I’m hardly a porn star, but I’ve dabbled in sexy performing and posing for my various pornographer friends at Spit, Feisty Fox Films, and Cherrystems. I love makeup, and I love porn, so doing my makeup for porn is extra fun. Taking cues from traditional porn makeup, I filmed this video tutorial for you back in July when Bex and I were staying in an Airbnb specifically chosen for its good porn lighting.
While this tutorial was made with porn makeup in mind, this look is ideal for any time you want to look (and feel!) glamorous and sexy. I do my eyeshadow like this for sex-positive events, dance parties, sex club hangouts – any time I want to be a total babe. It’s a good all-purpose foxy look, and I hope you dig it!
Break-ups are hard. That’s true for anyone, and it’s true for me. I have an anxiety disorder. That means my brain’s fear-o-meter is out of whack. And that means I often worry about things that no neurotypical person would ever worry about as deeply as anxious folks do. For example: what to wear to break up with someone.
There is such a delicate balance to be struck in this sartorial decision. You want to wear something that makes you feel strong and brave, shoring up your resolve so you don’t chicken out. You want to look good, but not so attractive that your babeliness is a slap in the face to the person you’re dumping. You want to be prepared incase your soon-to-be-ex bursts into tears (or you do) and needs to wipe their snotty face on something. You want to dress appropriately for the temperature and tone of your break-up’s setting, whether that’s your beau’s apartment, a classy bistro patio, or a bustling street corner. You want your choice of footwear to enable a quick getaway, whether that’s needed because of emotional awkwardness or (god forbid) actual threats or violence from your scorned would-be ex. And you don’t want to wear anything that could be interpreted as a sign of lingering feelings for your dumpee, like a T-shirt you inherited from them or a necklace they bought you.
The last time I broke up with a serious partner, it was the sticky height of summer in 2014. I tucked a white tank top into a pink skirt, and put my hair in a ponytail with a pink scrunchie. Hot pink is one of my “power colors,” a shade that makes me feel strong and put-together, which I knew I’d need – because emotionally, I was a mess.
I slipped on some plain black leather flats and departed toward where I’d agreed to meet my boyfriend. About ten minutes into my walk to the subway station, I realized that in my frazzled trance, I’d forgotten my wallet at home. It was too late for me to run back and get it if I was going to meet my partner on time, so instead I just power-walked all the way to my destination. I arrived dripping sweat and out of breath.
When I actually delivered my little break-up speech, I broke down crying. I’d been with this man for three and a half years, and he was my best friend; saying goodbye to him was no easy task, though I knew it was necessary. He asked me if it would be weird if he hugged me, and I said no. He squeezed me tight, one last time, until my breathing slowed. And then we said our teary-but-amicable goodbyes and went our separate ways.
I wished I’d brought a scarf, so I could’ve wiped my wet face on that instead of on my beau’s shirt. I wished I’d brought sunglasses, so I could’ve hid my eyes as I wept all the way home. I wished I’d remembered my damn wallet. But hey, at least my clothes looked cute.
Here are some outfits and the fictional babes who wore them to their break-ups… (Idea reverently pilfered from Gala Darling, who’s written similar posts about first dates, New Year’s Eve, and dream girls!)
Nora wasn’t going to take any of his shit anymore. She showed up at James’ house with a box of his stuff slung under her arm, and kicked his door a few times with her steel-reinforced boot toe instead of knocking. She’d probably scuffed the paint. Fuck him, he deserved it.
When he opened the door wearing his plaid flannel PJ pants and nothing else, she rolled her eyes and thrust the box into his torso, knocking the wind out of his dumb face. “We’re done,” she barked, and turned on her heel.
“Why?” James sputtered. A Ninja Turtles action figure had fallen out of the box and he bent down to pick it up. “What did I do?”
“You know perfectly well what you did,” Nora snapped without turning around.
When she got back to her car, she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror, all smudged eyeliner and mussed-up hair. She looked pissed, but she looked foxy. She dug her favorite lipstick out of her bag and reapplied it, slowly, carefully, with the precision of a woman who wants to look hot for the next chapter of her life. Once her lips were perfect, she revved up the car and embarked on a new adventure, joyfully Jamesless and unencumbered.
“I’ve always hated you in those glasses,” Jackson said when Audrey sat down at the desk next to his. “Don’t you have contacts or something?”
Audrey could feel their classmates watching her. Granted, lecture hadn’t started yet, so there was nothing else to watch, but the mini-drama of Jackson and Audrey’s Tumultuous Romance had been a key source of entertainment these past six weeks in Existentialism 101.
“I like them,” she said simply, beginning to unpack her notebooks and pens.
Jackson made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a snort, and that was the final straw.
“I don’t think I want to see you anymore,” Audrey muttered. And then, a little louder: “We’re just not a good match in so many ways. We disagree on the feminist significance of Simone de Beauvoir, for example.” She cleared her throat. “And I’m tired of writing your essays for you. You should do your own work; the rest of us do.” By this time, the other students were full-on staring. The professor had arrived, and seemed interested in this choice piece of information too. “Oh, and you’re an asshole,” she added with finality.
Gaping at her and leaning way back in his chair, Jackson lost his balance for a moment and spilled onto the floor with a clatter. Audrey wordlessly gathered up her notebooks and pens and moved to a desk at the front of the room. The lecture today was going to be about Dostoevsky and she wanted to absorb every word.
“I just don’t think I’m ready for this,” Jenny said with a sniffle. They shouldn’t have met in a park; the hillside was covered in grass and Jenny was allergic to grass. That was the only reasonable explanation for her watery eyes and nose. Right?
“It’s okay, princess,” Evelyn murmured, clutching her little one against her chest. “We probably rushed into this. I should have taken things more slowly. I’m sorry.”
Jenny shook her head and pressed her face against the older woman’s clavicle. She felt safe there, but it was a conflicted sort of safe. “No, it’s not your fault,” she stammered. “I’m just… not as ready as I thought I was. I’m still not over Mel. I should have been more real with you about that.”
Evelyn kissed the top of her princess’s head and held her tighter. “I understand,” she said. “I’ve been there before.”
They sat in silence for several long moments, Jenny’s wet breaths the only sound in the air. Then she said: “Can I keep my collar?” Her hand traveled to it reflexively, fingers hooking on the heart-shaped steel clasp.
Evelyn laughed softly. “Of course, baby. It’s yours. You can keep it even if you don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Jenny exhaled deeply against Evelyn’s neck, her breathing starting to return to normal. “I might need it again someday,” she whispered. “You know, when I get over Mel and I’m ready to give this another shot.”
Evelyn smiled. The sun had started to set.
Alex had never hyperventilated in an airport before. Lots of other places, sure, but never an airport.
Sleepy passengers piled out of the arrivals door, fresh off a flight from Lisbon. Fuck, this is gonna be bad, Alex thought, but then, she always thought that. That was just how her brain worked.
She spotted Matt, weary-eyed with suitcase in hand, and a bolt of panic shot through her belly. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She had to do it. She had to. It was scary but she had to do it.
“Matt!” she called weakly, in a voice that was barely hers. He met her eyes, nodded, waved, and meandered through a crowd of chatty Portuguese tourists toward his girlfriend. She didn’t hug him immediately when he got close enough, and then it felt too weird to do it after that. Alex stuffed her hands in her pockets and mumbled, “Um, did you have a good trip?”
Matt started to answer her, but her jittery mouth cut him off. “Listen,” she rasped. “I gotta own up to something. When you were out of the country, I slept with someone else. And I’m really sorry. And that was really shitty of me. And you deserve better than that. It’s just, you were away for so long, and I got lonely, and I also started to think that maybe we’re just not – ”
“Just not meant to stay together,” Matt finished. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.” She looked up at him with those wide, blue eyes of hers. “And I slept with someone else, too,” he admitted sheepishly.
There was a silence before Alex let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Well! We really fucked this up, huh?” she declared with a grin. And then, taking his suitcase from him: “My car’s outside; let’s get you home and we can figure this out on the road.”
They were halfway to the parking lot when Matt threw his arm around her and ruffled her hair. “Missed you, pal,” he said, and it felt like a preview of what they could be to each other, someday, once the dust had settled.
All of my underwear falls into one of two categories: there’s good underwear, and there’s garbage underwear.
“Garbage underwear” is the name I give to the old, worn-out type of panties I only ever throw on if I know I’m not having sex that day. Most of it was bought in cheap multipacks, many months or even years ago. The elastic sags, the colors are faded, the brand name holds no glamorous cachet. It’s comfortable, and it fulfills its function, but ultimately it’s a sad piece of cotton that adds no brightness to my life.
“Good underwear,” by contrast, is what I’ll put on if I suspect I might be getting laid, taking my clothes off in front of people, or showing off my butt to a crowd. (Blessedly, I have the kind of life where these situations are commonplace.) It may be slinky, saucy, and/or lacy. It shows off my assets and creates a flattering silhouette. Ideally, it highlights some playfulness in my personality, too.
The trouble with “good underwear,” though, is that it often isn’t very comfortable. Lace chafes, silky fabric shifts and slides, and the visual effect isn’t always worth the tactile troubles this type of underwear causes. But then, occasionally, it is possible to find the ease and comfort of “garbage underwear” married to the cuteness and beauty of “good underwear.” Like, for example, MeUndies.
You’ve probably heard of MeUndies if you listen to certain podcasts that rep them; their influencer outreach is very good. But what astonished me is that their products are actually as fantastic as all those podcast hosts say they are. They promise comfort and cuteness, and they deliver on that promise.
I wore my red and white polka-dotted MeUndies to my first anal sex experience. Anyone who knows me intimately could tell you that when I’m nervous about an event, I obsess about what to wear to that event – and when sexy things are going to happen, underwear is a hugely important part of that. It has to be exactly right, evoking the feelings I hope to feel where I’m going.
I chose these because they’re flattering and sensuous, but also fun and playful. I wanted to feel relaxed, as far away from “nervous” as possible, since I was nervous as hell. Who wants to worry about annoying straps, snaps, or lace when you’re already worried about whether someone’s dick will even fit in your ass?!
MeUndies are made of a blissfully soft modal-elastane blend. I am a stickler for underwear material: years ago, I threw away all my nylon- and spandex-heavy underthings because I felt they were contributing to recurrent BV. I replaced them with pairs made primarily of cotton, which breathes better and is therefore better for vaginal health. My militantly picky vagina has had no issues whatsoever with MeUndies, and in fact, if I could replace my entire underwear wardrobe with them, I would. They’re that comfy and cute.
The company launches a fancy new design each month, and October’s is covered in spooky ghosts. I am in love! A friend said to me, “Your genitals are haunted!” These ghosts are so damn adorable. I am proud to adorn my butt in them.
This post wasn’t sponsored – I actually just fucking love MeUndies and wanted to show you how foxy I look in mine, frankly! – but if you wanna pick some up and you buy through this link, you’ll get 20% off and I’ll get a little kickback to spend on more underwear. So we’ll both have happier genitals and butts. It’s a win-win!
I’ve been mutual Twitter followers with the proprietor of Ainsley-T for a while, and earlier this year, they offered me a pair to review. My approach to sex toy reviewing lately is based more on what I think’ll be weird than what I think’ll be good, so of course, I said yes immediately. Not too long thereafter, a package arrived in the mail for me containing what is now, no doubt, the oddest pair of shoes I own. (And I say that as someone who owns heels with cartoon duelling snakes hand-painted on them.)
My Ainsley-T Plug Pumps are black, sexy, and powerful. The heel itself is glossy, while the shoe’s upper is a more matte calfskin. I requested a European size 39 for my U.S.-size-8 feet, and they fit well: not so loose as to slide off when I walk, and not so tight as to pinch.
Despite my other femme proclivities, I am not a “heels person.” Wearing heels for any length of time annoys the shit out of me. I can hobble around in my Sofft T-straps or padded Naturalizer pumps for a few hours if need be, but I’d rather not; stick me in some harness boots or leather flats and I’m a happy, comfy, ambulatory little princess. So I wasn’t expecting to like the Plug Pumps as actual shoes, and I don’t. The heels are perplexingly, fetishistically high – 5.9 inches, with a 1.8-inch platform – and walking on them makes me feel like I’m teetering on some very kinky stilts. I’m also not particularly a fan of the severe square toe – give me almond-toe or give me death!! – but I can see how others would be into that aesthetic.
So, since wearing these shoes on my feet isn’t an appealing option, obviously I shoved one in my ass.
Let me be clear. I did not shove the whole shoe in my ass. That would be quite a feat (heyooo, see what I did there?!). But even taking the heel of this pump proved to be quite a challenge. Luckily, I’m a sex toy reviewer – I’m used to sticking strange things in my holes.
I started my testing session with the Plug Pumps by watching a porn scene in which a deliciously femmed-up Tina Horn dominates a pathetically trussed-up Danny Wylde. I chose this because I happened to have it stored on my phone and was feeling lazy, but it proved to be an ideal choice: Tina towers over Danny in high heels throughout the scene, allowing me to fantasize about mean, toppy femmes as I proceeded with my masturbatory adventure.
I began by trying the heel in my vagina. With no added lube or protection of any kind, I slid it in. You probably shouldn’t try this at home, kids. The Ainsley-T site specifically says, “We recommend the use of a condom if the footwear is to be used for anal or vaginal play,” because the heels are made of a lacquered ABS that’s presumably not as orifice-safe as, say, silicone or steel. My contact at Ainsley-T told me the finish isn’t porous, but that he wanted people to be able to use the shoe “without requiring excessive bravery.” So, wrap that shit up, friends.
The heel didn’t feel like much in my vag. I wouldn’t expect it to; it has a diameter of just 1.4″ and my vagina is on some next-level shit. But it was a good warm-up while I got myself turned on with porn and a vibe, and it gave me more confidence in my ability to stick the heel in my ass next.
I lubed the heel and went to slide it into my butt… which was more difficult than anticipated. You don’t fully appreciate ergonomic butt plugs until you’ve tried to insert a plug that has a fucking shoe attached to it. Each time I inserted or re-inserted it, it took me several tries to get the angle right – and once the heel did find its way inside me, holding and thrusting it by the vamp was awkward-bordering-on-impossible. Plus, the toe and platform rest right over my clit when the plug’s all the way inside me, making added clit stimulation difficult. Eventually I flipped the shoe around so the toe was closer to my tailbone than my clit – that gave me more room for vibes or fingers, and the shoe was easier to maneuver that way.
Now, keep in mind, this shoe wasn’t designed for masturbation. I get the feeling the target audience is dominant femmey types who want to fuck their subs’ asses and/or engage in general shoe worship, at least judging by the promotional images on the product page. But I told the Ainsley-T dude I’d review his shoes the same way I’d review any sex toy, so that’s what I’m doin’.
My usual lying-flat-on-my-back position doesn’t work great for butt stuff, and even with my Jaz under my hips, the shoe was too awkwardly large to use the plug that way. For a while, I sat perched on the edge of my desk chair, knees bent high for better butt access, but that grew uncomfortable too. So I settled onto all fours, the shoe’s sole resting on my lower back while its heel was buried in my ass.
Grinding my clit against my Magic Wand in this position, everything actually started to feel pretty good. I made little mewls of pleasure while fantasizing about Tina Horn shoe-fucking me (or… shoe-Horn-ing me, if you will). The heel’s moderate diameter felt just right, and the narrower shaft below the plug’s swollen middle gave my butt muscles something pleasant to clench around. I began to think I might actually have an orgasm.
But then… the heel slid out of my ass. I squealed “Noooo!” and grabbed it up again, re-lubed, and re-inserted. This kept happening, though. I don’t know if a wider diameter would help or hinder this problem. In any case, like I said before, most people using this product will have another person’s foot/leg/body holding the shoe where it’s supposed to be, so I can’t fault the heel for repeatedly falling out of me.
I eventually MacGyvered a system where my face and arms were braced against my Liberator Wedge while the sole of the shoe was settled flat against my Jaz. This worked brilliantly for me, but, y’know, that’s a lot of expensive positioning equipment and you could probably replicate the effect with a plethora of firm pillows. With the shoe securely pressed against my Jaz, I was able to wriggle and gyrate against it while I buzzed my clit with the Magic Wand, and that gave me the sensation of actually being fucked. (It helped that the only time I’ve actually been fucked in the ass, I was in the same position, using the same vibe. Hellooo, fantasies about handsome gentleman fuckpal.)
Some minutes later, I had an orgasm, and it was loud and weird and good. But my hips tilted forward to make firmer contact with the Hitachi, and this allowed my pelvic muscle contractions to eject the heel from my ass at top speed. It was as if the shoe was crying, “Finally! I can go back to just being a shoe!”
As I lay there in a sweaty heap on top of my Liberators, a lube-drizzled pump beneath me and a vibrator tucked in the crook of my arm, I reflected on what a weird life sex toy reviewers lead. In no other line of work would anyone be expected to stick a piece of footwear in their butthole and then write about it in salient detail. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thank you so much to Ainsley-T for sending me these gorgeous shoes, and for having a terrific sense of humor about me wanting to review them as a sex toy. It’s companies like this one that make toy reviewing such a fun endeavor, I tells ya.
12 Days of Girly Juice is a year-end celebration of all things girly, sexy, pleasurable and fun. Y’all know the kind of stuff I write about: sex, relationships, beauty, fashion, self-improvement. That’s the stuff I’ll be highlighting on this here blog, in big juicy year-end lists, for all of December. Today, we begin with femme goodness. Enjoy!
I have the type of personality where I get obsessed with things for short periods of time and then move on. That’s especially true when it comes to objects designed to be used up, upgraded and replaced, like beauty and fashion items. (Oh, dat consumerist escalator. It never stops!!)
That said, there are some femme obsessions that endured through most or all of my 2015. Here are some of them…
Lip Products
If I ever stop thinking Bite lipstick in “Violet” is the most beautiful hot pink I’ve ever seen, you have my permission to check my pulse to make sure I’m not dead. Because I have a feeling I’ll be in love with this babe for a very long time.
Creamy, pigmented, and long-lasting, its formula is so gloriously on-point that I can throw it on and not worry about it for the rest of the night. And the shade – somewhere between fuchsia, purple, and Jem-and-the-Holograms neon pink – lights up my whole face and just makes me feel like me.
Another favorite lip hue this year was NARS Audacious lipstick in “Charlotte.” I stalked it on swatch sites, ogled it at Sephora, mercilessly Googled it, trawled its Instagram tag. I was a girl possessed. When I finally got my hands on it, it wasn’t quite all I had hoped – it gets crumbly and patchy if I dare to drink a coffee while wearing it, let alone eat an actual meal – but that color. Oh, that color. It is the sexy cranberry of my most glamorous Christmasy dreams. I dutifully reapply as needed, even if that’s 3 or 4 times a night, because it makes me feel like a starlet in a climactic, snowy love-confession scene.
My lipstick list would not be complete without MAC’s “Fashion Revival.” It came out in MAC’s limited-edition Matte Lip collection and I SNAPPED THAT SHIT UP because it is the most, most, most perfect fall/winter color. Described as a “deep raspberry,” it’s somehow a pink with all the drama and glamor of a great red. Fuck. Yes.
While TokyoMilk Salted Caramel Lip Elixir doesn’t lend any color to my lips, I had to include it in this list because it’s been my go-to “gonna-get-kissed-tonight” product since I got it. It’s thick and moisturizing without being sticky or gross, and of course, it tastes like caramel. I’ve known a lot of boys who refuse to kiss lipsticked ladies, but it’s hard to turn down kisses from someone who tastes this good.
Other Makeup
Laura Mercier translucent loose setting powder was a recommendation from Jaclyn Hill and I’m sure glad I listened to her. I dust this on top of my foundation with a brush, or pat it on with a makeup sponge, and it keeps my face oil-free for… well, until I next wash my face, whenever that might be. As someone whose T-zone would ordinarily make a fantastic Slip ‘n’ Slide for tiny people, I have to say this is pretty damn impressive.
MAC Liquidlast eyeliner is the real deal. Cry, walk through a rainstorm, sweat, rub your eyes, get fucked with your face buried in a pillow, and the rest of your makeup may smear but your eyeliner will still look fresh as hell. It’s gloopy and hard to apply and the brush is weird, but it’s still the only eyeliner I’ll wear if I think I might be crying, sweating, and/or having sex. Which, let’s face it, is most days.
I used to be terrified of blush, because I blush a lot as is. Tarte Amazonian Clay blush in “Natural Beauty” converted me, though. It’s super pigmented and easy to blend, and the color really does look natural. It also straddles the line between pink and red, so I can pair it with just about any lipstick. Perrrrrf.
I would be remiss to leave Anastasia Dipbrow Pomade off this list. It’s such a daily staple for me, such a given and a must-have and a “duh!” part of my beauty routine, that I almost forgot it. But it is vital to my look. My eyebrows are like Samson’s hair: without ’em, I’m nothing. Thanks, Dipbrow, for another year of power brows.
Clothing
I’m cheating a little by lumping all my polka-dot dresses into one item on this list. OH WELL. When I look back at what clothing made me feel reeeeal femme ‘n’ fabulous in 2015, these dresses take the cake. I bought blue and black ones at Loveless Boutique, a goldmine of rockabilly gorgeousness I serendipitously discovered next door to my hairdresser’s salon one day. The green one was a thrift-store score, and makes me feel like a Scooby Doo character. Too lovely!
I’ve been obsessed with thigh-high socks for a long time, but this was the year when I started wearing them on a regular basis. Whether rainbow-striped or sporty, from American Apparel or Sock Dreams or anywhere else, I just love them. And as a bonus: in my experience, wearing thigh-highs gets you a lot of sexual attention…!
Jewelry
If you’ve seen me in person at a sex-related event in the past few months, I’ve probably forced you to look at my vulva ring. It’s a custom job from Catstache Accessories and I’m obsessed with it. There is nothing quite like the reaction I get from people when they realize it’s a vulva… and then when I tell them it’s my vulva, specifically.
My other fave accoutrement this year was my eyeball necklace. I spotted the pendant in a display case at the Lincoln City glass studio where we made our own glass dildos, and it was so strange that I just had to have it. I threaded it onto some white suede string and now it often holds a place of honor between my breasts, staring creepily back at anyone who dares to ogle me.
What were your favorite beauty-and-fashion items in 2015, my loves?
