Musings

Stop Giving Unsolicited Advice

Kate Sloan

Unsolicited advice is an epidemic, and it has to stop.

I literally can’t go a day on the internet without some random stranger popping out of nowhere to give me advice I neither asked for nor need. They’ll do it about anything. They’ll offer “wisdom” on sex and relationships (despite me having been a writer and educator in this field for nearly a quarter of my life), my mental and physical health (despite me knowing way more about my own situation than they do, certainly), business and money (despite me managing just fine). It’s infuriating.

Without a doubt, this scourge stems at least partly from systemic sexism. There is an implicit assumption, the world over, that women – and, frankly, anyone who isn’t a straight white able-bodied cis dude – don’t know what they’re doing and need guidance. This is insulting on many levels and also sometimes, I know, evades our critical judgment because we’re so used to media messages telling us which kinds of people are clueless and need help and which kinds of people are “qualified” to offer that help.

So I’m here to remind you, incase you forgot this or never learned it: your unsolicited advice is, in the vast majority of situations, unhelpful, unneeded, and best kept to yourself. Here are a few reasons why.

The person you’re advising may not want or need advice.

Many people talk about their problems just to blow off steam, or to express themselves in a bid for kinship and connection. They may well already have a solution in mind. They may well have encountered this very problem before, and already navigated it successfully. They may very well, for that matter, not even view it as a problem.

If someone hasn’t explicitly asked for advice, giving it is unnecessary and may even be met with (justified) anger and frustration. Try asking first, “Are you looking for advice on this?” or “Would you be open to hearing what I did when I was in that same situation?” or “Are you wanting empathy or strategy?”

You don’t know the full context and thus aren’t qualified to give advice.

Unless you are someone’s literal doctor, therapist, etc., it is hiiiighly unlikely you have even half of the context you’d need in order to understand their problem and which solution(s) would be likeliest to help.

This is particularly true for health problems (mental or physical). You have no idea whether the advice you’re offering is compatible with the other person’s current treatment plan, preexisting conditions, health history, traumas, triggers, etc. You probably don’t even know whether they’ve already tried the thing you’re suggesting (and trust me, it’s likely that they have, or have ruled it out for quite valid reasons).

This is why people usually only ask for advice from close, trusted friends/mentors or actual goddamn professionals: very few people in anyone’s life will have the necessary context and expertise to be able to advise properly on that person’s problems. You’re statistically unlikely to be one of those people, especially if you’re just a stranger from the internet. So zip it.

Giving unsolicited advice is presumptuous and rude.

It’s a behavior that operates on the assumptions that a) you know this person’s problems and life better than they do, b) you’re smarter or more knowledgeable than them, on this topic or in general, and c) they care about what you have to say.

The person you’re advising, whether or not you realize it, has been living with the problem they’re experiencing, maybe for a long time. They know how that problem manifests in their life, and what has and has not worked for it in the past. You do not have that information, even if you’ve been through that problem in your own way in your own life. They did not ask you. You do not need to weigh in. The world will not be any poorer for you having decided to shut your mouth.

10 Things I’ve Learned From 10 Years of Sex

Kate Sloan

Ten years ago today, I made my sexual debut with a rainbow-haired girl in a sweltering attic bedroom. I prefer this phrasing – “made my sexual debut” – over the more traditional “lost my virginity,” because, as many wise people have pointed out before me, virginity is a construct that serves only to bolster the patriarchy, alienate queer folks and other sexual “deviants,” and disconnect us from our own bodily autonomy. It shouldn’t be the huge deal our culture makes it into – and yet, I also acknowledge that it was a huge deal for me. I felt different the next day, like things had shifted. They had. And they’ve continued to.

Here are 10 big lessons I’ve learned in 10 years of having sex…

Sex with men isn’t necessarily terrifying. The thought of sex with dudes gave me terrible anxiety for years before I tried it. Granted, this was partly because I was further toward the gay end of the sexuality spectrum at that point, but it was also a fear of the unknown. I had bought into media myths about how men are unreasonably horny cads who “only want one thing.” Yeah, there are men like that, but most of the ones I’ve dated and/or fucked have been comparatively lovely. I’m much more inclined now to view men as individual, variable humans than as part of an unsettling monolithic group – and my sex life is better as a result.

All genitals are basically similar. Speaking of “We’re not that different, you and I…” – it was revelatory for me to learn, from sex ed books and general experimentation, that the analogous tissues in vulvas and penises have way more similarities than mainstream media would have you believe. This anatomical knowledge helps me map, in broad strokes, my own bodily self-knowledge onto other people’s bodies, even if they look quite different from mine. It’s much easier to navigate other people’s genitals when I’m mostly thinking about how each feature relates to my own, and how each part likes to be touched.

Sex isn’t love, and love isn’t sex. It’s almost embarrassing to have had to learn something that seems like it should be so obvious. Mainstream media mocks women (and anyone, really, but mostly women) who confuse sex for love, so it took me a while to even realize I was making this mistake, because I considered myself above it. But there have been multiple times in my sexual career when sexual compatibility (or even just one really good fuck) has equipped me with rose-tinted glasses, rounding up decent sex into star-crossed romance. An ex-boyfriend from 2017 told me when he was breaking up with me that “aside from our sex life and our intellectual connection, we don’t really have anything in common,” and it took me many months to understand what he was trying to say: that good sex and good repartée weren’t enough to build a relationship on. My current relationship is fulfilling both sexually and romantically, and I feel I’ve gotten better at recognizing that type of connection when it’s there – and recognizing when it isn’t there.

“Why” is just as important as “what.” I’ve learned this lesson particularly with regards to kink, though it really applies to all forms of sex. You can’t really know someone’s sexuality just by knowing which activities they like to do; you have to know why they like to do them. For example, some people enjoy being spanked because they like feeling punished or humiliated; I, on the other hand, like it because I like feeling focused on, and I enjoy the meditative and cathartic elements of consensual pain. If you know what acts someone likes, you can give them a satisfying experience on the physical level – but to satisfy them more deeply, more electrically, you need to know why they like what they like. Likewise: you’re unlikely to find deep satisfaction for yourself through kink and sex unless you know specifically what motivates you to pursue these things.

Giving pleasure can be delicious. I was a very bottomy bottom when I first started having sex: my first-ever friendship-with-benefits was basically a year and a half of her going down on me, because that’s what we both were into. We had fun, but those experiences left me with a skewed understanding of sexuality. I wasn’t sure how to get pleasure out of giving pleasure, because I had never really done it. It took years of further experimentation with other people – and, eventually, discovering bliss through blowjobs – for me to realize all I’d been missing out on. Now I’m much more egalitarian in my approach to sex, and being a servicey good girl is key to my kinks.

“Romantic sex” is whatever you say it is. The traditional concept of “making love” is all about slowness, gentleness, meaningful eye contact, and whispered I-love-yous. It never appealed to me much, because – spoiler alert – I’m kinky as fuck, and like rough sex. It took me many years to figure out that kinky sex can be romantic too. I’ve rarely felt as loved or in love as I do when a partner’s just consensually pushed me to my masochistic limits, or spent 40 slow minutes working me up to take his fist little by little. If you expand your idea of what constitutes “romance” in sex, you expand your capacity to feel love, and that’s a beautiful thing.

Communication is crucial. I was very lucky that my first sexual partner was a sex nerd like me. We liked to stay up late on MSN Messenger, deconstructing our latest sex session in excruciating detail and planning what we wanted to try the next time. That relationship set the tone for all my sexcapades going forward: I not only enjoyed sexual communication, but actively craved it and needed it to feel fully comfortable and satisfied by sex. Whether we’re negotiating a session before it happens, discussing adjustments mid-bang, or debriefing after the fact, I always appreciate the opportunity to talk about sex with the people I’m fucking. Far from “killing the moment” or “ruining the magic” as popular discourse would have us believe, it makes everything so much smoother and hotter.

Kink transcends the bedroom. Earlier this year, I had a deliciously kink-nerdy conversation with my boyfriend in a fancy cocktail bar. We were discussing whether our D/s dynamic is technically 24/7 or not – and we came to the conclusion that it is, because even though we’re not “in role” all the time, he is always, on some higher level, the boss of me. I have the freedom to say no to anything at any time, but I have consensually given him my power, and we’re both always aware of that as we move through our lives together and apart. “I used to hear about 24/7 D/s relationships on shows like Sex is Fun and think, ‘That’s not for me; that’s not what I want,'” I told my boyfriend incredulously. “I thought that too!” he said. “And yet, here we are.” I’ve learned that submission is more satisfying for me when it extends outside of sex. I want to please someone so much more in a sexual scenario if pleasing them is also part of our connection more generally, our relationship, my daily life. This is part of the reason one-night stands don’t really appeal to me anymore!

Sex amplifies emotions. For me, anyway. I know not everyone is wired this way, and some people even get offended when you imply sex is connected to feelings. I personally have never really been able to separate sex from my emotions, and I no longer really want to try. Kink can stir up catharsis; bad sex can ruin an otherwise harmonious relationship; good sex can make me think I like someone more than I actually do. This isn’t to say I necessarily fall in love with everyone who fucks me well – I’ve been banging my current FWB for over a year, for example, and the most I ever feel toward him is a profound but platonic fondness – but the link between my sexuality and my feelings is important for me to keep in mind when I’m deciding which sexual experiences to pursue. It’s part of why I eschew sex on the first date now, and it’s why I tend to avoid kink with new partners on emotionally precarious days. Self-awareness is so helpful!

There is always more to learn about sex. I’ve been a professional sex writer for over six years and I still constantly discover new kinks, new subcultures, new sexual acts, new relationship styles, and new sexual communication tricks. This is largely what drew me to my career path: the sense that sexuality is infinite, and infinitely interesting. I don’t think I’ll ever stop growing and changing as a sexual person. Unlike the Buddhists, who believe desire is a torturous trap, I believe to want things is to be uplifted, inspired, and propelled forward. I hope I keep developing new desires for the rest of my life.

What did you learn in your first decade of having sex?

Doing It Yourself: On Couples’ Toys and Self-Love

Kate Sloan

“So you’re a sex toy reviewer? That must be fun!”

I’ve heard this countless times, in countless ways. Everyone wants to believe my job is a fun romp, a 24/7 deluge of tactile pleasure and giggly orgasms. And sometimes it is. But sometimes it decidedly isn’t.

Like when, for example, I’m frustratingly single and get yet another offer in my inbox to review the latest couples’ toy.

In early 2017, I went to a training session hosted at my workplace by a We-Vibe rep, and won a brand-new Sync vibrator by answering some trivia questions correctly. “You should review it on your blog!” a coworker chirped at me as I left at the end of the night, and at first I felt buoyed and buzzy at the thought. But as I strolled home with the Sync burning a proverbial hole in my pocket, the knowledge settled with a thud that I had no one with whom to test the toy in a partnered-sex setting.

“Just go to a sex club or ask a Tinder dude,” that same coworker suggested when we talked about it again later. But it wasn’t and isn’t that simple. Contrary to what the creeps who DM me asking to “help [me] test toys” seem to believe, that process isn’t actually a very sexy one. There are missteps and mistakes. There is silicone digging into flesh and metal pinching skin. There’s my endless barrage of questions during and after: “Does this feel good for you?” “Is it easy to control?” “What are your criticisms of it?” I’ll happily get nerdy and overanalytical with a like-minded steady partner, when I have one – but I don’t always have one. And casual partners aren’t always a safe bet for this exercise in vulnerability.

That episode with the Sync wasn’t the only time the concept of a “couples’ toy” sunk me into self-doubt and self-pity. There was the time I requested a sex swing, imagining optimistically that I’d meet someone awesome in time to review it, but ended up pawning it off on a friend and her partner when it became clear that wasn’t going to happen. There was the time I scored my then-boyfriend We-Vibe’s new cock ring and he broke up with me before we got to give it a fair shake. There was the Fleshlight I used to use with a boyfriend, until we split up and it lay unused in a drawer in my bedroom, developing mould. What a potent metaphor for love gone sour.

When you get into a feedback loop where your line of work makes you sad because it reminds you of everything you’re missing in your personal life, you know it’s time to make a change. Long periods of singlehood taught me to embrace taking myself on dates, enjoying my own company, and showing myself the love I deserved – so why not fuck myself like a partner would, too? Including, sometimes, with toys designed for “couples”?

This meant getting more creative than my typical routine of holding a wand vibe against my clit in silence until I came. I took my Liberator Wedge out from under my bed, dusted it off, and began using it to tilt my hips for deeper penetration during masturbation. I slipped my Sync inside me and controlled it from my phone, revelling in the high-tech glee of it. I wore my favorite butt plug on café expeditions or long walks, not because a dom had told me to, but just to give myself pleasure.

I started deliberately prepping for solo sex like I would for hot dates. I’d drape myself in lacy lingerie, spritz on some intoxicating perfume, play sultry music to underscore my moans. I’d touch myself all over before zeroing in on my genitals, wanting the drawn-out tease I usually only got from partners. I’d soak in the tub beforehand, or bring out my most far-fetched fantasies, or watch whatever weird porn I felt like watching – anything to maximize my pleasure in the face of societal messaging that tells us the heights of sexual joy are only for the coupled.

When I did start dating seriously again, I found that my habit of decadent solo sex had taught me to enjoy partnered sexuality even more deeply. I moaned more loudly, felt things more fully. I asked for what I wanted, because I knew what that was. When I pulled out “couples’ toys” to try with a new beau, I already knew how they worked, and didn’t have to rely on my partner to puzzle out the instructions and introduce me to my own pleasure.

Sex toys help me connect with other people, but even more crucially, they help me connect with myself. I don’t know if I agree with the common wisdom that you’ve got to love yourself before anyone else can love you, but I do know it’s a whole lot easier for a partner to make you come if you’ve proven to yourself you deserve to feel that good.

 

Thanks so much to SheVibe for sponsoring this post! Check out their great selection of sex toys.

Why Sex Writing Matters Right Now

Kate Sloan
Moleskine notebooks, a Seven-Year Pen, and a Feminist Killjoy sticker

Every morning that I wake up and read the news (or Twitter), I ask myself: why am I still doing what I’m doing?

In the face of all that’s going on, sometimes it seems pointless to write about sex toys, kink, lipstick, and dating. Why would anyone want to write, or read, about a comparatively frivolous and small-scale issue like sex, in a world that feels like it’s crumbling around us?

Answer: sex isn’t frivolous or small-scale.

Here’s why sex writing matters, even now, even still.

 

Because people are still having sex. There will always be people having sex. Those people need to know how to have sex safely, ethically, and pleasurably.

Because sex education is being stripped left and right. Kids, teens, and even adults need and deserve accurate, sensitive, non-stigmatizing information about sex.

Because if you understand how sex functions in our culture, you understand a lot about gender dynamics and gender politics. We need a better understanding of those things in order to reduce violence and encourage social harmony.

Because sex work is still devalued in our culture and sex workers are still treated terribly. They deserve better and the world deserves to know that and understand that.

Because rape and sexual harassment are still rampant issues, have been forever, and will continue to be. We can partly combat this epidemic by talking about what consent means, shaming abusers, and showing the world we will not stand for sexually exploitative behavior.

Because sexual entitlement and bitter misogyny still fuel horrible crimes. Good sex writing can help humanize us to each other and demonstrate that sex is not an owed commodity but, instead, an earned collaboration.

Because they’re trying to take our reproductive rights away from us. Again. It hasn’t been okay any of the previous times they did it, and it’s not okay now.

Because abusers still throw kinky people under the bus, making us feel stigmatized, freakish, and alone. We have felt that way for a long time. Enough is enough.

Because when you’re mired in sexual shame – shame about deep, unchangeable parts of you – you have less emotional energy for other things that matter, including political activism, charitable work, and sustaining the relationships that keep you afloat.

Because queer people and trans people are still vulnerable, still scared, and their stories still matter. Telling those stories is one way to convince the world, slowly but surely, that they do indeed matter.

Because pleasure – especially the pleasure of marginalized people – is transgressive. It has been denied from us for far too long, and we deserve far more of it.

Because asexuality is still erased, misunderstood, and sometimes used as “justification” for assault. This cannot be allowed to continue, and better education (including writing on asexuality) can help reduce these effects.

Because one of our most powerful world leaders right now is an admitted sexual abuser and not nearly enough people seem to know or care about this.

Because making art, and consuming art, can be a welcome respite from this cruel world, and can feel motivating when motivation is in short supply.

Because content creators still need and deserve to make money. Capitalism, unfortunately, doesn’t break down just because lots of other things are.

Because the better we understand ourselves – including our sexuality – the better we can harness our skills and talents to fight the powers that be.

Because distraction can be self-care, used sparingly, and maybe your diversion of choice is reading about other people’s sex lives and romances. That is fine. Welcome. I’m glad you’re here.

Because sex is a unifying experience for much of humankind, and we need to feel united and connected now more than ever.

Because pleasure is still a worthwhile pursuit – even if the world is burning, even if systems are breaking down and people are suffering. Sometimes you need a dose of pleasure to replenish your strength so you can get back out there and keep doing the work.

Because sex can be romantic, and kink can be connective, and the world needs less fear, less anger, and more love.

Because good sex writing, like all good literature, encourages empathy – something our current world is sorely lacking. We’ll need empathy, every one of us, for whatever happens next.

 

Why does sex writing matter to you? Even now, even still? And what else are you doing to cope in these trying times?

P.S. Looking for some great sex writing? Try these sites (listed alphabetically): Ace in the Hole, Bex Talks Sex, Coffee & Kink, Dangerous Lilly, Dildo or Dildon’t, the Dirty Normal, Feisty Fox Films, Formidable Femme, Girl on the Net, Hey Epiphora, Mx Nillin, Poly Role Models, Red Hot Suz, the Redhead Bedhead, Sexational, Squeaky Bedsprings, Sugarcunt Writes.

Prostate Play & Protocol: Recommending Men’s Sex Toys

Kate Sloan

I love nerding out about D/s with my boyfriend, and one way we do that is by experimenting with protocols together.

I’ve told you before about protocols: recurring action-based rules you can negotiate and establish in a kink dynamic. They’re usually structured as “When x, then y.” Some my partner and I have established in our relationship include: “When little one takes her daily iron supplement, she’ll text Sir and he’ll send her a selfie as a reward.” “When little one gets a drink other than water while she and Sir are out together, Sir gets the first taste.” “When ordered to wear her collar, little one must continue wearing it until she completes any assigned tasks or work and receives permission to remove it.”

A few months ago, while pondering the truism that protocol should ideally enhance and enrich both partners’ lives, my Sir had an idea for a new one. Seeking to harness my sex toy knowledge for his benefit, he assigned me the task of coming up with one toy recommendation for him each month. I’m allowed to gather intel by asking him questions (e.g. “What kinds of toys do you feel are missing from your collection?” “What’s the biggest toy you’ve taken anally, and did you like it?” “Can you have prostate orgasms without external stimulation?”) and then I have to write 500-700 words about the toy I’ve chosen that month, why I chose it, and how I foresee us using it together. He doesn’t have to buy the toy I recommend, but if I make a good case for it, he usually does.

This protocol helps my partner expand his sex toy collection and therefore his pleasure possibilities, and it also helps me feel useful. I’ve loved recommending men’s sex toys in past relationships, because it felt like I was serving my partner by concretely improving his life – so it feels good that this recommendation process is actually structured into my current relationship. I love being of use to my Sir!

So far, I’ve written four of these recs – always due on the 5th of the month, a date we chose together because it doesn’t typically conflict with other writing deadlines of mine. I’ve suggested two anal toys (one vibrating and one not), one stroker, and one vibrator for penises. His two favorites thus far have been the Njoy Pfun and the Hot Octopuss Pulse Solo III (both pictured). In fact, he loves the Pfun so much that he told me he thinks one should be issued for free to everyone who has a prostate!

One of my favorite things about this protocol is that I always submit my recommendation via Google Docs and my partner makes edits, notes, and suggestions using the interface’s built-in editing tools. I’ve always been a teacher’s pet, and I have definite kink feelings about receiving feedback and a grade on my writing (when I’ve consented to that type of scrutiny!). For example, it made me feel smart and accomplished when he complimented me for researching the width allowances of a particular Fleshlight on the /r/BigDickProblems subreddit to make sure it would fit my Sir’s cock. And when I recommended a butt plug because he’d mentioned to me that he didn’t own any, he commented, “I love how closely you listen and pay attention, little one.” Swoon.

Another fave thing about this protocol: getting to use the toys with him. I mean, duh. It’s always fun to use sex toys with someone you’re super into, but doubly so when you picked the toy yourself, for this specific person, for well-researched reasons, and they trusted you enough to buy it on your endorsement alone. Good D/s is all about trust, and I feel that even moreso than usual when I’m blowing my Sir while fucking him with a prostate toy I chose for his particular ass.

I have a lot of romantic feelings about the whole idea of making recommendations. I think, when done well, they’re a way to show your partner (or friend, or family member) you really know them. In the past, I’ve dated game developers who could sleuth out the perfect iPhone game for my particular tastes, music nerds who made me mix CDs of new-to-me gems I instantly loved, and comedy geeks who could say with full confidence, “You’d love this longform improv troupe,” and be right. Knowing someone that well is a talent, and being known that well is a gift. So I’m happy to have yet another way to demonstrate to my partner how much I adore him and want to make him happy!

What about you? Got any cool protocols you’ve been trying out lately? What’s the last sex toy you recommended to someone or had recommended to you? How did that go?

 

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