Musings

You Can Test Out This Cool New Sex App With Your Partner

Kate Sloan

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I have dated and fucked more game developers than the average person. There are concrete reasons to bang game devs over other types of people, sure, but I think I’m just fundamentally, viscerally drawn to people who nerd out about games. I’m not much of a gamer myself, but show me a room full of dweeby video-game enthusiasts and I’ll show you a room where I will get my flirt on.

So, as you might imagine, games and sex integrate pretty frequently in my life. My game-dev ex once built us a game for Valentine’s Day that spun two wheels: one randomly selected a verb (lick, suck, spank, tease…) and one, a body part (ear, tongue, thighs, labia…) and you had to perform said act to said body part. It was somehow both sexy and hilarious. I also love the idea of dice-based spanking games, Truth or Dare as a sexy starter course for shy folks, and a long-distance kink partner telling me I have to do [X brave thing] before I earn [Y reward]. See? Games and sex are a fantastic combination.

My involvements with game devs have also taught me that it’s super fun to be involved in a game’s prototype/development stage. You get to offer feedback that potentially shapes the final game, and your very experience of having fun (or not having fun, as the case may be) is what the developer is watching out for. It’s like being in a goofy science experiment, only with more autonomy and agency.

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I’m telling you all this because I want you to know about Lovely, a smart new sex toy and app in its development stage. It’s not exactly a game, but the spirit of it is playful and it challenges you to get better, like a game does. Lovely is a vibrating cock ring meant to be worn during intercourse, and the accompanying app suggests personalized sex positions, stimulation techniques, and other saucy tune-ups. It looks like a real hoot!

What I love about sexy games is that they give me an “excuse” to do things I might otherwise be too shy or anxious to do, even with a trusted partner. It takes a lot of gumption to say, “Hey, how ’bout tonight we don’t do that thing we always do, and try this new thing instead?” Sex is hard to talk about, and anything that makes it easier is a good innovation in my books!

Lovely is currently in the process of recruiting couples to test their product and offer feedback on the app and the toy itself. The product will retail for $169, but tester couples can get it for $99. Their suggestions will be used to shape the way the app’s algorithms work, making it into a better and better product over time. Think of it like performing a philanthropic act for the future customers who’ll benefit from your feedback – only with way more orgasms than philanthropy usually involves!

You only have three more days to sign up to be a tester – so if you wanna get in the ground floor of this cool new couples’ toy, sign up quick!

 

Heads up, babes: this post was sponsored, but as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

7 Ways Weed Boosts My Libido

Kate Sloan

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My relationship to marijuana has been a journey. There was a time, years ago, when I was “straight-edge,” but now I firmly consider myself a member of the #StonerFemme contingent. Weed helps me on a near-daily basis with my anxiety and depression, my chronic joint pain, and – yes! – my libido.

I get a lot of questions about this whenever I mention it on Twitter, largely from people who are confused because they haven’t experienced this effect from marijuana. I can’t really explain it; I’m sure it depends on your body chemistry, your method of consumption, and what type of weed you’ve got. As for me, I find that sativa-dominant hybrids work best if I’m trying to amp up my libido, but really, almost every strain I’ve tried has made me feel this way. (The first Leafly review for my favorite sexytimes strain just says “Yo I was vibrating and shit,” so apparently I’m not alone.)

Hopefully I don’t have to tell you that intoxicants can complicate consent. If you need a refresher on that, read the first four paragraphs of this article I wrote. But with that caveat, I want to tell you today about the seven (!) key ways that marijuana helps raise my libido and my enjoyment of sex and masturbation…

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Arousal. Oftentimes, when I go several days without masturbating, it’s because it just feels like too much work. My sex drive is more responsive than spontaneous, so if I want to jerk off, I have to spend some time warming myself up and getting turned on: watching porn, reading erotica, and/or gently touching myself in places that aren’t my genitals until that area is ready to be touched. That process is lovely when I’m in the mood for it, but sometimes it just feels like an extra barrier to entry that isn’t worth the hassle. So I skip masturbation entirely.

Weed, amazingly, helps me circumvent the arousal process. If I smoke up, I’ll reliably get turned on within about 10 minutes, without having to actually do anything to make that happen. My genitals start to feel all warm and engorged like they do when I’ve been engaging in foreplay for several minutes – except I haven’t. It’s brilliant.

I remember one time, I smoked some weed at my then-boyfriend’s house just before leaving to head back home. On the walk home, I felt my own wetness start to drip down my leg. That’s a level of lubrication I usually only reach after, say, an hour of teasing and edging and fucking with someone I find colossally attractive. And weed made it happen without any effort or work at all. Strange and lovely!

Sensitivity. There is science to back this up: weed increases our capacity to feel physical sensations. Whether it’s a partner’s fingertips trailing along your spine, someone’s soft lips pressed against yours, or a vibrator nestled against your clit, sensory information tends to feel amplified when you’re high.

I wouldn’t say that weed makes my orgasms come more quickly or easily – I’m still a tough nut to crack, even when I’m stoned – but the lead-up to orgasm does feel better than it normally would. It’s as if I’ve never felt those exact sensations before, and my body and brain are experiencing them anew. It’s pretty magical.

Worth noting: this increased sensitivity isn’t always a good thing. When I had anal sex for the first time, my fuckpal – a seasoned stoner – advised me not to smoke beforehand, because anal penetration is already an intense sensation and weed could make it so I’d feel every bump and vein. I’m glad I listened to him. But for less overwhelming sex acts, that boost in receptiveness can be positively delicious.

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Tactility. So, yes, weed makes me more physically sensitive, and it also makes me more excited about the whole notion of touching people. Or touching myself, as the case may be.

I once smoked weed with a beloved fuckbuddy while at a party, and when it hit me, I became obsessed with his arm hair. We were standing close together and I kept brushing my arm against his, sloooowly, to feel his comforting hairiness slide against my porcelain smoothness. It felt shockingly intimate and sexy, despite the fact that we were fully dressed and not even looking at each other – he was absorbed in conversation with someone else and I was pretending to listen to that conversation, too. But my attention was reduced to just those few inches of skin on skin, and how fucking delightful he felt against me.

This obsession with tactile information also means that oral sex on weed is a damn good time. You know what they say about “the munchies”…! When I’m high, I’m equally thrilled if there’s a Reese’s cup in my mouth or a dick in there, and for roughly equivalent reasons.

Visualizations. I wrote about this a bit when I had my first stoned orgasm. Weed isn’t a full-on psychedelic, in the sense that you’re probably not going to have a spiritual breakthrough or an LSD-esque “trip” on it, but it can create some visual and sensory hallucinations sometimes.

For example: once, Bex was sexting with their long-distance Sir while high, and when the topic of a blowjob was broached, Bex says they could actually feel their Sir’s cock in their mouth. I’ve had similar experiences when I’ve combined weed with fantasies, sexting, or porn: I become very suggestible, such that the mention of, say, a fist in my vagina can create the sensory illusion that there actually is a fist fucking me. When I try to sexually fantasize while sober, my mind often wanders and I can’t focus enough to get a vivid fantasy going; weed makes that process a lot easier and more fun.

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Disinhibition. Much like alcohol, marijuana can loosen your inhibitions so you don’t feel as self-conscious. For an anxious person like me, this is a godsend. Anxiety triggers my sexual brakes, making it hard for me to get turned on and relax into the moment. Weed lifts the oppressive weight of anxiety off my shoulders, so I can be in the moment and quit worrying about shit that doesn’t matter.

While this effect is, like I said, similar to the disinhibition alcohol can facilitate, weed is physiologically a far better pre-sex choice than alcohol. Due to how booze affects the blood vessels, being drunk stunts our sexual sensitivity, our capacity for orgasm, and our ability to maintain an erection (penile or clitoral). They don’t call it “whiskey dick” for nothin’!

Joy. Gala Darling has written that regular exercise creates “a constant undercurrent of joy” in her life; I feel similarly about marijuana. It melts my stress and transports me to a place of childlike delight, where I can see the present moment for what it is: an opportunity for happiness, growth, and play.

There is certainly a time and a place for sex that is emotionally intense, focused, and serious. But that type of sex is a rare craving for me; what I want, far more often, is the goofy, giggly, relaxed kind of sex. I firmly believe that sex is grown-up playtime. I’m happiest in my sex life when I remember that and take it to heart. Weed makes that even easier to do.

When I’m depressed, or recovering from some kind of heartbreak, I often find it difficult to get turned on, because my sexual thoughts and fantasies just make me sad instead. Weed helps with that: it puts me into a happy-go-lucky brainspace where even people who’ve hurt my feelings can’t really bother me. So I can fantasize about them to my heart’s content.

Ecstatic pain. This one is weird, and I don’t have a scientific explanation for it, just firsthand experience to draw from: marijuana sometimes makes me experience pain as pleasure.

I first noticed this years ago when, stoned at a party, a friend and I began doing sun salutations. I noticed immediately that the stretching of my muscles – usually an intense, slightly uncomfortable feeling for me – felt almost orgasmic. I moaned aloud as I moved through the poses, pushing my body farther than I normally would, because the more I pushed, the better it felt.

It took me a few years to figure out how best to use this effect to my advantage: kink! I looove getting spanked, slapped, bitten, and scratched when I’m stoned. It all feels so fucking good. When I’m in that headspace and someone really skilled is spanking me just right, sometimes it even seems like I could get off from that alone. That hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holdin’ out hope!

 

How do you find marijuana interacts with your libido, sensitivity, and enjoyment of sex? Got any tips, tricks, or favorite strains to share?

Strange Self-Care in a Time of Terror

Kate Sloan

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The day after the election, like many of you, I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t wash the previous night’s tear-streaked eyeliner off my face, or brush my teeth, or get dressed.

What I could do, and what I did do, was as follows: I put on some lipstick, watched YouTube videos and blowjob porn, and cried.

Self-care – or coping, because sometimes they are one and the same – is so unique from person to person. What’s comforting to you might be scary or weird to me, and vice versa. But with that caveat, here are some things I’ve been doing to take care of myself during what feels like a global depressive spell. I hope some of these suggestions help you, or at least inspire you to do what you can do for yourself.

img_5056Lipstick. If you ever see me wearing just lipstick and no other makeup, you’ll know I’m either feeling minimalistic in a French-starlet kind of way, or I’m depressed. It’s the easiest cosmetic to slick on when I barely have the emotional energy to look in a mirror. It doesn’t require the patience of liquid eyeliner, the precision of eyebrow pencil, the fastidiousness of foundation. It’s a simple, quick burst of color. It signals to my body and my brain that I am beginning my day, even if my pajamas and unbrushed hair say otherwise.

Mundane activities. If I can manage to get out of bed when depressed, I may be able to (slowly) work up to cleaning, doing laundry, or other boring day-to-day tasks. They are small and not terribly significant in the grand scheme of things, but they are something I can do, and it feels good to be able to do something when you’re depressed. My friend Sarah likes to bake, for similar reasons; she says doing something with her hands feels useful when depression makes it hard for her to move her body a lot. The other day I went to the mall with a friend because he needed to return a shirt he’d bought, and it was the sweetest banal respite. Sometimes going grocery shopping or stepping out for a coffee feels oddly affirming when I’m depressed. It’s okay to do small things when you can’t manage the big ones.

lBlowjob porn. I’m aware that this is unconventional, but that’s the point of this post, after all. While watching Heather Harmon porn in a weed-induced stupor the other day, I became aware that it was calming me down and comforting me. Part of that is simply that her porn is familiar to me; I know the rhythms and features of it, the noises I can expect from her husband Jim, the predictable cumshot at the end. And blowjobs are, historically, a calming activity for me. The love between Heather and Jim really comes through (no pun intended!) in their videos, and that helps, too. There is something so sweet and simple about a loving blowjob. When Heather does it, it is a gift without expectations of reciprocation. It is a pure expression of affection. In a world that feels cold and heartless, it can be nice to remember that there are still people who love each other that selflessly, somewhere; that there are still people who want to see their loved ones experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

Funny podcasts. I sing the praises of the McElroy brothers at any given opportunity. Their humor is goofy, fresh, and relentlessly kind. Whether I’m puzzling through advice questions with the brothers on MBMBaM, immersing myself in the fantasy world they’ve built in The Adventure Zone, or laughing til I cry at the weird creations of Monster Factory, I’m hardly thinking about my problems or worries when I’m mired in a McElroy show. It’s not hyperbole to say that these boys may have saved my life on many occasions.

3647718646_7d503c3a99_oMaking music. My songs are predominantly about romantic rejections and unrequited love – phenomena that feel huge when they’re happening to you, but pale in comparison to, say, the impending threat of a global economic collapse and the xenophobic mass ejection of immigrants. When the big things feel too scary to contemplate, it can help to whine about the small things for a while. And if perfectionism doesn’t make your anxiety worse, it can give you a concrete task to work on when the world’s issues feel unsolvable. I showed my friend Brent a song I wrote recently, and he – a seasoned songwriting teacher – gave me detailed notes about structure, syllables, melody and arrangement. Working toward perfection, even within the small world of a single song, felt fuelling when I would’ve otherwise been crushed by the weight of the global problems I cannot solve.

Scary media. Stephen King novels, American Horror Story, bad slasher films on Netflix – whatever works. There is some evidence that horror movies alleviate anxiety for some of us, and I’ve definitely experienced that. It’s comforting to feel that there is an actual, concrete reason for your fear, instead of just letting your nonspecific dread run rampant. And when the story resolves, some of your terror might, too. For similar reasons, my friend Sarah says reading erotica helps her anxiety. Don’t judge yourself for the seemingly strange self-care strategies you employ. If it works, it’s worth doing.

Marijuana. Some would say it’s not healthy to rely on substances to get you through tough times. I say that sometimes substances are the only things that can get you through and that may not be ideal but it’s still okay. Weed blurs my brain a little, forcing me to think one thought at a time instead of losing myself in worry. And it also reawakens my libido even at the unsexiest of times (more on that in a post coming out on Monday), enabling me to masturbate when I otherwise would’ve been too depressed to do so. Masturbation can be, for me, an important medicine, flooding my body with uplifting neurotransmitters and re-affirming my love for myself, so any impetus to do it more often is a good thing.

What are your unconventional self-care methods?

 

Want to hear me read this post aloud to you (in a smoky-as-hell voice because I was at a rock show last night)? My $5+/month Patreon patrons get access to audio recordings of all my new blog posts. Click here for this one.

5 Love & Sex Lessons I Learned in Malta

Kate Sloan

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I just spent a week in Malta, an island in the Mediterranean Sea. Years ago, my cousin was visiting said island on vacation when she serendipitously met and fell in love with a handsome, fiery Maltese man. After years of tearful, stressful back-and-forths between Malta and Canada, now they are married and have a beautiful daughter together. What a romantic story, right?!

“Romance” was definitely a theme of my trip. It wasn’t a passionate getaway for me – I was sharing a hotel room with my mom, after all! – but the gorgeous European locale and the people I spent time with got me thinking (even more than usual) about love, sex, relationships, passion, magic, and commitment. Here are five lessons I pondered a lot while in Malta, and still to this day…

img_4471Spend time with people who bring out your best self. It’s soooo cliché to say that travel helps you “find yourself,” but it’s an oft-repeated truism for a reason: being away from your regular environment, and the people you regularly spend time with, shakes off the gristle of your personality and shows you what’s actually core to who you are. On this trip I got to hang out with some relatives and family friends who I adore, and who bring out the best parts of me just by being encouraging, sweet, and welcoming. True, you can choose to be your “best self” any damn time you please, but certain people make it wonderfully easy to do so. Spending more time with those people is good for your soul, methinks.

Your weirdness is what makes you noteworthy. As you might expect, it was certainly an icebreaker when I mentioned to new Maltese friends that I’m a sex writer. I probably wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t, y’know, drunk at a wedding reception. But contrary to what I expected of this conservative Catholic country, everyone I mentioned this to was actually super chill about it, and in many cases, fascinated. I’ll never forget when I mentioned my sex blog to the feisty brunette beauty I’d just befriended and she confessed, “My lifelong dream is to marry a man who has a nine-inch penis.” I mean, honestly – I’m sure few people at that wedding were having conversations as interesting as I was! Don’t forget to rock your weirdness; it’ll attract delightful opportunities, people, and situations into your life.

img_4656There are multiple modes of pleasure, and all are valid. My libido’s been weirdly waning lately – due to a mix, I think, of depression, travel stress, and recent heartbreak. It’s disheartening when sexual pleasure has been such a source of joy for you, for such a long time, and then it no longer is (however briefly). But this trip reminded me that there are so many other sources of pleasure in life: music, food, good company, exciting adventures, and so much more. I had a euphoric experience with some coconut-and-cinnamon gelato in a Valletta side street, and thought: if this is the closest I get to an orgasm all month, I’d be okay with that.

When you love someone, you accommodate them. I got to hang out with a couple friends of the family on this trip who I don’t often see, but who I totally cherish. I’ve always thought they were married, because they’ve been together for at least as long as I’ve been alive – but the lady of the pair told me that they’re actually not legally wed, because they never got around to having a wedding. I asked her why, and she said – with the utmost love and affection in her eyes – that her partner is so shy, the thought of getting up in front of all those people would be terrifying to him, so they opted to skip getting married altogether. They don’t seem any less happy or any less in love for it, and it seemed to me that she doesn’t resent his shyness – she loves and accepts it. I found this story extremely touching and hoped that someday I’ll be so in love with someone that their supposed flaws just seem like wonderful quirks to me, and that accommodating them feels less like a sacrifice and more like a joyous act of love.

img_4494Rediscover delight by rediscovering play. Like many folks, I find it nourishing and uplifting to spend time with kids. I got to hang out with my five-year-old cousin on this trip, posing for goofy selfies and running around, and she reminded me of the sheer joy of play for play’s sake. Unlike kids, adults don’t usually chase each other for the fun of it, make silly faces for no reason, or laugh maniacally at the drop of a hat – but we definitely need to do more of that stuff. I did some “playing” of my own when I took a day off from our travel itinerary and played ukulele in our hotel room by myself all day: after months of feeling uninspired and writing zero songs, I cranked out two new ones in a matter of hours. Those songs wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t been idly messing around on my uke, trying things out, and playing. Sex is like that too: you usually learn the most, and have the most fun, when you let go of your preconceptions and just experiment in the moment.

Have you ever had an epiphany while traveling? What did you learn?

“Every Feminist’s Ideal Boyfriend…”

Kate Sloan

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During the shitstorm of anti-feminist trolls I faced after the publication of my Establishment article, the funniest criticism I received was this: “Every feminist’s ideal boyfriend is a Hitachi Magic Wand.”

A conservative blogger had written about me and my degenerate sex toy collection, and I clicked the link while at a party with a bunch of friends. When a concerned pal saw what I was reading, he cooed, “Aw, don’t look at that,” and tried to take my phone from me so it wouldn’t ruin my night. But I wasn’t sad or angry; I was giggling my ass off.

It struck me (and still strikes me) as so funny that these anti-feminist, anti-woman, anti-pleasure curmudgeons think sex toys are incompatible with the presence of a real-life partner. These people honestly believe that by sheer virtue of owning dozens of vibrators and dildos, I am scaring away anyone who might want to bang me. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’m throwing clothes and toiletries into a backpack, getting ready for a weekend at my boyfriend’s place. It’s a rarity: he has the house to himself, with his family being out of town. We are going to fuck on every available surface.

My eyes land on my sex toy drawers and I realize some important decisions need to be made. “What toys should I bring?” I text my love. While waiting for him to respond, I idly graze my fingers over my Tango, Orchid, and Wahl.

The reply comes back: “Your Eroscillator. Duh.”

I should have known. He loves how hard that toy makes me come, while his cock is deep inside me or his fingers probe my G-spot. Sometimes he even hands it to me during sex without me needing to ask – a non-verbal assertion that, yes, he values my pleasure, it’s important to him, it turns him on, and he can’t wait to feel me clenching around him.

I wrap the Eroscillator’s cord carefully around its body and slide it into my bag, then skip off toward the subway station.

27 percent of the people I’ve banged have owned their own Magic Wand (to my knowledge, anyway). That’s no small number. That’s 1.3 in 5. Those odds are pretty good, compared to the world at large. I have excellent taste in partners.

Though self-pleasure is obviously an important ideal to me, I’m especially charmed by cis men who own a Magic Wand purely for the usage of the women they bone.

These are usually men to whom their partners’ pleasure matters a great deal. They’re the type of men who want you to come, but who will back the fuck off if you tell them it’s probably not gonna happen tonight and you’re okay with that. The type of men who will patiently offer up their fingers, mouths, dicks, and talented toy-wielding hands if it means they get to watch you writhe and convulse beneath them. The type of men who will never judge you for getting sweaty, red-faced, breathless, loud, and incoherent during and after your orgasm, because to them, that’s not unattractive – it’s the whole point.

When I’m flirting with someone new and sex toys come up in conversation, sometimes I learn that my flirtee owns their own Hitachi. It’s usually mentioned so casually and offhandedly, I could miss it if I zoned out for just a moment. But it’s info that perks my ears right up, because I know what it’s likely to mean.

“I bought it for an ex-girlfriend, but she didn’t want it,” he says with a shrug as he plugs it in.

“Lucky for me,” I fire back, unwrapping a condom to pull over the thing’s unwieldy, porous head.

I’m already wet from his deft fingers, so he can push them right into me again once the Hitachi is settled on my clit. I turn it on just as he finds my A-spot and have to bite down on my own hand to keep my moans at a reasonable decibel level. The deep vibrations rocking my entire clit combine with his sweetly insistent fingers, and I zoom right into “about to come” territory within seconds.

It doesn’t take much. I’m just thinking that I wish he would say something nurturing and domly to me to push me over the edge, when he leans in and mutters, “Does that feel good? Yeah? Like that?” And then I’m coming all over his fingers, sinking my teeth even deeper into my own skin. The vibrator rattles noisily against my sudden wetness and I leave it there until I can’t stand it anymore.

“Man, I love that thing,” I breathe. He laughs and says, “Yeah, I could tell.” We curl up to sleep: him spooning me, and me spooning the Hitachi.

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The way I use sex toys with partners, it’s a way they can prove to me that they trust and respect my authority over my own body.

I rarely just hand a partner a toy and let ’em go wild with it. Usually I’ll hand it to them while listing some very specific instructions. “Push it all the way into me, tilt the tip up toward my belly, and move in and out in small motions. Yeah, like that. A little bit faster, please.”

Or sometimes I’ll just hold the damn thing myself. I’ll press a vibrator against my clit or external G-spot while my partner fucks me with fingers, a toy, or his dick. Since my clit is a total princess, it’s often easier if I handle that part myself, freeing him up to do other things.

I don’t attract the type of person who’d pridefully try to control my toys against my wishes. I wouldn’t want to bang that type of person, anyway. I only want to be with people who respect my autonomy, my knowledge of my own body, my pleasure preferences. And when a partner hands me a vibe without getting butthurt about it, without sulking in disappointment, without seeming to feel devalued or unneeded, it just proves he trusts me to know what’s best for me.

It’s a feminist act, in some ways. It’s a man saying-without-saying, “Your body is yours, you’re smart and experienced, and your pleasure matters. I’d love to be a part of that, if you’ll let me. And if not, that’s fine too.”

He’s got one hand on my chest and the other inside me. My Tango is wedged against my clit, thrumming helpfully, but I’m just not quite getting there.

I see a look come over his face that I can’t decipher, and then he says, “I don’t think this is strong enough. Do you wanna switch to the Hitachi?”

My appreciation for this man, in this moment, is grander than I can translate into words. My heart melts, and so does my vagina. Far from being scared or put off by vibrators, he’s getting annoyed with the one in my hand for being too small, not strong enough, not giving me enough pleasure. He wants more for me, because my enjoyment is paramount to him. And not in some selfless, detached way: me getting off is a direct turn-on for him. And I know that’s why he shuts off my Tango, retrieves my Magic Wand from the bedside table, and places it in my hands.

A few diligent minutes later, I come so hard that I’m babbling, sweating, lost in rumbly reverie. I’m vaguely aware that he takes the vibe from me once I’m totally done coming, and I hear him set it on the table before climbing back into bed with me.

Maybe it’s the orgasmic neurotransmitters talking, but I’ve rarely felt so cared for, respected, safe, and seen during sex as I do now. He knew what I needed and delivered it not with complaints but with extreme enthusiasm. It wasn’t even a big deal to him. He wanted me to come, so, duh, he made sure there was a suitable vibrator in my hands. It was the obvious thing to do, and he did it because he cares about me.

I drift off to sleep in his arms. His hands still smell like me.