Musings

Your Partner is Allowed to Watch Porn

Kate Sloan
A frame from the movie Infinity Baby, which is not a porn film but does have a premature ejaculation scene starring Kieran Culkin, so there’s that

Every single day on the /r/sex subreddit, people post about their porno woes. Sometimes these relate to their own porn tastes or habits, but often they relate instead to a partner’s viewership of porn.

A common manifestation of this might be something like:

A while ago, I walked in on my partner masturbating to porn. I got really upset, and told them I have a personal boundary that my partners aren’t allowed to watch porn because I find it so upsetting. Then, later, I snooped in their phone and found out they’re still watching porn, even after I told them to stop! Clearly they’re a porn addict who doesn’t love me or respect me. How do I get them to stop?

Even setting aside some of the more glaring issues (like, for the love of all things holy and good, do NOT look through someone’s phone without their permission!), I have a few issues with this type of thinking, and I want to break those down today.

 

1. Your partner is allowed to masturbate.

Period. Full stop.

If you’d prefer a relationship style where your partner is not allowed to masturbate – and, crucially, if that is also what your partner would prefer – then I’d suggest looking into the consensual chastity community, and carefully negotiating the limits of your dynamic, including safewords. Exploring sexual fantasies together can be super fun!

However, outside the realm of consensually-negotiated orgasm-control dynamics, your partner is allowed to masturbate, regardless of how you may feel about it. They have the right to bodily autonomy, as do you, and relationship status has no effect on that inalienable right. If this makes you uncomfortable, point #4 on this list may be especially useful to you.

 

2. Porn is part of masturbation for many people, and there is nothing inherently wrong with that.

Porn boosts arousal, helps engage our brains so we can focus more on pleasure (which can be extra useful when life/the world is stressful), expands our erotic imaginations, and is just simply fun to watch. People who jerk off to porn are no different from people who jerk off to erotica, fantasies, memories, photos of partners/hot celebrities/etc., steamy TV shows like Bridgerton, spicy romance novels, or any other arousal-boosting mental stimulation of any kind. And there are porn categories that stretch far beyond how porn is often depicted and thought about: it’s not all horrific, chauvinistic or unrealistic (besides which, it’s totally possible for a kinky porn scene to embody some or all of these qualities and to have been made with the full, informed consent of everyone involved – Tristan Taormino’s Rough Sex series is a good example).

Plus, porn is a really wonderful thing for a lot of people, both on the viewing side of things and on the production side of things. It’s how many kinky people first mentally explore their burgeoning desires; it’s how some trans and non-binary people first see themselves represented as sexy and desirable; it’s a source of income and a creative outlet for many marginalized creators.

As for “porn addiction,” it’s a moralizing, pathologizing term that’s been applied to a wide range of behaviors, ranging from totally normal levels of porn usage to more extreme/compulsive usage. In any case, it’s not really a useful label and also not a true addiction in the clinical sense. I’m not an expert on this side of things, but would recommend you check out Kris Taylor’s work on this subject if you’re curious about it. There are definitely plenty of people who use porn to a compulsive or unhealthy extent – in which case it might be seriously affecting their employment, relationships, mental health, and so on – but I think most accusations of “porn addiction” (even self-inflicted accusations) are largely based on puritanical moralization, not reality.

 

3. Boundaries are rules you set for yourself, not for other people.

You’re the only one whose behavior you can control, so you’re the only one you get to set boundaries for.

Here’s an example of a boundary:

I find it triggering when I find out that a partner of mine has watched porn, so until I’m able to work through that issue, I choose not to date people who watch porn because I find it too destabilizing at the moment. When I find out that someone I am dating watches porn, I respectfully end the relationship.

Here’s an example of something that is not a valid boundary, because it focuses on controlling someone else’s behavior instead of your own:

I find it triggering when I find out that a partner of mine has watched porn, so anyone who is partnered with me is not allowed to watch porn. When I find out my partner has watched porn, I won’t necessarily end the relationship, but I will get angry or upset with them for having violated this rule I set, even if they didn’t agree to it or didn’t even know about it.

Own your boundaries. Understand that boundaries are about you and your actions.

 

4. You will be happier when you work through this shit

This is really the most important point I always try to convey to people who are uncomfortable with their partners’ porn usage. While it’s never made me uncomfortable for my partners to watch porn, there have been some other, totally normal-and-fine things that have sometimes triggered jealousy, anxiety, or insecurity in me when partners do them – and the healing work I’ve done in therapy, in order to work through these issues, has revolutionized not just my romantic relationships, but my entire life. I am a much, much happier and more stable person for it, and my relationships have improved as a result.

I’m definitely not saying that therapy is easy, or that everyone can access it. I really wish everyone could, or everyone who wanted to, anyway. There are methods of self-reflection that may be useful even if therapy is inaccessible for you, like journaling about the roots of your anxieties or even using therapeutic techniques from Internal Family Systems (Jay Earley has a book called Self-Therapy about this).

I’m also not saying that therapy is the solution to all ills in a relationship. If your partner is abusing you, mistreating you, ignoring you, deprioritizing you, etc., you’re allowed to be upset about that, you’re allowed to communicate about it, and you’re always allowed to end the relationship. When I have trouble discerning between a thing I actually should be mad about, and a thing that’s actually totally fine but that I’m mad about because of my own issues, sometimes I’ll ask a friend or another outside observer what they think.

As ever, these are all just my opinions; you can take ’em or leave ’em, ’cause it’s your life. But when I see someone fretting over their partner’s totally normal porn-viewing habits, I see someone who has the potential to be happier someday, if they view that anxiety as a thread to pull, a road to follow to its fraught source. It’s not easy, it’s not fun, but it is freeing as hell. And it means you can watch porn together, which is hot. Seems like a win-win to me.

 

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

Sweat Worship, Armpit Love, & Fart Porn: How Kink Taught Me to Embrace Being Gross

Kate Sloan
Armpits ahoy! Photo by Cadence Lee back in 2017

Here’s un petit peek behind the Girly Juice curtain: when I’m asked to write a sponsored post for a client, usually there’s a particular “anchor phrase” I’m supposed to incorporate as a link. I use these client-provided phrases as my jumping-off point for brainstorming topics that could include them.

In this case, the client’s requested anchor phrase was “fart porn” (more on that later), and I knew immediately that I wanted to write about being “gross” and how that idea fits in with the cultural conditioning I’ve received as a woman – plus the ways that kink has helped me work through some of these anxieties. Come with me on a smelly journey into the realm of fetishes often viewed with disgust by those who don’t have them, and even sometimes by those who do…

 

“Women are supposed to be clean”

It’s funny/horrible how often women are held to standards that are literally inhuman (especially the more heterosexist swathes of society). We’re not supposed to have opinions or speak our minds. We’re not supposed to have our own goals in life, unless they can be neatly tacked onto the goals of whatever man we end up married to. We’re not supposed to wear comfortable clothes, lest we look frumpy; to skip makeup, lest we look ugly; or to let our body hair grow out, lest we look… I dunno… like mammals? And we’re certainly not supposed to sweat, excrete, or smell less-than-fresh – ever. We’re basically supposed to be beautiful robots who never complain, never age, and always handle our own maintenance in private.

For reasons that should be self-evident, this infuriates me. While I personally don’t feel any particular pull toward, say, growing out my armpit hair, spouting a constant stream of toilet-humor jokes, or pumping iron at the gym til rivulets of sweat roll down my back, I nonetheless think it’s fucked up that men can do all of these things without anyone blinking an eye, but if a woman does them, she’ll be judged as a failure of femininity by many segments of society. Fuck off with that shit! Let women be people! Let women be gross!

 

Fetishism as a portal to empowerment

In 2017-2018, I briefly dated a lovely person who had many fetishes I’d never encountered in partners before, from knives to robots to mortal peril. (Shout-out to those of you who read that sentence and immediately knew exactly who I’m talking about, lol.) They were also into armpits, especially sweaty armpits, and specifically requested that I skip deodorant when we’d be hanging out, because they wanted to experience the natural smell of my sweat, and even wanted to lick the sweat from my armpits.

We discussed all of this and I was open to it – there was no coercion here whatsoever, just so we’re clear! But I’d be lying if I said I felt 100% fine about it. It’s always scary at first to rebel against the rules you’ve been taught your whole life, especially if you’ve been told over and over again that your desirability, loveability, and value as a person are contingent on following those rules to the letter.

I had barely even experienced my own natural sweat smell in many years, having started wearing antiperspirant religiously when puberty popped off in middle school. I was so terrified of being mocked by the other kids back then, the way I’d seen other kids get mocked (which sucks too – we have no idea what circumstances were going on in their life that led to them showing up to school unshowered!). I remember taking the train out to visit this new beau, and surreptitiously wiping the antiperspirant off my underarms with a wet napkin en route – and even just doing that made me feel gross, in a way, like I was wiping off my good-girl femininity.

But through subsequent sessions of decadent armpit worship (which feels better/is hotter than I had anticipated!), sexting about “gross” fetishes with that partner and some others that followed, and (yes!) occasionally checking out stuff like fart porn and dirty foot worship porn just to see what’s out there, I’ve learned that the very things we’re taught to find disgusting are things that some people love more than life itself.

Hell, just yesterday I saw a post on the /r/RandomActsOfMuffDive subreddit that said, “I’m looking for someone who has a strong-smelling pussy. If you are worried you stink, that’s what I’m looking for… Just want to smell you and share in your body. If you are nervous about the way you smell, I will like it.” I’ve heard from so many people that they worry their genitals smell bad/weird, and I imagine it could be affirming and even healing to hook up with someone who actually prefers whatever you’ve got going on. What a revelation!

 

Being gross now

I’ve been interviewed a lot about my sex life and relationships (among other things), and I’m often asked about the logistics of long-distance relationships, since I’ve been in one for over six years at this point. One thing I’ll often say in these interviews, in a jokey tone that belies how absolutely true it is, is that I really value how LDRs don’t require me to shower. If I’m having a tough time with depression and/or chronic pain, I’ll sometimes skip showers for 2-3 days, leaving me grimy and unshaved – and I love that being long-distance means I can do that without needing to worry about how it’ll affect my partner. After all, they can’t smell me during phone sex!

But it’s also affirming that sometimes they’ll ask me to send them a pair of my used panties in the mail, sealed up in a Ziploc to preserve the scent – or, when we’re physically together, they’ll sometimes huff my sweaty shirt or socks when undressing me before sex. There are definitely still times when this horrifies me on a visceral level – like, “No, don’t do that, you’re gonna find out I’m human!!” – but there are also times when it feels like unconditional love, because it kind of is. My partner adores me no matter how gross or clean I happen to be at any given moment, because they see me as a full person, not just a robot who’s failing to perform femininity the way she was programmed to.

Kinks are fun and hot, yeah – but they can also be healing. They can help you unlearn the old bullshit calcifying in the back of your brain, and replace it with stuff you actually believe – including, if you like, the belief that human bodies may be gross, but they’re also glorious, strange, and miraculous. I think that’s fucking beautiful.

 

This post contains a sponsored link. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

The Internet: A Haven for Fetishists & Sex Nerds

Kate Sloan

This quote is about the universe, not the internet, but it feels like you could replace one word with the other and it would be just as true:

“In the beginning, the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.”

-Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

Was the internet a bad idea? Did it make every human impulse worse? Is it speeding us toward our doom, entwining us in a web of capitalism and fascism that we’ll never escape? I don’t know.

But what I do know is, the internet has allowed sexual weirdos to connect with other sexual weirdos around the world, and I think that’s a goddamn beautiful thing.

“What did you all do before the Internet?” I asked a woman in an online forum.

“The brave ones looked for personal ads,” she replied. “The rest of us were lonely.”

-Jillian Keenan writing about the spanking fetish community

I truly believe that sexual shame is an evil force, largely created to control the masses. And like many forms of evil, shame grows best in darkness. We are most prone to sexual shame when we are disconnected from other people, or when we feel unable to discuss our true sexuality with the people we are connected to.

In that way, the internet can be a wonderful balm for those of us who’ve grown up with secret kinks rattling around in the backs of our brains. If you’d had a foot fetish all your life, for instance, but had never heard anyone talk about feet IRL as anything other than a practical (or perhaps gross) body part, I can imagine it would feel deeply freeing to log on and discover foot fetish porn sites, foot fetish erotica, and articles with titles like “how to sell feet pics” and “how to give an erotic pedicure.” The whole world would open up to you, before your very eyes. And hopefully, as part of that process, some shame would lift, all because you found out that some other people feel the same way you do.

I didn’t grow up with fetishes per se, so this isn’t an experience I had – but on a related note, I’d been interested in sexuality on a nerdy level for as long as I’d known it existed, and it blew my mind to discover that there were other sex nerds on the internet. Even at a time when I barely felt comfortable admitting to my best friend that I masturbated, I could read sex forums and listen to sex podcasts, where (sometimes) level-headed adults would discuss such topics as “how to negotiate a threesome” or “how to be a good kisser” or, indeed, “where do fetishes come from?” It bolstered my nerdy little heart to know that I wasn’t the only freak reading encyclopedia entries about famous sadomasochists or scientific abstracts about clitoral bloodflow.

Obviously, with this personal history in mind, it’s troubling for me to see how the pendulum of sexual shame has, in many ways, swung back the other direction now. These days, the internet is just as likely to instill sexual shame as it is to alleviate it, what with all the zillions of social media posts and forum threads falsely asserting that queer and trans people are “groomers,” or that sex work is inherently degrading, or that having a consensual non-consent fantasy means you’re psychologically broken. It’s almost impossible to avoid developing sexual shame of some kind, in a world that’s still so hellbent on propagating sexual puritanism.

It’s hard to know what the solution is, or whether there even is one. I don’t think it’ll be possible to cure the world of sexual conservatism entirely, at least not in my lifetime. But in the meantime, I think it does a lot of good to build community with other sexual weirdos of various kinds, and to model sexual self-compassion. I’ve heard from many people that my public openness about my kinks helped them feel more comfortable with their own. It’s an honor to be what the empathy educator Kate Kenfield calls a “beacon of permission” for people to be themselves, and it’s also a huge responsibility I have to take seriously. My sexual shame or lack thereof is no longer just a personal issue; it can affect how others view their own sexuality, because I have a platform and some influence.

So, while the internet hasn’t turned out to be the shame-free sexual utopia I dreamed it might be when I first got online, I think there are pockets here and there that feel utopia-adjacent. It’s up to us to keep building the world we want to see.

 

This post contains a sponsored link. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Vibrators Are For Everyone

Kate Sloan

How did vibrators develop a reputation as being “for women,” when in fact they can feel good for anyone, regardless of gender or genitals?

I think there are several answers to this question, but one of them is the fact that vulvovaginal orgasms are usually seen as more “complex” and “elusive” than penile orgasms. However, this is a misconception; people with vaginas reach orgasms less frequently and less reliably than people with penises because our culture frames penetrative intercourse as the main/best/only “real” sex act, and it’s a sex act that happens to stimulate the penis directly, while largely ignoring vulva-owners’ main sexual pleasure organ, the clitoris. (This is why, for instance, Kinsey found that women take an average of four minutes to reach orgasm during masturbation, and lesbian women orgasm more often than straight women.)

By their very nature, vibrators provide more intense sensations than any part of the human body can. So it makes sense that a lot of people with vulvas, now and in the past, turn to vibrators to get themselves off. The sex act we’re supposed to find most satisfying usually isn’t, and our partners may be unaware or indifferent to that fact – not to mention, many of us receive inadequate sex education which leaves out crucial information about sexual pleasure – so of course we often use mechanical tools to help us close the gap between our real sex lives and what we wish they were. There are many other reasons people use vibrators, of course, but I think this has been a big one historically, and it partly explains why vibrators are seen as being for vulvas primarily.

That being said, vibrators can feel good for anyone. They function by stimulating sensitive nerves, which we’ve all got plenty of. Vibrators have been shown to help with sexual dysfunctions like erectile dysfunction and anorgasmia, too. To think of vibrators as being “only for women” (by which people usually mean “only for cis women,” sigh) is not only limiting, but also plainly false.

There are lots of benefits to using vibrators on penises, besides just “they feel good” (duh). This masturbation method can be physically easier to achieve than a traditional stroking motion, so it’s a good option for people with disabilities or chronic pain, or just people who feel like jerking off in a slightly lazier way sometimes (#relatable). Vibrators can also be enjoyable for many transfeminine folks, including those who experience genital dysphoria – several of the transfems I know are especially enamored with the Magic Wand and/or the Hot Octopuss Pulse. Vibrations also feel really different from any other type of stimulation, so if you’re ever bored of your masturbation routine or just feel like trying something new, they’re a great addition to your nightstand drawer.

As the partner of someone with a penis, I also really enjoy using vibes on them. It can be easier on my chronically sore hands than giving a handjob (or a blowjob, for that matter), and it allows me to snuggle up close to my partner and watch their reactions. I can utilize my many years of experience using vibrators on myself to inform my technique when using them on a partner, and the results are often explosive.

The clitoris (left) and penis (right), including the parts that are located inside the body. Image via Anatomy of Sex.

On that note, one of the things I like best about using vibrators on penises is that it really demonstrates how similar our genitals are to each other. Clits and dicks are formed from the same tissues in utero, and respond similarly to stimulation. While there are some toys which are specifically shaped to suit one or the other, many vibes can easily be used on all kinds of genitals, with wand vibrators being a prime example. I think this is heart-warming, in that it shows us we’re all more alike than we realize – but it’s also practical from an economic standpoint, in that you don’t have to buy multiple vibrators if you and your partner are able to share the same one (possibly even at the same time!).

When I took a 2-week break from vibrators recently, the main thing I noticed was that my orgasms without vibrators are much weaker than those with vibrators. Contrary to sex-negative discourse which claims that vibrators cheapen sex or make it less “real,” incorporating vibrators into my sex life has only ever improved its quality, and the intimacy I feel with my partner(s), because those earth-shattering vibrator orgasms make sex more fun for both of us. I wish that everyone who wants that magnitude of pleasure could experience it – and I think one way to help create that world is to further normalize the idea that anyone can use a vibrator. Yes, even you.

 

This post was sponsored by the folks at The Haus of Shag, who carry some of my all-time favorite vibrator brands, like Fun Factory, Magic Wand, and Dame. Feel free to check ’em out! As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Body “Imperfections” Are Part of What Makes Sex Hot

Kate Sloan

Content note: body image, internalized fatphobia, etc.

 

When I was younger, I was often horribly self-conscious about how I looked during sex. I’m sure many of you can relate.

I was terrified of my belly or thighs looking “too chubby” during sex, and paranoid about certain angles emphasizing a double chin. I fretted about lighting, preferring to be seen as little as possible during the act. I shaved almost every part of my body, very carefully, before every date that I thought might end in sex – and if I later noticed a patch of hair I’d missed, I felt deeply embarrassed about it, like my sexual partner du jour would definitely have noticed this oversight and would have thus judged me as having failed at femininity.

I know a lot of people feel this way, especially women. Porn is often blamed for the high standards we hold ourselves to, but I think the entire media apparatus is really at fault here – from women’s magazines that rate celebrities’ “beach bodies,” to airbrushed and gorgeously-lit sex scenes in movies and TV. There’s a lot of messaging out there which seems to suggest that only conventionally attractive people deserve sex (a standard that often ends up being fatphobic, racist, transphobic, and ableist in its execution). It’s no wonder so many of us are nervous about being seen naked.

And sure, not all of us have Kardashian curves, a J. Lo butt, or Emma Hix feet, but it ultimately doesn’t matter, because imperfections are part of what make sex feel so exciting, so raw, so human.

I love tracing my fingers along a partner’s body and feeling their softness, moles, hairs. I love being able to kiss and compliment parts of a partner’s body that they’ve felt insecure or uncertain about. I love feeling someone relax when they truly absorb the idea that they are safe – that I’m not going to make some snide comment about their shape, or criticize their grooming habits, or walk out in disgust. And I also love when partners take the time to ensure that I, too, can relax in that way. Relaxation is really important for arousal – read Emily Nagoski’s excellent book Come As You Are for more on why stress is the ultimate libido-killer – so anything we can do to help each other chill out will make the ensuing sex much better for everyone involved.

 

I may not be able to erase all your insecurities in one fell swoop (trust me, I wish I could!), but I do want to offer some actionable advice for those of you who are often distracted and derailed by bad body image thoughts during sex. Here goes…

Ask for the reassurance you need. This is easier to do with established partners than new or one-off partners, but it can be really helpful either way. Try saying something like, “Hey, I’m feeling kind of self-conscious about my [belly/thighs/hips/etc.] today – can you give them a little extra love?” I have been lucky enough to have several partners who would take this kind of request as an opportunity to convey their desire for me both verbally and physically (e.g. by kissing the area[s] in question), which has really helped me.

Reflect on how you feel about your partner’s body (or how you have felt about past partners’ bodies). Odds are good you weren’t obsessively cataloguing and judging their every flaw. In fact, in many cases their so-called “flaws” may have been super hot to you. Well, other people may feel that way about your body, too!

Wear something you feel sexy in. There’s no rule that says you have to get naked whenever you have sex. There’s lots of hot lingerie and loungewear out there, for instance, that you can easily wear while fucking (although you may need to get creative in order to do so, like by pulling the gusset of your underwear to the side). In some cases this can be even hotter than being naked!

Consume different media if your current “media diet” contains a lot of conventionally perfect bodies, which, odds are, it does. Seek out porn and other sexy media from creators whose bodies look more like yours. Over time, this can shift the way you see your own body.

Seek therapy if you can. You deserve a life of wild, unabashed joy, in and out of the bedroom, and unpacking your body image issues with a professional might just be the way to achieve that. I know it’s helped me a lot.

 

Have you ever struggled with body insecurities during sex? How do you deal with it?

 

This post contains a sponsored link. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.