just make me sad instead. Weed helps with that: it puts me into a happy-go-lucky brainspace where even people who’ve hurt my feelings can’t really bother me. So I can fantasize about them to my heart’s content.

Ecstatic pain. This one is weird, and I don’t have a scientific explanation for it, just firsthand experience to draw from: marijuana sometimes makes me experience pain as pleasure.

I first noticed this years ago when, stoned at a party, a friend and I began doing sun salutations. I noticed immediately that the stretching of my muscles – usually an intense, slightly uncomfortable feeling for me – felt almost orgasmic. I moaned aloud as I moved through the poses, pushing my body farther than I normally would, because the more I pushed, the better it felt.

It took me a few years to figure out how best to use this effect to my advantage: kink! I looove getting spanked, slapped, bitten, and scratched when I’m stoned. It all feels so fucking good. When I’m in that headspace and someone really skilled is spanking me just right, sometimes it even seems like I could get off from that alone. That hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holdin’ out hope!

 

How do you find marijuana interacts with your libido, sensitivity, and enjoyment of sex? Got any tips, tricks, or favorite strains to share?

Strange Self-Care in a Time of Terror

Kate Sloan

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The day after the election, like many of you, I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t wash the previous night’s tear-streaked eyeliner off my face, or brush my teeth, or get dressed.

What I could do, and what I did do, was as follows: I put on some lipstick, watched YouTube videos and blowjob porn, and cried.

Self-care – or coping, because sometimes they are one and the same – is so unique from person to person. What’s comforting to you might be scary or weird to me, and vice versa. But with that caveat, here are some things I’ve been doing to take care of myself during what feels like a global depressive spell. I hope some of these suggestions help you, or at least inspire you to do what you can do for yourself.

img_5056Lipstick. If you ever see me wearing just lipstick and no other makeup, you’ll know I’m either feeling minimalistic in a French-starlet kind of way, or I’m depressed. It’s the easiest cosmetic to slick on when I barely have the emotional energy to look in a mirror. It doesn’t require the patience of liquid eyeliner, the precision of eyebrow pencil, the fastidiousness of foundation. It’s a simple, quick burst of color. It signals to my body and my brain that I am beginning my day, even if my pajamas and unbrushed hair say otherwise.

Mundane activities. If I can manage to get out of bed when depressed, I may be able to (slowly) work up to cleaning, doing laundry, or other boring day-to-day tasks. They are small and not terribly significant in the grand scheme of things, but they are something I can do, and it feels good to be able to do something when you’re depressed. My friend Sarah likes to bake, for similar reasons; she says doing something with her hands feels useful when depression makes it hard for her to move her body a lot. The other day I went to the mall with a friend because he needed to return a shirt he’d bought, and it was the sweetest banal respite. Sometimes going grocery shopping or stepping out for a coffee feels oddly affirming when I’m depressed. It’s okay to do small things when you can’t manage the big ones.

lBlowjob porn. I’m aware that this is unconventional, but that’s the point of this post, after all. While watching Heather Harmon porn in a weed-induced stupor the other day, I became aware that it was calming me down and comforting me. Part of that is simply that her porn is familiar to me; I know the rhythms and features of it, the noises I can expect from her husband Jim, the predictable cumshot at the end. And blowjobs are, historically, a calming activity for me. The love between Heather and Jim really comes through (no pun intended!) in their videos, and that helps, too. There is something so sweet and simple about a loving blowjob. When Heather does it, it is a gift without expectations of reciprocation. It is a pure expression of affection. In a world that feels cold and heartless, it can be nice to remember that there are still people who love each other that selflessly, somewhere; that there are still people who want to see their loved ones experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

Funny podcasts. I sing the praises of the McElroy brothers at any given opportunity. Their humor is goofy, fresh, and relentlessly kind. Whether I’m puzzling through advice questions with the brothers on MBMBaM, immersing myself in the fantasy world they’ve built in The Adventure Zone, or laughing til I cry at the weird creations of Monster Factory, I’m hardly thinking about my problems or worries when I’m mired in a McElroy show. It’s not hyperbole to say that these boys may have saved my life on many occasions.

3647718646_7d503c3a99_oMaking music. My songs are predominantly about romantic rejections and unrequited love – phenomena that feel huge when they’re happening to you, but pale in comparison to, say, the impending threat of a global economic collapse and the xenophobic mass ejection of immigrants. When the big things feel too scary to contemplate, it can help to whine about the small things for a while. And if perfectionism doesn’t make your anxiety worse, it can give you a concrete task to work on when the world’s issues feel unsolvable. I showed my friend Brent a song I wrote recently, and he – a seasoned songwriting teacher – gave me detailed notes about structure, syllables, melody and arrangement. Working toward perfection, even within the small world of a single song, felt fuelling when I would’ve otherwise been crushed by the weight of the global problems I cannot solve.

Scary media. Stephen King novels, American Horror Story, bad slasher films on Netflix – whatever works. There is some evidence that horror movies alleviate anxiety for some of us, and I’ve definitely experienced that. It’s comforting to feel that there is an actual, concrete reason for your fear, instead of just letting your nonspecific dread run rampant. And when the story resolves, some of your terror might, too. For similar reasons, my friend Sarah says reading erotica helps her anxiety. Don’t judge yourself for the seemingly strange self-care strategies you employ. If it works, it’s worth doing.

Marijuana. Some would say it’s not healthy to rely on substances to get you through tough times. I say that sometimes substances are the only things that can get you through and that may not be ideal but it’s still okay. Weed blurs my brain a little, forcing me to think one thought at a time instead of losing myself in worry. And it also reawakens my libido even at the unsexiest of times (more on that in a post coming out on Monday), enabling me to masturbate when I otherwise would’ve been too depressed to do so. Masturbation can be, for me, an important medicine, flooding my body with uplifting neurotransmitters and re-affirming my love for myself, so any impetus to do it more often is a good thing.

What are your unconventional self-care methods?

 

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The Good, the Bad, and the Awkward: 5 First Dates I’ll Never Forget

Kate Sloan

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If you want to hear me read this post out loud, pledge $5/month or more at my Patreon and you’ll have access to audio recordings of new posts from here on out!

 

Dating is so weird. It simultaneously triggers my anxiety and makes life seem beautiful. It’s an antiquated practice but still feels fresh and crucial. Good dates can be amazingly, astonishingly good, and bad dates can be unendingly, unforgettably bad.

Dating and hookup sites like Justlocalsex.com make it easy to find dates plentifully and quickly, but after a while, sometimes all those trepidatious evenings start to blur together. There are, however, some dates I’ve been on that I will just never, ever forget. Whether memorably marvelous or memorably mortifying, here are five dates that will stick in my head forever…

My first date ever was with a boy I met on DeviantArt (ugh, god, I know!). A high schooler already, he seemed devastatingly wise and cool to my dweeby middle-schooler ass. We met ostensibly to trade photography tips and wander around Kensington Market taking pictures, but first we made a pit stop in a nearby Burger King to fuel up for our mission.

It’s normal for conversation to be stilted when you first meet someone in person, as you both shake off first-date jitters and get to know each other’s conversational rhythms. But sometimes that rigidness just doesn’t go away. This was one of those dates.

After waiting in line to buy our food and finding we had damn near nothing to say to each other, we sat down with our burgers and fries and tried not to look each other in the eyes. Mid-bite, he shook his head sadly and proclaimed, “This is exactly the kind of awkwardness I was hoping to avoid.”

Needless to say, there was not a second date. I think he later came out as gay – which might explain our lack of romantic or sexual chemistry, but not our lack of conversational chemistry. Dates can still be great even if they end up veering less romantic than expected – I’ve made some of my closest friends that way – but that was not the case here. It was, shall we say, not an auspicious start to my dating career.

2267570972_b6771af296_oMy first good date was with a gorgeous, goofy, purple-haired lesbian I’d had a crush on forever. The week previous, I’d confessed my feelings in a handwritten note containing lovelorn excerpts from my journal. My crush was reciprocated, and now, tentatively, she was my girlfriend and I was hers. It was the most exciting and terrifying thing that had ever happened in all my fifteen years on earth.

We met at her favorite coffee shop, Chocolate Heaven. My cafés of choice at the time were Starbucks and Tim Hortons, so this cozy indie haunt seemed as refreshingly quirky as my new girlfriend herself. She ordered a cappuccino and I swooned; what a cool thing to drink, I thought. I ordered a hot chocolate and my hands shook so much, the mug clattered in the saucer.

We talked for hours. We couldn’t stop talking. Her synapses fired so quick, it was like riding a roller coaster of puns, anecdotes and retorts. Her eyes flashed brightly, her hands swirled in wild gesticulations, and she spun clever yarns I devoured with fervor.

When we couldn’t reasonably linger in the café any longer, I walked her home. On her porch, I rocked back and forth on my heels, shoved my hands in my pockets, hemmed and hawed. I’d never received a kiss; how could I be so bold as to initiate one? But somehow I did. I leaned in, and – ouch – our foreheads collided. We tried again. My nose crashed into hers. “One more time,” she giggled, and we gave it another shot. That time, it worked. I skipped home like the smitten idiot I absolutely was.

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One night in 2009, a boy rang my doorbell. I answered the door with tears in my eyes. He was the reason I was crying, and he knew it. He’d betrayed my trust, and I was crushed, in more ways than one.

I said his name when I opened the door, surprised to see him. “I really like you,” he blurted in response. This was new information to me. “Would you maybe wanna go out with me sometime?”

“Let me get my coat,” I managed to respond, the tears already drying on my cheeks.

We went to a nearby café. I ordered a chai latte, which he insisted on paying for, in that dorkily chivalrous way teenage boys have. As we waited for our drinks at the bar, I chirped, “I can’t wait to call my best friend and tell her I went on a date with you! She’s gonna freak out.” He grinned and replied, “Why don’t you call her right now?” He was a weirdo. It’s one of the reasons I liked him so much. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed, unable to stop smiling.

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My most life-changing date was in March 2011, and I didn’t even want to go. It was my first time meeting an OkCupid suitor in person, and I was nervous about any and all possibilities: nervous our conversation would be awkward, nervous he’d think I was ugly, nervous he’d be an axe murderer. I asked my best friend to casually “drop by” the tea shop where the date would take place, about midway through, so she could save me if I needed saving.

As it turned out, I had no reason to worry. I showed up and found that the boy was charming, smart, witty, and kind. We geeked out over Pokémon, bemoaned the shortcomings of OkCupid, and laughed at each other’s weird jokes. When my friend stopped by to check on me, I told my date that she was doing this and why, and he was completely cool with it. He understood. We bid my friend adieu and my new cutie walked me to my doorstep.

We didn’t even kiss on that first date, and that is why I will argue ceaselessly with anyone who claims a first date has to end with a kiss or the match was a failure. That man ended up becoming my first serious boyfriend, my first love, and my portal into new worlds. We took things very, very slowly, and I’m glad. That first date was just as effortlessly delightful as the rest of the relationship. I don’t regret a bit of it.

tumblr_nnsjpdxtr61qzigipo5_1280My first Tinder date was with a cute comedian. I met up with him at a sketch show, breathless and late. “What did you do today?” he asked, conversationally. “Oh, I was working on a post for my blog,” I told him. “What was the post about?” he asked, and I had no choice but to tell the truth: “Um, it was about my clit.” He reacted, I should say, admirably well.

The show was so funny I repeatedly choked on my beer. Afterward, I asked, “Do you wanna hang out for a while?” and he said, “Yeah, I really do.”

We sat in the dim scuzz of Comedy Bar for hours, asking each other questions about our childhoods and favorite movies and online dating experiences. Eventually we meandered to McDonald’s for some food. I remember he complimented my blue tights and asked if he could touch them. I think that was the moment I decided I wanted to have sex with him. And later, I did.

It’s funny how, even though that relationship ended terribly, the first date still shines in my memory. Sometimes a first date is a preview of the magic to come, and sometimes it’s the only magic the two of you will ever conjure together. Either way, good first dates are worth appreciating: they are preciously rare in this world.

What are the most memorable first dates you’ve been on?

 

Heads up: this post was sponsored, but as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

Nightstand Necessities: Chuck Bass

Kate Sloan

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Chuck Bass, of the long-gone masterful TV drama Gossip Girl, is an ethical mess of a character. He’s a rapist, for one thing, and arguably emotionally abusive. He’s a cutthroat businessman who sometimes makes cruel decisions to keep his bottom line afloat, he’s rude to his parents and step-parents, and he usually doesn’t even treat his closest friends with consideration or love.

None of this is excusable. But sexual fantasy exists beyond the plane of ethics. So, admittedly, Chuck Bass is one of my favorite fictional characters to fantasize about, read fanfic about, and make sexual speculations about. Here are some of my headcanons for what’s lurking in Chuck’s sex toy collection…

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90bacba99cc7382090344fd25458c19bLike Christian Grey, Chuck Bass has a “playroom,” though he would never be so churlish as to call it that: it’s his boudoir. It’s kitted out with a Liberator Esse chaise, which he uses in a wide variety of imaginative ways. However, despite his Grey-esque proclivities, he thinks Fifty Shades of Grey is pathetic trash, an opiate of the suburban kink-curious masses. The day he catches you reading it is the day you discover what it feels like to get repeatedly and aggressively spanked with a trade paperback.

He keeps an Njoy Eleven displayed elegantly on a sideboard in his bedroom, atop a charcoal-grey velvet Throe. When you’ve been very, very good, he has you fetch both for him, and he makes you squirt with deft, almost businesslike precision. Afterwards, he leaves both items outside his bedroom door for the maid to wash. She does this quickly and without asking questions.

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6fb3e739d60d97cedb668f5e9cb52b3dHe’s obsessed with gold-plated bedroom accoutrements, because he’s always got scads of cash burning a hole in his silk-lined pockets. He keeps a gold Eroscillator near the bed for use on beautiful visitors. Occasionally he mentions an interest in forced orgasm play – sometimes it’s a threat, sometimes a promise. One day he actually follows through, blindfolding you, then tying you to a rococo chair and the Eroscillator to you with black silk rope. He turns it to the top setting and sits back in his leather recliner with his fingers steepled, watching with quiet mirth as you squirm and scream.

He owns a gold-plated Lelo Earl prostate massager (he would never be so crass as to call it a “butt plug”). It was a celebratory gift he bought for himself when an important merger went through. You’ve come to know that when he wears the accompanying gold cufflinks out to dinner with you, it means he’s feeling libidinous. But he never lets you fuck him. You never dare to ask.

Review: Eroscillator Top Deluxe

Kate Sloan

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In one of my favorite movies, Kissing Jessica Stein, a character named Helen has three boyfriends. They each fulfill a different-but-important purpose in her life. One is young, clever, and adventurous, but a bit dweeby; she sees him when she’s bored. One is very rich but boring and possessive; she sees him when she’s hungry. And the third is sexually ravenous and skilled, but not especially smart or interesting; she sees him, of course, when she’s horny.

I thought about Helen’s trifuckta a lot while testing the Eroscillator Top Deluxe, because it’s made its way instantly and easily into my core team of go-to vibrators. I grab the Magic Wand Rechargeable when I want my whole vulva shaken into joy, the We-Vibe Tango when I crave more pinpointed rumbling, and the lovely Eroscillator when I need a vibrator that feels less like a vibrator and more like a human is touching me.

That’s the advantage the Eroscillator has over any other vibrator I’ve tried: its oscillation movement is, in some way my scientifically unschooled brain doesn’t understand, fundamentally different from standard vibration. It gets deeper into my clitoral network, while at the same time feeling gentler and less abrasive to the outer portion of my clit. The sensation is closer to a lover’s fingers than it is to vibration, and sometimes it almost feels like a ghost is stimulating me; the sensation is that unique and ethereal. This effect is hard to explain in words, but it makes my Eroscillator indispensable to me.

Longer-term readers might know that the Eroscillator 2 Plus has been a diehard favorite of mine since the early, early days of my blog. When I started reviewing for Sex Toys Canada, only the second-ever company to agree to send me stuff to review, the Eroscillator was the very first thing I requested. It’s been my right-hand man ever since, never leaving my bedside table in the 4.5 years since I got it… That is, until Eroscillator sent me this fancier model, the Top Deluxe.

If you’re curious about how the two models compare, Epiphora’s post on the subject is more thorough than I will be here. I’ll say this: I can get off easily with both models, and while the Top Deluxe feels noticeably stronger, the 2 Plus still thrills me to the very core of my clitoral crura. I’d only recommend the Top Deluxe if you have the extra money to throw around and/or you know you need quite a bit of power to get off. If neither of those is the case, you’ll do just fine with the basic model.

img_4172That said, do make sure to get the fingertip attachment (lovingly nicknamed “the marshmallow” by Betty Dodson and many a sex toy blogger). It comes with the 2 Plus Soft Finger Combo and Top Deluxe Soft Finger Combo and that’s probably the most cost-efficient way of getting it, ’cause it’s $40 on its own. This attachment is the magic ingredient that, for me, takes the Eroscillator from “Hmm, that feels pretty good” to “Jesus fuck, is my clit being serviced by an extraterrestrial who’s evolved past their corporeal form and is aiming a pure pleasure beam at my junk?!” It softens the oscillations without dulling their impact on my internal clitoral structures, which, in layman’s terms, feels preeeetty fuckin’ good.

My orgasms with the Eroscillator are categorically different than my orgasms with any other toy. They feel simultaneously deeper and floatier. Instead of wrestling an orgasm from my body, like I do with other vibrators, with the Eroscillator I can sweetly and gently push myself over the edge into an orgasm that bursts open, blooms like a flower, shakes and quakes my whole being. This shit is fucking meditative.

The other reason I love the Eroscillator: its size and shape are ideal for use during penetrative sex. It fits between bodies perfectly, and its ribbed slider lets me flick between the toy’s 3 speeds quickly and intuitively. Some of the best orgasms of my life have happened with the Eroscillator on my clit and a partner’s dick buried inside me. (Welp. Gettin’ wet just thinking about it, frankly.)

My Eroscillator came with several attachments, but the marshmallow is the one I stick with, 95% of the time. It’s the perfect balance between pinpointed and broad, hard and soft, for my particular clit‘s preferences. If I’m having trouble getting off even at the highest speed, sometimes I’ll switch to the “grapes and cockscomb” for some extra sensation to help me get there, but for the most part, the squishy fingertip does the trick.

If I have any complaints about the Eroscillator, they’re as follows: the super-long power cord, while convenient for use at a distance from a power outlet, gets tangled far too easily. And I sometimes don’t love that the oscillations weaken the more that I press the toy into my body. However, I’ve learned to work around this, such that it’s now second nature to me – I just press the toy against myself to start and then ease up the pressure as I get closer to orgasm, so the sensation gets more intense. This issue makes the Eroscillator a poor choice for anyone who needs clitoral pressure, but for me, it’s no big deal.

I thought I’d hate the colors of the overhauled Eroscillator – it used to be bronze, and I’m a stubborn babe who’s resistant to change – but the purple and silver combo is actually beautiful. This toy’s still never gonna win a “Prettiest Vibrator” competition, but it looks marginally less like a steampunk toothbrush now than it once did, and I’m just the slightest bit prouder to display it on my nightstand as a result.

Writing about the Eroscillator makes me want to use it. Thinking about it makes me want to use it. The orgasms are that good, that addictive. It’s the closest thing I have to a “press here for orgasm” button. I’ve loved this product for four and a half years and I imagine I’ll love it for many, many more.

 

Thank you to Eroscillator for sending me this toy to review!