Musings

Can Camming Be Sex?

Kate Sloan

Here’s a story I’m embarrassed to share. (Gosh, that should just be the tagline of this blog, shouldn’t it?)

My first serious relationship was a monogamous one, but I still thought it would be fine to show off my naked body online. Of course, it crossed my mind that my boyfriend might have an issue with it, but the odds seemed too low to bring it up. (I know. I know. Don’t worry, I’ve learned better communication skills since then!)

So I would post nudes on illicit subreddits, and tease Twitter with my cleavage, and even do occasional cam shows – getting naked, jerking off with toys, the whole shebang. (I know. I KNOW.)

Of course, when my boyfriend found out about this, he was upset. We talked about it, and I stopped. Part of our initial disagreement on this matter came from differing definitions of relationship boundaries, which we should’ve talked about earlier – I believed my body was mine to show off as I pleased, short of actually having any kind of sex with other people. But the other basis for our disagreement was that exact definition of sex. I had, by that point, broadened my view of sex to include things like fingering, handjobs, and oral sex, but it had never really occurred to me to consider cam shows a type of sex. They were a sexual interaction, sure, and they could be sex work in some transactional contexts, but I didn’t think of them as the type of sex one would have to reserve only for one’s partner in a monogamous relationship.

Fast-forward the better part of a decade, and now I’m in a long-distance relationship. By necessity, I’ve come to view the various types of digitally-enabled long-distance sexual communication I engage in – sexting, phone sex, and yes, cam shows – as valid forms of sex. After all, they make up the bulk of my sex life at this point, and are every bit as arousing, exciting, intimate, and connective as the in-person sex I have with my partner. It would be selling both of us short to insist that these things are not sex.

Nothing sexual is ever quite that simple, though. I can’t say I always felt like I was “having sex” when I performed online for paying customers, trying to tune out their watchful eyes as I fucked myself with a dildo – but was I having sex? Do both people have to have their webcams turned on for it to “count” as sex? Is a sex cam show (as in, a show where two or more people are fucking on camera) different from a masturbation cam show, in that the viewer is more of a viewer than a direct participant? As we’ve seen countless times before, technology solves many sexual problems, but raises a slew of new sexual questions at the same time.

Bummer alert: I’m thinking about these types of questions a lot more now that we’re in the midst of the COVID-19 outbreak. A BuzzFeed article reports some people are sexting with their Tinder matches in lieu of meeting them at bustling bars and the like. The virus may abound in public places, but you’re more-or-less safe behind the screen of your phone, tucked securely away in your apartment. Around the time of the AIDS crisis, the concept of “safer sex” spread to the masses, but just last year I saw a Reddit post from an “incel” claiming that sex with a condom on doesn’t “count” as real sex. Digital forms of sex, too, are simultaneously decried as a poor substitute for “the real thing” and lauded as a safer alternative to physical closeness. Whether the “protection” you’re using is a condom or a smartphone, I don’t think the sex you’re having is any less real than unprotected and traditional types.

I think ultimately we are free to define sex in different ways; we don’t all have to agree on one definition, and we couldn’t even if we tried. I look forward to a future where our definition of sex gets broader and broader, so it can include more people, more safely.

 

Heads up: this post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

The Sometimes-Blurry Line Between Content Creators and Fans

Kate Sloan

“Dating a porn star isn’t all roses / She leaves you home on a Saturday night / You can go crazy from thoughts and supposes / And lose the thin thread between what’s wrong and right” -The Weepies, Dating a Porn Star

It seems like every creator of sexual content has a slightly different stance on dating and fucking their fans. I’ve known sex workers and porn stars who found the very idea laughable – but I’ve also known strippers and escorts who got into some of their most loving and healthy relationships with people who were originally their customers.

As for me, the last 3 people I’ve dated (including my current partner) started as “fans” of mine, although to varying degrees. They all followed me on Twitter, had listened to several episodes of my podcast, and had checked out my blog. But I suppose what they all had in common was that as soon as they met me, they seemed to start viewing me as a person, rather than just a Sexy Lady On The Internet. There was a knowledge imbalance between us – they knew way more about me than I knew about them, at first – but it didn’t exactly feel like a power imbalance, because they didn’t put me on some weird pedestal like an object to be worshipped or ogled.

I hesitate to tell stories like this in public, because I worry it might further the notion that dating a porn star you’ve jerked off to, or a dominatrix you’ve done a few sessions with, is a feasible thing to hope for. The thing is, it might be, but the type of person who would seize on this possibility is often the exact kind of person sex workers don’t want to date: boundary-crossing, pedestalizing, fervent fans who mistake skilfully-established rapport for an actual connection. Sex workers – myself included, when I dabble in paid cam shows or dirty chat – often spend tons of time fending off entitled weirdos who don’t think the services we provide are worth paying for, but want them nonetheless. I’m conscious of perpetuating a Pretty Woman-esque myth that might drive even more of these creeps to push service providers’ boundaries and pay them not enough, or nothing at all, for the privilege.

But all of that said, sometimes it seems like dating fans (who later become, of course, more than just fans) is my best recourse, in a world as sex-negative as this one. Bros on Tinder sometimes balk at what I do, either because they’re intimidated by my level of sexual experience and the public nature of my sex life, or because they think sluts are gross… in which case, begone from my life, boys! Those who already follow me on Twitter, etc., on the other hand, already know “my deal” – so we’ve got a good starting point for the classic “Can I write about the sex we just had?” convo that inevitably occurs early in the dating process for me, and I can more-or-less trust they don’t think I’m a disgusting monster for having sucked a few dicks in my time. It’s starting at square three instead of square one – small, maybe, but not nothing. I only want to date people who can support me fully, including in the work I do.

Sometimes this type of relationship goes sour when it turns out that your former-fan-now-partner actually doesn’t support your choice of career. Maybe they think it’s fine for them to communicate with porn creators all they like, but get jealous and possessive when you… continue the work you were doing for years before you met them. Maybe they expect you to give up stripping, escorting, or camming in order to be with them – as though money is just going to materialize from somewhere else because they became threatened by other fans trying to pursue you just like they did. This is always a concern when beginning a courtship with a fan, and I’ve seen it happen many times. While it’s true that healthy relationships often involve compromise and the reshuffling of life priorities, you don’t have to put up with anyone asking you to change your entire career path to spare their feelings. If the main benefit of dating a fan is that they know “your deal” already, it’s odd that those very same people will sometimes turn on a dime and ask you to disavow the entire “deal” that made you capture their attention in the first place.

Like I said, there are no hard and fast rules about how (or whether) this type of relationship can or should work. You can’t know whether a content creator is open to a romantic relationship sans financial compensation unless you ask them. But just asking them isn’t enough – you first have to prove you’re a respectful, interesting person, capable of viewing the object of your affections as more than just an object. That may not even be enough to get them on board with the idea, and that’s absolutely fine – respecting their boundaries is crucial. But I would be remiss to say you should never approach a sexual media-maker with romantic intentions – because some of my most epic love stories have begun when a fan of mine decided they might like to be more than that, and I decided I might like to let them.

 

This post was sponsored by SWAG, the biggest adult dating and video site in Asia. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Let’s Normalize Lube in Sexual Media!

Kate Sloan

It comes out of nowhere. I’m never expecting it. Why would I?

A reference to lube? In a mainstream piece of media? Really? Are you sure?

This time, it’s the character Lily on my favorite show of the moment, Netflix’s Sex Education. “I’ll bring the condoms,” she says, while negotiating an upcoming sex-date. “You bring the lube.”

There are a lot of parts of the queer, kinky, asexual-spectrum experience that are not represented accurately, or at all, in media depictions – so I’m not exactly surprised when on-screen sex has little in common with my real-life encounters. But lube seems like such an amazingly basic thing to leave out of fictional sex altogether. It would be like if an entire cinematic universe flat-out refused to acknowledge condoms exist (which, I suppose I should note, the mainstream porn “cinematic universe” often seems to do). It is not only inaccurate to many people’s experience of sex, but also irresponsible – because anyone learning about sex should simultaneously learn about lube.

It should show up in so many movies, books, shows, podcasts, and magazines we’ve consumed by the time we become sexually active that we add it to our carts when we drop by the drugstore to pick up condoms – a no-brainer. Its usage should be one of the standard pieces of advice we give to every teenager in sex ed classes and “the talk.” Doctors should bring it up alongside birth control when counseling soon-to-be-no-longer-virgins.

I argue this, in part, because I myself didn’t discover the wonders of lube until I was about 19. Sure, I’d read about it in the occasional erotica story or informative article, and had heard folks discussing it on the Sex is Fun podcast, but somehow I assumed that someone like me didn’t need to worry about it. I got plenty wet enough on my own, thank you very much.

But then I started reading sex blogs, and I noticed the fervor with which some of my favorite bloggers used lube every single time they masturbated or had sex. I bought a bottle of my own (water-based, IMO the best kind for beginners because of its versatility) and started using it religiously. And it, indeed, changed my life.

With the addition of a good lubricant, bad sex got better, and good sex became amazing. Masturbation was easier, and I did it more often because I no longer had to wait for my body to get all the way turned on before sliding a dildo inside me. It even worked well for external stimulation – I experimented with using it on my clit, labia, and nipples, and found it was far preferable to my previous “lube” of choice, spit. The clouds parted and angels sang upon my genitals.

This has been an overall theme in my process of learning about sex: even though (as a budding sex nerd) I always knew way more about this stuff than my peers did while I was growing up, it’s often been the simplest lessons that took me the longest to learn, and that I had to push myself the hardest to absorb. I was hesitant, for example, to touch my own clit during intercourse even though I knew it would feel good, I was initially scared to give handjobs or blowjobs because I worried being bad at them was a breakup-worthy offence, and somehow I didn’t realize just how much a good lube could improve my sex life until I tried one. Oh well – better late than never.

One of my big takeaways from this experience is that, as I said, we need to incorporate lube into more sex ed curricula and media. It would make people who don’t self-lubricate “enough” feel less broken, and people who have sex involving non-self-lubricating holes (including many queer and trans people) safer and more comfortable. It would go beyond the dry (no pun intended), safety-focused information so often given to teens and would teach them about pleasure – because as far as I’m concerned, additional pleasure is the main benefit of using lube. Maybe that’s why it’s so rarely talked about in comparison to condoms and birth control.

Kudos to Sex Education, not only for mentioning lube several times (including in a memorable scene where our sex-genius heroine Jean advises a young gay boy that water-based lube is the best choice for anal sex), but for mentioning it in the context of pleasure. Sex advice shouldn’t make sex seem scary or intimidating – and I really feel that spreading the good word about lube can go a long way toward diminishing sexual shame and raising the overall global quotient of sexual pleasure.

 

Thanks so much to the lovely folks at Promescent for sponsoring this post! They have a new collection of lubricants out, including a water-based one, a silicone-based one, an organic aloe-based one, and a peppermint-infused arousal gel.

The Fine Art of the Romantic Bruise Selfie

Kate Sloan

Content note: this post discusses, and contains photos of, bruising – only the happy, consensual kind, but bruising nonetheless. I encourage you to take care of yourself and skip this one if that’s tough subject matter for you.

 

“Aftercare” in kink is a somewhat nebulous concept, deliberately so: its definition varies from kinkster to kinkster, as do its purpose and scope. I know people for whom aftercare is, by necessity, a lengthy cuddling session filled with kisses and compliments – and I also know people for whom it is “Thanks for the good time; see ya!” followed by street meat and a volley of texts to a friend. It can be whatever you want it to be, as long as it works for everyone involved.

It’s important to remember, too, that aftercare can be an immediately-afterwards thing, or it can be a quite-a-while-afterwards thing, or both. The blissed-out cuddle sesh after a kink scene might satisfy your body and your snuggly neurotransmitters, but your rational brain might want additional aftercare a few days later in the form of, say, a text dissecting what went right and what went wrong. Sometimes those texts contain pictures of bruises.

It’s been said (I think by Jillian Keenan?) that bruises are to kinksters what hickeys are to vanilla people: tangible proof that a particular encounter happened, that someone likes you enough to have marked you in this very romantic and/or erotic way, that you are desired and desirable. Sending “bruise selfies” the day after a scene – like sending “hickey selfies” the day after a makeout session – can convey a flirty message: I like you and I like what we did together.

But bruise pics also serve another, more kink-specific function: they’re a way that a submissive or bottom can communicate more info, post-scene, to their dominant or top. “Even though what you did to me probably would’ve looked scary, dangerous, or even abusive to an uninformed outsider,” these photographic missives seem to say, “I loved it, I’m glad we did it, and I love the results.” Tops are being immensely vulnerable and brave when they communicate their desires and then act on them; sending bruise pictures is one way of showing them that their bravery was well-received and was worth it. This can teach them, over time, that it’s okay to be even more brave, even more often.

“It makes me proud of our time together and I love knowing they’re thinking of me.” -@stryker_von

“When topping, it’s an affirmation that they had a Really Good Time and are still thinking about it. That’s a great feeling! As a bottom, it feels like a little wink to our complicity in a scene – “Look at what we did to my body, together. Isn’t it pretty?” -@tinygorgon

“I sometimes get self-conscious and worry that I have hurt them too much. My other reaction is wow, they endured that much for me and were so wonderful 😍” -@cewa1308

Once you go out into “the real world” with your bruises, you’re apt to encounter all kinds of pushback – family might scoff or stare if they spot the damage, doctors might pry or even assume you’re in an abusive relationship, and your other partners (if you have any) might wonder why you didn’t leave them more real estate on your skin for marks of their own! But in those first, pure moments of mutual bruise enjoyment that ensue when you snap a pic the morning after and send it to the bruise’s creator, you don’t have to feel guilty or self-conscious about the perverted masterpiece that has bloomed on your body – you can just bask in its beauty together.

Taking pictures of your bruises is also a gift to your future self, because – if you’re anything like me – someday you’ll love having a record of your kinky journey over the years. I’m less prone to bruising now than I was in my early twenties, in part because I simply don’t play as hard as I used to, so I love paging through my old bruise shots as a reminder of how strong I am and how much I am capable of enduring. The people who gave me those marks have mostly disappeared from my life, but the memories, and the photographic evidence, remain – allowing me to celebrate my own resilience whenever I revisit them.

I’m insecure and perpetually unsure if I’m actually a “good submissive.” But in those photos, I can see evidence that I am, in stark black and white. (Or black and blue, as the case may be.)

 

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

5 Reasons to Buy Sex Toys in Person at a Sex Shop

Kate Sloan

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, you might have a sex toy purchase in mind, whether you’re hoping to wow your partner or just have a nice night getting sexy solo at home. While it may be tempting to hop onto an online retailer’s site (like those of my lovely affiliates and advertisers whose banners you see in the sidebar!), overall I think the physical sex shops in your area are a better bet – and in many ways, more pleasant and fun!

If you’re not sure where to go, don’t fret – lots of websites publish sex shops listings in your city, like my friend JoEllen’s Superhero Sex Shops series. Here are 5 reasons I would counsel you to go to a physical store rather than shopping online…

 

1. The salespeople are knowledgeable. I mean, if the store is worth its salt, anyway. A good sex toy salesperson will be able to recommend toys within your budget that meet your needs. They often also know useful info about material safety, lube compatibility, and product warranties. And if you come across a toy that makes you go “???” it’ll definitely be much easier to get an explanation out of a real live person than it would be to parse the sometimes-vague sales copy accompanying that same toy on a website somewhere. A helpful sex toy pro can be a godsend!

 

2. You get a better sense for the toys. Even when a toy’s measurements are listed online, it can often be hard to really understand just how big it is until you’ve seen it and held it in person. The internet also doesn’t allow you to feel how strong or rumbly a toy’s vibrations are, how firm or squishy its material is, how solidly or shoddily it’s constructed, how ergonomic it is to hold, and many other factors that could tangibly contribute to how well a toy will work for you and your body. Touching and looking at a toy you’re considering buying “in the flesh” can be a game-changer!

 

3. It’s faster. This close to Valentine’s Day, who has time to wait around for an unreliable postal service to get your toys to you?! When I worked in sex toy retail, I noticed that a lot of customers came in because they needed something immediately, whether it be a box of condoms, a bottle of lube, an enema to prep for an impromptu anal sex session, or (in one memorably gorgeous sex worker’s case) a cheap vibrator to use with a client. When you’re in a pinch, sex shops can help you out – and even driving to a shop in the next town over is likelier to be faster than ordering from any website.

 

4. It helps keep shops open. For the same reasons I’d encourage you to shop at local bookstores rather than loading up your cart on Amazon (which is demonstrably evil), I also think you should give your money to local brick-and-mortar sex toy stores when you can. They are an invaluable community resource, especially in a world which demonizes and suppresses factual sex education. Even if you don’t personally care whether these shops stay open or not, think of the 16-year-old girl who wants to buy her first vibrator behind her parents’ back so she can enjoy sex with her boyfriend more, or the 14-year-old trans kid looking for his first binder or packer, or the 72-year-old woman who doesn’t know what a modem is but wants to finally learn about her clitoris. Physical sex shops can be life-changing for these kinds of people and so many more.

 

5. It’s fun! Seriously, if you’ve never taken a partner to a sex shop, you are missing out. It can be flirtation and negotiation rolled into one, as you stroll the aisles and ask each other, “Would you ever use this?” or “What do you think of this?” Even if you go solo, shopping in person is very different from doing it online, because you’re more likely to stumble upon things you might have never otherwise considered but that pique your interest nonetheless. Introduce a little serendipity and spontaneity into your day – and your sex life – by strolling into a sex shop and seeing what’s on offer!

 

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