Author: Kate Sloan

Review: Loveorl 2-in-1 High-Frequency Clitoral Sucking Vibrator

Kate Sloan

 

Loveorl sent me their 2-in-1 High-Frequency Clitoral Sucking Vibrator to review, and I thought, hey! It’s a double-ended toy where I might actually enjoy both ends!

Usually in this type of toy, one of the functions is good, while the other is just so-so – or sometimes they’re both bad. I had higher hopes for this one, because its two ends seem to be modelled after two types of toy I already know I enjoy: a Zumio-esque “high-frequency” hard-plastic vibrator designed for pinpoint clitoral stimulation, and a pressure-wave toy like a Satisfyer or Womanizer, meant to pulse around the clitoris, creating a suction-y sensation and triggering ethereally indirect orgasms. Neat!

This toy is rechargeable, and has a satiny silicone coating on most of its body. This makes it feel surprisingly luxe for its $22 price point. There’s one button for each of the two functions, and you cycle through each function’s various speeds and settings using its respective button. You can enable both functions at once, but I’m not sure why you would; this toy isn’t shaped well to allow for two clit-possessing people to use it simultaneously.

The Zumio-ish vibration portion disappointed me, for the most part. It claims to use the same “spiral oscillating waves” that you’d find in the Zumio (of which it is an obvious copycat, which, as you may know, I’m not a fan of on principle), but to me it just feels like too-buzzy, too-strong vibration. It overloads and desensitizes my clit in short order the way an overly buzzy vibe does, which the Zumio doesn’t do, at least not as quickly. It’s also very loud, and the entire toy vibrates when this setting is enabled, making my hand feel numb and itchy within seconds of turning the vibrations on.

 

The toy comes with two little silicone attachments for the vibrating end, which is cool. One of them is spherical and one looks like flower petals that can flap and flutter against your clit and labia. Interestingly, the toy is much quieter when there’s an attachment on it. I liked it best with the flower petal attachment because I could hold it on the top of my clit, with my clitoral shaft placed between the two petals, allowing for much more spread-out and indirect stimulation than the vibrator allows for sans attachment. I probably could get off using the toy this way, but eking out an orgasm with super buzzy, surface-level vibrations is not my favorite thing, and tends to take me forever.

The suction side of the toy is better. It, too, feels “buzzier” than many of its competitors in the pressure-wave space, like the thrillingly thrummy Lelo Sila. But design-wise, this is in the top half of pressure-wave toys I’ve tried: its silicone “mouth” is comfortably shaped and wide enough for me to fit more than just the hypersensitive tip of my clit into it, so I can get some of the clitoral shaft/clitoral hood stimulation I tend to crave when using this kind of toy. There are only three steady speeds and I found myself wishing, in the moments before orgasm, for just one more setting at the top end, probably because of the aforementioned buzziness having lessened my sensitivity a bit. But I can achieve orgasm readily with this thing, and it feels just as involuntary, spasmodic, and surprising as it does with other pressure-wave toys.

I have to say, for its price tag, I think the Loveorl 2-in-1 High-Frequency Clitoral Sucking Vibrator is a great value. If you only have $22 to spend on a clitoral toy and you want to try a broad range of sensations, this toy’s dual functions and two included attachments will give you a lot of bang for your buck. I wish it was quieter and rumblier, but frankly it’s pretty astonishing that Loveorl managed to make a rechargeable, body-safe, two-function sex toy for under $25, so maybe I’m asking for too much.

Get this toy if you want to experiment with pinpoint vibrations and/or pressure-wave stimulation without breaking the bank, and you don’t mind a moderate-to-loud noise level. You can always upgrade to higher-quality options later, but for an entry-level clit stim toy, you could do a lot worse than this petite pink creation.

 

This post was sponsored, which means I was paid to write a fair and honest review of this product. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Cybersex in Roleplaying Games Made Me Who I Am

Kate Sloan

Content notes: This essay discusses some of my early experiences with cybersex. I was underage at the time (probably 12-14 in most cases). All of this was consensual on my part (personally, if not legally), but if underage sexuality squicks you out, that’s understandable and please feel free to skip this one! There are also mentions of master/slave language.

 

Cybersex in online roleplaying games made me feel like an adult for one of the first times in my life. In some ways, no other online sexual experiences I’ve had since then have quite scratched the same itch.

I was always a sexually precocious kid, scribbling anatomically uninformed erotica in my journals and googling for lists of masturbation techniques to marvel over. Porn didn’t particularly interest me – there were few safe porn sites at the time that would neither load a virus onto our shared family computer nor crash it with pop-up ads blaring autoplay moans – but I loved to read about sex. That’s still largely how my sexuality works to this day: although I’ve gained an appreciation for some types of porn, in many cases I’d rather read someone’s detailed cunnilingus guide or a well-crafted erotic fanfiction story than ogle cumshots and gangbangs.

Massively multiplayer online roleplaying games (MMORPGs) were some of my first online social spaces, after early forays into ICQ chatrooms and TeenOpenDiary blogging. My two favorite games in this genre were Furcadia, a highly user-customizable world where everyone was an anthropomorphized animal and you had to learn a basic coding language to craft your own private rooms, and Runescape, a vast medieval fantasy world involving quests, guilds, mining, and magic. It was in these two strange universes that I began to understand the massive implications the internet had for people like me, people who were shy and reserved in the “real world” but came alive online, making friends and having adventures.

I was surely too young to be having cybersex, legally speaking. That’s the detail of this story that makes me cringe to type out. Sometimes I told other users my real age – and many of them were, or at least were pretending to be, teens as well – but sometimes I didn’t. Young people’s burgeoning sexuality is a highly controversial and fraught topic I’m probably not qualified to make any definitive statements about. But I can tell you that in my case, everything I pursued in these mediums was something I had consented to and was not traumatized by, and any time anyone made me feel at all uncomfortable, I had no qualms about closing the window or teleporting to a different corner of the virtual world I was navigating.

In Furcadia, as I mentioned, you could create your own areas – called “dreams” – by coding them yourself and then uploading them to a communal space, where others could visit them if they so chose. I have always been profoundly nerdy and was immediately interested in this aspect of the game, for the huge amount of freedom it provided. It wasn’t long before I started building myself elaborate mansions with big, ornate bedrooms, complete with doors that locked at the flip of a lever due to my careful coding. It delighted me to build secret entrances, hidden teleportation pads, dim dank dungeons no one would know about unless I showed them.

There was an 18+ area in Furcadia, where, of course, I spent a good deal of time long before turning 18. Within that area was a place called The Slave Auction. (I must note here that the language of slavery is no longer something I’m comfy playing with, in kink or otherwise, due to, y’know, centuries of systemic white supremacy and horrific violence against enslaved Black people. I’m white so that language isn’t mine to reclaim or subvert.) In that area, you could line up to be “auctioned off” to a buyer in the crowd. No money was exchanged, actual or virtual; this was all fantasy. I find it telling that this was probably the communal space where I spent the most time in my years as a Furcadia user, despite believing until about a decade later that I was vanilla and had no kinks. (Oh, precious baby Kate, there is so much you didn’t know.)

When someone “bought” me, typically I would take them back to my “dream,” lead them to the ostentatious bedroom I’d hand-coded for the occasion, and commence having cybersex.

Much like sexting today, different people had different ways of approaching cybersex. I would always click on potential partners to see the bio they’d written for themselves, and if it was a long paragraph full of big words and impeccably-employed punctuation, I knew I’d get the type of cyber-fuck I liked best: articulate, loquacious, and seductive. When I had them in my virtual bed, we’d start describing – in walls of text that took so long to type, you could be waiting 3-5 minutes between missives – removing each other’s clothes, kissing, touching, and whatever came next. My replies were probably fairly generic and naïve. I was much more interested in what the other person typed.

It’s telling, too, that I tended to guide the conversation toward cunnilingus. Being a person who’d learned to masturbate via only clitoral stimulation, and had rarely – if ever – done anything else, I found descriptions of penetrative sex boring and hard to relate to. Instead I would prompt my pixelated paramour to craft strings of sentences about going down on me, and would reply with paragraph-length descriptions of my own moaning and writhing. A pillow princess in the extreme.

There were people who, upon noticing these limitations of my lust, would vanish to another realm, leaving me alone in my abandoned dream. That is fair enough. But there were also people who would stick around the whole time, giving me what I obviously wanted, and those people shaped my sexuality in ways they’ll never know. These were some of the first instances of me ever formulating a clear sexual desire and asking someone else (albeit indirectly) to fulfill it. The skills I took away from these interactions (including typing fast one-handed) would serve me for many years to come.

While some therapists and friends of mine, in the years since, have sometimes (very reasonably) expressed concern upon hearing about these youthful dalliances, for me, cybersex was never a site of victimization or violation. I know many people have had a different experience. I’m lucky enough to be able to credit those late nights of furtive typing with making me into the sexually fulfilled, adventurous, and communicative person I am today.

 

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

Rest is Crucial, Sacred, & Sexy

Kate Sloan

I recently quit my part-time social media job after 4 years of working there. I’ve long called this gig my “dayjob” because it did the thing for me that dayjobs do for creative types: it gave me a steady, reliable income that tethered me to the working world and afforded me the time, money, and brainspace to do my passion projects on the side. But in recent months, my “dayjob” had begun to bring in only about 7% of my total income, while taking up about a quarter of my working hours – and with book deadlines and health issues weighing heavily on me, I decided it was time to move on.

This was a challenging decision for me, in no small part because I have loved working at that company and with the people there, albeit remotely, these past 4 years. I had other resistances to leaving, though, and spent a whole hour discussing them with my therapist recently. I worried that my other projects would dry up, leaving me regretful to have quit – although there’s no evidence that will happen. I worried that without time-sensitive morning tasks to complete each weekday, I’d let my depression get the better of me, lazing about in bed into the afternoon. I worried that firm daily deadlines were the glue holding my life together, and that without them, I’d lack the conviction and self-direction to manage my time effectively.

But as my therapist reminded me, this is internalized ableism, internalized capitalism. The discourse around “laziness” is too often aimed at people whose systemic struggles and marginalizations are framed as personal failures. The freelancer community’s obsession with “hustling” is borne of capitalistic imperatives. A person’s “hustle,” or lack thereof, says nothing about their inherent value as a human being. Not all people have the same abilities; we can’t all hustle as hard as we think we “should.”

It feels shameful to admit that one of the reasons I quit my job was so I could rest more. I feel like I already rest a great deal, certainly more than my friends who work long hours at cafés or retail stores. But this mindset comes from holding myself to able-bodied standards despite being increasingly, invisibly disabled. My chronic pain and chronic fatigue are worse and more frequent than they’ve ever been. I often need a 3-hour nap just to get through the day, or to “catch up on sleep” into the luxuriant afternoon hours on weekends. The simple fact of living in a pain-wracked body is uniquely exhausting. I can’t pretend that away.

I have to banish culture-borne ideas of “laziness” in order to plan a schedule that actually works for my body and my brain. Now that I’ll soon be fully self-employed, with most of my deadlines being self-imposed or flexible, I can rearrange my schedule as needed to fit with my lifestyle and desires – something I’ve longed for my entire adult life. I’ve been fantasizing about “Weekend Wednesdays” and impromptu staycations and “the 4-hour work week.” It feels blissful, in the truest possible sense of that word, to envision the freedom my self-employment will now afford. And I know it is an enormous privilege, one that comes from my position in society as an educated white person as well as my many years of hard work to establish this lifestyle for myself. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s wrong somehow to rest as much as I do, or as much as I want to. That I “should” work more, to “earn” the happiness I get from having a career that genuinely delights me.

My therapist told me, “You’re working as much as you comfortably can, and you’re earning enough money to live on. That’s all that matters here.” I felt my body relax when she said this. It’s so wild that capitalism instills in us, from birth, the belief that our work, our productivity, and our output are what define our value as human beings. Even sworn anti-capitalists sometimes still struggle to unlearn this. It’s as if we’ve forgotten that “jobs” and “careers,” as they are defined in modern times, did not always exist and do not need to exist. If human didn’t need to work in order to survive, what would we do instead? Would we make art, socialize, have sex, eat, drink, sleep, think? Would we feel fulfilled then? Would we feel we had done “enough” at the end of each day?

It’s impossible to say. But I’m working on accepting that my rest time is every bit as valid and important as my work time. When my achy, sleepy body demands a 1 p.m. nap, I need not admonish it or deny it. When my inner child pipes up to say that Wednesdays should be days off for playing in the sunshine, I can and should listen. When all I want, at a bone-deep level, is to stay in bed all day playing Pokémon games and listening to comedy podcasts, that’s likely a signal I should heed. This feels sinful and embarrassing to even type out. But that’s because it’s a new belief system for me, one that butts up against bullshit I’ve been inundated with my whole life.

We need rest to survive. That’s especially true for disabled folks. I feel no sensuality and sexiness in my body when my nose is constantly pressed to the grindstone. I get precious little joy from life when my every waking minute is mired in work and worry. I have no time or energy left over for the fun things, or even the necessary things, when work swallows me whole.

Rest is crucial. Not all of us have the ability, or the privilege, to honor that fact and live it out fully. But don’t let anyone tell you it’s not. You deserve the rest you need – and the rest you want.

Kinky Cuties & Their Book-Spurred Adventures

Kate Sloan

As an author, it’s hard not to imagine the people who’ll read your words as you’re writing them. When I was writing 101 Kinky Things Even You Can Do – which is coming out on October 12th and available for preorder now! – I thought a lot about who I hoped would read it.

It’s geared toward vanilla people and total beginners to kink, although I think there’s still plenty in it that more advanced kinksters will find interesting and illuminating, by sheer virtue of the fact that it really does contain one hundred and one different kinks. You’re sure to find something in it that you’ve never tried before, and that’s really thrilling to me!

Here are 3 totally fictional people I imagine would read my book, and the stories of how they found it…

 

Jess stuffs 101 Kinky Things into their backpack as they leave the bookstore, and starts their walk back to their apartment, already rehearsing the speech they plan to bust out when they arrive home.

Hey Kyla? You know that lipstick you wear sometimes? The red one?

Their sneaker soles hit the sidewalk pavement with sharp snapping noises, their pace picking up. Jess is more terrified by the conversation that awaits them than they are by anything they’ve encountered in their sports journalism dayjob; live post-game interviews with towering basketball players are way less intimidating than telling your girlfriend about your secret fetish.

Well, uh, I found this book that talks about how lipstick can be a kink for some people… and I was wondering…

Making quick work of the downhill trek, Jess lets their mind wander to the last time they had sex with Kyla. Her soft mewls and pillowy curves under Jess’s muscled body. Her kisses and caresses becoming steadily more desperate as Jess slammed into her with their blue silicone cock. The way her wavy crimson hair frizzed up from all the sweat. Jess’s clit throbs in their boxer-briefs at the thought.

I thought maybe it would be cool if you gave me a blowjob in lipstick, so I could… see whether it’s really something I’m interested in… maybe?

Jess’s key seems way too loud in their apartment door as they let themself in. Kyla’s sprawled on the couch, munching a salad and watching Top Chef. “Hey, babe!” she calls. “How was work?”

“It was okay,” Jess hedges, and tugs the book from their backpack. “Um, I wanna talk to you about something but I’m kinda embarrassed.” Kyla mutes the TV show and quirks an eyebrow. Ruffling their short dark hair, Jess checks the book’s table of contents and adds, “Can you flip to page 159 and let me know what you think?” Despite all their practicing, they just can’t quite bring themselves to say the words.

Kyla takes the book from Jess, a quizzical look in her eyes, and finds the page in question. As she reads, her eyes don’t widen in fear or narrow in disgust; instead, they light up, delight gradually filling them like the dawn of a new day. When she’s done, she lifts her head to look at Jess, who’s taken a seat beside her on the couch. “Shall I go get my tube of ‘Lucky Red’?” she asks mischievously. Jess bites their lip and nods, already hard and throbbing.

Anna was tired of the pitying looks her friends always gave her when she talked about her divorce over brunch. Couldn’t they see that it was something to be celebrated? Sure, she and Tom had been together for 22 years, but that didn’t mean they were destined to be together forever. In fact, she mused to herself as she walked away from the last settlement signing session at Tom’s lawyers’ office, it had been a long time since she’d felt this happy and free.

Having taken the day off from the art gallery for the occasion, she figured she’d go shopping (with some of Tom’s money, admittedly) and find herself something pretty to celebrate her newly reclaimed singlehood. But the Chanel, Gucci, and YSL shops didn’t light her fire as much as they once had. It was only when she stopped into an upscale bookshop and saw glimmering gold text proclaiming “101 Kinky Things“ that she felt a spark of something like excitement.

As she paged through the text, she couldn’t help but reflect on all the late-night arguments she and Tom had had, probably waking their neighbors with their antics. It was always some version of the same fight: she wanted sexual adventure; Tom didn’t. She wanted to go to the local sex club and try out swinging; Tom didn’t. She wanted to experiment with bondage, sensory deprivation, facesitting; Tom didn’t. She wanted him to appreciate (or even just acknowledge) the pearl-handled flogger she’d brought home from Agent Provocateur; Tom didn’t.

When Anna landed on the page titled “Dominance,” her breath caught. A blush crept onto her cheeks and she had to remind herself mentally that the bookish strangers milling around her couldn’t possibly know about the femdom porn she feverishly flipped through late at night. They couldn’t possibly know that her ex-husband’s utter disinterest in submitting to her had been the nail in the coffin of their doomed relationship. No one knew that except Anna’s leatherbound diary and her best friend Janine, truth be told. And maybe the people at PornHub.

Tucking the book under her arm, Anna sidled up to the cash register and handed her new treasure to the clerk. He swept his dark brown curls out of his eyes before scanning the book’s barcode, and Anna looked him up and down like a hungry wolf finally allowed to prowl free. His nametag said Danny. “I’ve heard good things about this one,” he said conversationally, taking her heavy gold credit card from her hands.

“Always good to learn something new,” Anna purred with a smirk, before scribbling her number on Danny’s copy of her receipt. “And to have someone to practice with.” She winked, and then strolled out into the sunshine, a new woman.

It had been 3 weeks since Sadie had been to the dungeon, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the scene she’d seen there.

Her friend Marissa had taken her along. Sadie, a notoriously shy and anxious femme, had been a wallflower at every kinky or queer event she’d ever been to. She couldn’t help it – her body just seized up with panic whenever she stepped into one of those spaces, like every moment was a matter of life and death. Far too often, she’d found herself face-to-face with some hot butch girl or charming trans boy or leather-clad enby and found she could barely get any words out. If she couldn’t even say “Hi, I’m Sadie,” she wasn’t sure how she’d ever manage to actually meet someone and ask for what she wanted in bed.

The dungeon had been different, though, because Sadie had been allowed to just observe. In fact, she’d been encouraged to do so. Marissa, a towering blonde with a staggering amount of confidence, had tugged Sadie to a leather sofa at the side of the room. “Sit here. Watch,” said Marissa, before strutting over to the St. Andrew’s cross and simply waiting. Marissa was the type of beauty who could just show up in a room and people would be drawn to her like flies. It wasn’t long before a boyish lesbian with an emerald fauxhawk strode up and started whispering to Marissa. Sadie couldn’t hear the words, but she could tell from Marissa’s sweet smile and coy body language that there was flirting going on.

What had followed was a knife play scene, something Sadie had never even heard of before, let alone witnessed. The fauxhawked girl had a thing for knives, and Marissa had a thing for adventure, so before too long she was cuffed to the cross, spread-eagle, with the blade of a cold steel knife being slowly and carefully dragged across her skin. It left dainty white marks against the pink of her breasts and belly and arms and thighs. Sadie shivered in her seat. She was so utterly rapt that when a Bettie Page-looking femme sat down beside her and tried to chat her up, all she could manage was, “Sorry, I’m watching my friend’s scene.” She was a useless flirt anyway but she’d be especially useless right then.

Sadie was pondering that fateful knife-play scene, yet again, as she walked uptown to the queer book club Marissa had invited her to. “You like nerds, right?” Marissa had said. “Book clubs are total nerd bait.” Sadie was surprised when she knocked on the door at the address she’d been given and the person who answered was that same Bettie Page lookalike who’d attempted to talk to her at the dungeon.

“I remember you!” the girl practically shouted, immediately so much more gregarious than Sadie had ever been. “Come in! I’m Lulu. Want a beer?”

As a brand-new member, Sadie hadn’t done that week’s reading, but the group was happy to fill her in. A bespectacled androgyne handed her a copy of 101 Kinky Things. “It’s new,” Lulu explained. “There’s a lot of information in there.” The others laughed in agreement.

While everyone chattered happily around her, Sadie started to flip through the book, eventually stopping on a page titled “Fear Play.” A now-familiar shiver went through her as she read the author’s suggestion to “replicate the terror of being held at knifepoint” by showing one’s partner a big, scary knife, blindfolding them, and touching them with a butter knife or credit card instead, letting their fearful mind fill in the rest. She was so absorbed in the words that she barely noticed when Lulu knelt beside her and handed her the aforementioned beer.

“Are you a pervert like me?” Lulu asked with a dark giggle. “Because I love scaring the shit out of pretty girls.”

Sadie gulped, blushed, and managed to get a word out at long last. “Yes.”

Curious? Preorder your copy and let me know what adventures you get up to once you read it! 😉

Why Are Pearl Necklaces So Damn Sexy?

Kate Sloan

Sometimes I just get obsessed with a particular fashion item and I don’t know why. It’s like being struck by a new kinky fantasy: it’ll pop into my head one day, or I’ll see it in a piece of media or hear someone talking about it, and I’ll fall down a mad rabbit hole of Googling (or Pinterest-ing). Most recently, I felt this way about pearl necklaces.

You know, the classic jewelry item worn by style icons like Jackie Kennedy Onassis and Grace Kelly? The kind of thing you see on women in period dramas like Mad Men and The Crown? Yeah, those.

I find them not only gorgeous, classy, and timeless, but also sexy somehow. At first blush, it would seem obvious why: there’s a sex act known colloquially as the “pearl necklace,” in which someone ejaculates onto someone else’s chest and décolletage, creating a pearly effect. But that’s never been a kink of mine, and I don’t even particularly like watching this act performed in porn – if the coming isn’t happening inside somebody’s orifice, I’m probably not interested! #InternalCumshots4Lyfe

So the question then becomes, what is it about pearls as a jewelry item that is so alluring to me?

In answering this, my mind goes straight to the phrase “clutching pearls.” To clutch one’s pearls is to react with shock and dismay to something, and it’s a phrase typically associated with upper-class types, or morally “superior” types, reacting to something they consider low-class or immoral. (Think: Helen Lovejoy in The Simpsons screaming “Won’t somebody please think of the children?!?”)

I am decidedly middle-class and don’t consider myself a moral authority on anything, so this isn’t an image I can directly relate to – but in some ways, that’s what makes it hot. The idea of pretending to be a certain type of woman that I definitely am not – of co-opting a classy aesthetic to conceal the mischievous mind behind it all.

Pearls’ associations with 1950s housewives also appeal to me. A standard string of pearls isn’t super long, so you can do household chores while you’re wearing it and not worry about dropping diamonds in the dishwasher or sapphires down the sink drain. This delights my inner submissive, and fills my head with images of waiting around dutifully for my spouse to get home from a long day of work, to a clean house, a hot meal, and a hot wife.

The financial aspect of pearls also definitely adds to their charm for me. It’s not that they have to be wildly expensive – the two strings of pearls I own are from Horae and Kay’s, and cost $45 and $100, respectively – but they have the air of being expensive, and for me, that’s enough. I’ve explored financial fetishism from several different angles, and my newest pearl necklace was sweetly bought for me by my partner as a financial domination task I assigned them; I can also imagine finding it deeply erotic for a sugar daddy(/sugar mama/glucose guardian) to buy me some pearls and place them around my neck before a glamorous dinner date. Like a perfectly-tailored suit or little black dress, they’re the sort of thing that can make you feel instantly richer, fancier, and more powerful (or more spoiled, as the case may be).

Notable, too, is that pearls don’t look out of place no matter what I’m wearing, and even when I’m wearing nothing. I feel very Marilyn when I spritz on a jasmine perfume, dab on some lipstick, clasp my pearls around my neck, and slink into bed completely naked. Rachel Rabbit White says she likes to have sex with her false lashes on, and I feel similarly – not only about lashes, but about lipstick and pearls, too. (And, uh, socks, but that’s neither here nor there…)

I’ve looked at a lot of pearl jewelry online these past couple months, and many such pieces are far too ostentatious, expensive, or just plain weird-looking to attract my interest. It’s only the most timeless, simple, and elegant pieces that call my name. Someday I’d perhaps like to get a triple-strand pearl necklace, as those really take fanciness to the next level. But for now, I’m thrilled with the two very straightforward single strands I own. They go with everything, they gleam under every light, and they make me feel like the world’s sexiest little minx.