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Behold: My New Thigh Tattoos!

Kate Sloan

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When I say that kink helps me in ways both sexual and nonsexual, I mean it. Being a good girl gives me a sense of value and accomplishment that I’d otherwise often lack. Pain and punishments help with my productivity and even my mental health. The potential of impressing a domly beau – whether that person is real or just hypothetical – gives me superpowers to do things I’d otherwise be too weak or scared to do.

Like, for example, getting huge-ass tattoos on a highly sensitive part of my body.

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The conversation that started it all.

The idea for these tattoos came to me in a flash last month. I was chatting with Georgia, one of my most-tattooed friends, about possible works of art I’d like to get put on my body. I wanted something kink-related, because my kink identities have become more and more intertwined with my overall identity in the past year. I didn’t have a clear image in my mind of what I specifically wanted – just phrases that resonated with me.

But when Georgia suggested I get “GOOD” on the back of one thigh and “GIRL” on the other, I saw it so clearly. I wanted girly bows underneath the text, marking me forever as a pretty plaything, a fancy femme, and a good girl. I wanted these images and words to be visible while I got spanked, posed for saucy pictures, or walked around half-clothed at a sex club. There was no question in my mind of whether or not this was a good idea; I wanted these tattoos immediately.

I felt the same way when I contemplated getting my first tattoo, a solid red heart on my lower belly. There were no “Do I really want this?” worries. I knew I wanted that heart on my skin forever. Just like I knew I wanted pink bows and “good girl.”

Once I’d made up my mind, I asked Georgia for tattoo parlor recommendations. (My first one was done impulsively at Two Trolls in Dundas, Ontario because some friends happened to be going there, but it was super simple. For something more complex, I wanted to do more research and pick the right place and the right artist.) She suggested Adrenaline. My brother and a guy I’m dating had both gotten inked there and had positive experiences, so it seemed like a good bet.

As I scrolled through the Adrenaline Instagram account, I kept clicking on my favorite tattoos to see who had done them – and in most cases, the ones I liked best were done by Laura Blaney. I loved her use of color and shading, and the way her work could appear simultaneously realistic and cartoonishly stylized. I knew I wanted my bows to appear three-dimensional while still being bright and cute, and it seemed like Laura could definitely handle that. So I emailed her some reference images, booked a consultation, talked over my idea with her, paid a deposit, and booked my actual tattooing appointment.

There was a three-week wait time between my consult and Tattoo Day. That time felt interminable; once I had decided I wanted it, I wanted it now! But I knew it’d be worth the wait, and as that time ticked past, it was comforting that my desire for these tattoos didn’t abate. You should be sure before you put something on your body permanently, and I was sure.

Laura is such a skilled and experienced artist that she totally understood what I wanted. I didn’t have to do much: I just explained my idea to her, showed her some bows I liked the shape of, and sent her an image of the words “good girl” in the font I wanted (it’s called Black Rose). When I arrived for my appointment, she showed me some sketches she’d done of bows, asked me where I wanted the text placed, and chose some shades of pink that matched what I wanted. I thought I’d be nervous handing over creative control of art that would remain on my body forever, but I trusted Laura. She was confident, her art looked great, and I had the strong sense that she knew what I wanted.

At one point, I showed her a reference image of a bow I liked the look of. “The one I do will look better than that, but I see what you’re saying,” she said, with complete certainty. (Laura is a total badass. She did my tattoos while six months pregnant. God, I love strong smart talented women.)

imageLaura applied stencils to the backs of my legs, reapplying a few times until they were perfectly straight and even. Georgia snapped some pictures for me so I could check to see if I liked the placement. I wanted the bows pretty much right under my butt, so they’d peek out of my shorter skirts and dresses but still be easy to cover up for conservative occasions when necessary.

When both she and I were happy with the placement, Laura had me lie down on my stomach on the tattoo table. She fired up the needle and got started on outlining.

The pain was bad, especially toward the beginning before the endorphins kicked in, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I chatted a bit with Georgia, who’d sweetly accompanied me; I listened to music on my iPad, read some articles, and tweeted a little. But what really helped was to invoke the same strategies I use when I’m enduring a spanking: I focused on my breathing, purposely intended to enjoy the pain rather than recoiling from it, and reminded myself time and time again that no moment is unendurable. Any time the pain was particularly bad, I knew it would be over soon, so I could get through it.

imageThe first bow, and its accompanying word (“girl”), took about an hour and 40 minutes to complete. Toward the end of it, I started to tire of getting poked with a stabby needle and wanted it to be over, but it really wasn’t that bad. The pain was less bothersome than it had been when I got my heart, I think because back then I was more scared of pain and hadn’t yet experienced it as a consensual and even pleasurable sensation. Plus that tattoo was a lot smaller, so I didn’t have time to get into an endorphin groove the way I did with these larger pieces.

We took a break, during which I got up, walked around, stretched my legs, ate a granola bar, drank some coconut water, and posed for some pictures of the half-finished product. I asked Georgia what she’d do if I chickened out and wanted to leave at that point, and she said she’d gently but firmly dom me into finishing the other leg. See: kink is important and helps get shit done!

But I didn’t chicken out. I laid back down on the table, flipped around the other way, and Laura started on the second bow. It hurt more than the first one, for whatever reason, but it also didn’t take as long. I warbled along to some old Regina Spektor songs while continually reminding myself that the pain would be over soon, and it would be worth it.

After the second bow was done, Laura wanted to go back into the first one to fix up a couple spots that weren’t as vivid as they should’ve been. That was the worst pain of the whole evening, because she was revisiting areas that were already sore and tender from their earlier pummeling. But I groaned into a pillow and gnashed my teeth and it was over soon enough.

When the tattoos were done, we snapped some pictures and then headed downstairs to the main desk so I could pay for my beautiful works of art. I hobbled and limped a bit, because my muscles were sore from holding the same position for three hours and the backs of my thighs felt like they’d received a selective, intense sunburn.

All told, this tattoo session cost about five times more than my little heart tattoo did – but it was a bigger and more complicated piece, with more customization involved, and the artist was more experienced and skilled. I firmly believe that if something’s gonna be on your body forever, you should be willing to pay as much as you feasibly can for it, because you really do get what you pay for. I was so pleased with every aspect of my tattooing experience, from the planning to the inking to the finished product.

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The day after getting tattooed. Still a little red and swollen.

Do you have any kink- or sex-themed tattoos? Can I see?!

Pieces You Left Behind

Kate Sloan

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Girl with the purple hair, I’m sad we didn’t date for longer. I know we’re 15, and 15-year-olds are fickle. I know you said the break-up wasn’t about me, that you’re just “not in a good place to have a girlfriend right now,” that you feel “trapped” by labels and that our views on drugs are incompatible. I know all of this. But still I want you.

I daydream about you in class, so flagrantly that stern teachers chastise me and kind teachers ask me if I’m feeling alright. I know which hallways you walk down in between classes, and sometimes I walk where you’ll be, and sometimes I avoid you because you make me feel things that scare me.

I write in my journal, “I could marry that girl.” I put down my pen, stare at the page, and sigh. Because it’s melodramatic and it’s also true.

A contingent of twelfth-graders have organized a clothing swap. It’s one of the minor events written in my calendar; everything that isn’t you feels minor to me lately. Nonetheless, I show up at our school’s sunny, sprawling art room at the appointed time, bag of unwanted clothes in tow to trade away.

I spot you instantly. My eyes are attuned to you, like how cheetahs must have gazelle-dar. (Cheetahs need gazelle meat to live. I don’t know what I need from you, exactly.) You’ve brought some old clothes too, and you’re laying them out on the table to be picked through by intrepid art-school fashionistas.

I say hi to you, because I have to. There isn’t another option. But then I slip away into the throng of girls. I have blushed and giggled in front of you too many times. It feels redundant to do it again, especially now that you don’t want me.

2537272455_c90e77cb96_oExamining the sartorial offerings on the table, I find, long minutes later, a jacket I’ve seen you wear. It’s brown, with pinstripes, and big masculine shoulderpads. It looks like something Oliver Twist might wear if he was a character in The Breakfast Club. I would never, ever, ever wear this jacket. It offends my femme sensibilities on every level there is.

But it’s yours. So I take it. I make sure you’re not looking my way, and I tuck your jacket under my arm, and then I get the hell out of there. My cheeks burn with shame. Look at you, always making me blush in a million different ways.

Almost a decade later, a friend helps me excavate my closet, harshly insisting I expunge anything I haven’t worn in six months or more. I appreciate her authoritarian approach – but when we get to that brown pinstriped monstrosity, I feel icy fear rush into my veins. I beg. I plead. I clutch the jacket to my chest. I even cry a little. I just can’t give this damn thing away.

My friend lets me keep your jacket, and my sick secret is still safe. From you, at least.

4102861067_39e2f2429b_oFemmey friend-with-benefits, you are too too sweet. There are limited ways for 16-year-olds to give each other expensive presents, but you have found one. In my lap there is a plastic grocery bag containing two cashmere sweaters your grandmother gave you, which you insist you won’t wear and don’t want.

“Are you sure?” I ask, lipsticked pout gaping with surprise. “Aren’t these, like, really expensive?”

You rake a hand through your hot pink pixie cut. You’re like if Mia Farrow and James Dean had a baby who grew up to be Ramona Flowers. “I want you to have them,” you say. “They’ll look better on you anyway.”

This is a bald-faced lie. You are slim and slight, and I am ample and curvy. If these sweaters have a certain baggy, laissez-faire, Kate Moss-esque charm on you, they’ll cling to me like woollen skin. And indeed, when I try them on in front of you, the one that’s supposed to be a sweaterdress scarcely conceals my hips and ass. But you tell me, “You look hot,” and then we fuck on my twin bed while your sweater’s still hugging me tight.

Grandma, I’m sorry we’re pillaging your house. You always kept it so neat and sparse when you were alive, and now it looks a fright. But we’re doing this with the best of intentions. We need to clean your house up, clear it out, get it ready to be sold. We won’t be here much longer, I promise.

Toward the end of a long, hard-working day, mum says to us: “If there’s anything you guys want to take, you can do that now.” Max and I both bolt. He heads for the basement; maybe there’s a board game or stuffed animal he wants. As for me, I beeline to your bedroom.

I know exactly what I want to take, and I find it sooner than I expect to: the knitted shawl in autumnal tones. It used to cloak your shoulders through falls and winters, but now it’s draped over the headboard of your bed. It was painstakingly crafted by your brother-in-law, my great-uncle, who passed away mere months after you did. I saw this shawl on you so often, warming your cold bones. It looks like a Mondrian painting in sepia tones. When I bury my face in it, it smells like you: fruity soap, hearty dinners, the vaguest hint of a feminine perfume.

When I leave the house carrying your shawl, I wonder if mum will stop me, tell me she wants it instead, or tell me there’s someone else who deserves it more. But she doesn’t. It’s mine now, and I never ever wear it because I want it to always smell like you.

First love, I don’t know how I managed to plan so poorly for this break-up, considering I’ve wanted to bite the bullet for months. I should have given you back all your things before I tearfully told you on a bustling street corner that we shouldn’t be together anymore. Now I’m sitting numbly in my room with a cardboard box full of three and a half years’ worth of love’s detritus.

A graphic novel you lent me ’cause you said I would like it (you were right). A few sex toys you tested so I could review them on my blog. A stuffed doll of my favorite Pokémon, Ampharos, that you scouted out for me on eBay. A pair of your boxers, printed with black-and-white comic strip panels, found under my bed from a passionate moment somewhere along the way.

For weeks and then months, I think about delivering this box to you – leaving it on your doorstep and fleeing. But I don’t want to risk seeing you, even if the risk is small. This wound still feels fresh, this deep sense of failure, like I fucked up something that ought to have lasted.

As 2014 slips away and 2015 fades into view, I decide it’s time to unpack the box. It’s been sitting in my room taking up physical and psychic space, and I want it gone, along with the illusion that I will ever be completely rid of you. I put the graphic novel on my bookshelf, hide the toys in my toy drawers, set the Ampharos next to my Mudkip – and put the boxers on.

Years later, they’ve interwoven with my life the way any beloved item of lounge clothing does – just something to throw on when I’m lazy or sad or sleepy. I rarely remember their romantic origins; it’s only when another boy tells me, “Cool boxers!” in hazy post-coital lamplight that I feel embarrassed to be wearing them. I’m not a comic nerd; the men I date are. “They were my ex’s, and I kept them,” I explain sheepishly. He ruffles my hair and says, “Well, they’re still cool.” Yeah, I guess they are.

imageTragically unfeminist ex-boyfriend, you were right: I look better in your green-and-blue plaid shirt than you did. I spot it in your closet and want it it not because it’s yours but because it’s bright, beautiful, cozy and cute. That should be a warning sign that you’re not as perfect for me as I think, but I don’t see it that way yet.

We’ve been lying around naked in the morning light, in your filthy bachelor apartment perched high above the city. Well, I’m naked; you’re almost always clothed around me, guarded, distant, clinical. Your constant sexual rejections and occasional body-shaming barbs have pricked my heart and I feel depleted, but I haven’t noticed that yet. All I know is it feels weird being naked around you. So I put your shirt on.

When you tell me to keep it, I skip home in it, vibrating from the familiar glee of wearing a reminder that somebody likes me.

Weeks later, when your charm has unraveled, I sit in the window of a café with a friend. “I have to break up with him,” I realize aloud, capping off a torrent of complaints. “I have to. Like, today.” I grab my phone and text to ask if you can meet me after your show later. My eyes fall on the shirt I’m wearing, and it’s yours. “Guess I should go home and change out of this before I go break up with him, huh?” I ask my pal, a bitter laugh breaking my voice.

Days after the deed is done, you text me. A post-break-up text: that rarest of things. “Hey you! Hope you have fun on your trip,” you tell me (I am reading your words in a car on a highway, two days deep into a nine-day road trip with friends). “Oh, and keep the shirt!”

It had not even occurred to me to give the shirt back. I’ve earned it, after that shitshow of a relationship. “Haha, thanks,” I text back, and roll my eyes.

Poly Diaries: So I Guess I’m Poly Now…!

Kate Sloan

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I remember the exact day I decided monogamy wasn’t for me. Actually, it wasn’t a day; it was a night, in late May 2012. Some friends and I checked out the first-ever Crush T.O. at a small, intimate bar. My then-boyfriend accompanied us, and while I loved him deeply, I found myself wishing I could escape his just-slightly-possessive gaze to go cavort with some cuties in a dark corner somewhere.

That night, we had our first of many arguments about monogamy. “Honestly, I wanted to flirt with people at that party tonight,” I told him when we got home. It was a mild assertion, by my present-day standards, but that boyfriend was (and, as far as I know, still is) one of the most monogamously-minded people I have ever met, so he felt threatened by it.

“Monogamy has felt like an itchy sweater to me recently,” I wrote in my journal that night. “I love ____ so much, but our world together feels limiting and insular… I want to meet new people in a flirty context that gets me giggling with glee, but that’s impossible when my über-monogamous boyfriend is glued to my hip. I miss and long for the feeling of a fresh crush. The exciting open waters of new flirtation.”

Over the ensuing days, we negotiated an arrangement that seemed to be, at first blush, a reasonable compromise. I was allowed to flirt with and kiss other people, to assuage my understimulated heart. But I couldn’t go any further than that, and I wasn’t allowed to tell my boyfriend about these dalliances, because hearing about them would make him uncomfortable.

While this seemed, theoretically, to solve the problem I was experiencing, we quickly realized it wasn’t a perfect solution by any means. For one thing, it’s very confusing for other people when you tell them you’re allowed to kiss them but things have to stop there. Several of my makeout partners wanted more, and so did I; it felt unnatural to stop them, every single time, but I nonetheless did it, every single time.

Secondly, the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule started to grate on me. My partner was my best friend and closest confidante; it felt unnatural to hide these exciting exploits from him. Plus, in retrospect, it seems to me that he created this rule because he was 100% Not Okay with me romancing people but knew he’d lose me if he corralled me into absolute monogamy, so he basically wanted to pretend I wasn’t doing that stuff. It felt to me like cheating, every time, even though it was ostensibly allowed, because I had to keep it a secret from my love.

Thirdly, our compromise remained unsatisfying to me because I still had the sensation of being “owned.” Beyond just being denied the extracurricular sexual experiences I wanted, I also wasn’t allowed to post nude photos of myself online, perform in sexy cam shows, or even pose solo for the porn company my friends had just launched. My body, mind, and sexuality were controlled by my partner, and while that’s a standard feature of monogamous relationships in “vanilla-world,” it was not what I wanted.

Years later, I had a conversation with a fellow poly-inclined friend in which she said, “Monogamy feels inherently abusive to me.” I agreed completely. This is a controversial statement, so let me explain. I’m not equating happily monogamous relationships with abuse; monogamy is often chosen, and abuse is obviously not. Monogamy makes some people very happy, and abuse obviously does not. But when monogamy is not chosen – when one or both partner(s) is shoehorned into it because it’s the expected default in our sexually possessive culture – it feels like a totalitarian regime is being imposed on your genitals and your heart.

To me, the most upsetting part of monogamy is the sense that another person gets to decide what I do and don’t do with my body, and what I am and am not allowed to feel in my heart. My independence and autonomy are fiercely important to me, and I don’t feel independent or autonomous when I’m in a monogamous relationship.

I bumped up against this issue again four years later. Back in March of this year, I started dating a boy who agreed to non-monogamy immediately when I brought it up. What a relief, I thought, when it seemed we were on the same page about this issue. He wanted us to always ask each other’s permission before each individual encounter with another person, and while this seemed reasonable at first, I quickly discovered it gave me those same “You own me” feelz as my more strictly monogamous relationship had. One time I asked this new boyfriend if he would be cool with me shooting blowjob porn with a friend, and he furrowed his brow and replied, “Yeah, since it’s just for porn, I’m okay with that.” The implication was that he would object to me sucking another guy’s dick if it wasn’t for porn, and, let’s face it – I would definitely want to do that at some point. So it seemed our ideas of non-monogamy didn’t quite line up, and that relationship didn’t last much longer.

Now, I’m dating someone new. We met a few weeks ago, on Twitter of all places. He’s smart, funny, kind, cute, and great in bed – so, of course, I was really hoping our feelings on non-monogamy would align. And so far, it seems that they do! He’s dating someone else, happily encouraged me to keep seeing my beloved occasional fuckbuddy, told me to keep him posted if I start seeing anyone new, and values open ongoing communication the way I do. YAY!

This is my first time delving into #PolyLyfe in any real way, and I’m sure I’ll encounter some challenges: jealousy, communication problems, social stigma, and so on. I hope to write about these as they come up, chronicling my foray into the weird, wild, wonderful world of ethical non-monogamy. But for now, I’m over the moon. It’ll be difficult, but not anywhere near as difficult as it was for me to deny my true self and live an unsatisfied monogamous existence for so long. When you desire the destination bad enough, you’re willing to put some work into the journey!

I’m a Good Girl

Kate Sloan

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Sometime in 1995. I’m a good girl. An exceptional, clever little girl. I know I am. I’m three years old and I’m reading aloud from the TV Guide to my mom. “Set in an apartment building in New York City, I Love Lucy centers on Lucy Ricardo (Lucille Ball) and her singer/bandleader husband Ricky Ricardo (Desi Arnaz), along with their best friends and landlords…”

“Okay, wait, wait,” my mom says, laughing. “You’re not really reading that. You just know Lucy ’cause we’ve watched it so many times.” She slides the small magazine from my hands, flips it to a page about some nature documentary or political drama, and hands it back to me.

I read it to her. Barely stumble on any words. And then look up at her with wide eyes, knowing (and awaiting) what’s coming.

“Oh my god,” she deadpans. “You can read now?” I nod. An addiction to educational CD-Roms will do that to a person. She gulps. “What a good, smart girl you are!” Yeah, mom. I know.

Winter 2010. I’m a good, smart, studious girl. I’m waiting for my 9AM high school philosophy class to start, and I’ve got my nose buried in some snappy, captivating tome – Alain de Botton, maybe, or Mary Roach.

My philosophy teacher walks in, toting his literature-stuffed messenger bag, thermos of cafeteria coffee, and signature charisma. “Good morning, plebes!” he crows. “Ready to talk about existential dread?!” He’s my favorite teacher, and I’ve had so many good ones. Nerdy, witty, and unflaggingly enthusiastic, he’s like if Adam Brody and Jimmy Fallon had a (breathtakingly handsome) lovechild.

My classmates continue to buzz and chatter like nothing has happened. While he waits for the slide projector to power up, he sidles over to me. “Hey, bookworm! I’ve noticed you share my love of the written word,” he comments, gesturing at the book I’m clutching. “What is it this time?”

I tell him. The details of my answer are inconsequential. I don’t remember what book I was reading, or what I said to him. What sticks with me is his reply. “Ohhh,” he coos, raising his eyebrows like I’ve just said the most fascinating thing in the world. “Good girl!”

I have no idea how to respond to this or what I am feeling – the hot burst of blood rushing to my cheeks, the flood of carnal butterflies migrating southward – so I just giggle and get back to my book. He strides to the front of the room and starts a lecture on Sisyphus. Or Sartre. Or something.

September 2015. I’m a good girl – usually. Good, polite, conscientious girls don’t sext when their friends are around. Unless, of course, their friends are cool with it. Mine are. I’m lucky.

“He said he wants to see how deep I can get him in my mouth,” I call out to the room at large. I’m in Bex‘s office on the air mattress serving as my bed this trip. Bex, Penny and Lilly are in the next room, watching TV or playing video games or… I don’t know, actually. I’m pretty absorbed in my phone. “What should I say?”

“‘Yes, sir, I promise I’ll do my best,'” Bex supplies. They’re way better at this than I am. I type the words into my phone unquestioningly and hit “send.”

I do that thing you do when you’re sexting with someone you really like and they’re a little slow to answer. I pick up my laptop, then my journal, then the pajamas I laid out to change into twenty minutes ago, but none of them holds my attention because right now I have zero brainpower for anything that isn’t the domly dude on the other side of that phone.

It buzzes. I lunge at it. “Good girl,” the illuminated screen tells me.

Before I even know what’s happening, I’ve screamed and thrown my phone halfway across the room.

“What?!” Bex cries, running in to see me. “What happened?” They look at my phone, lying face-down on their hardwood floor (both phone and floor thankfully unharmed).

“He good-girl’ed me,” I say, helplessly. I really don’t know why I threw my phone, or screamed, or had the breath knocked out of me. I’ve never responded that way to a sext before, not even a really, really dirty one. I’m stunned.

My friends make noises of sympathy that are hard to translate into written words. Hnnng. Unf. YESSSS. They understand. I feel less silly than I did in the moment when I thought I’d broken my phone, or Bex’s floor. But my body and mind still feel thoroughly unhinged, and when I awkwardly ask the group if it’d be okay if I jerked off, they don’t seem remotely surprised. They say yes, and I do, and it’s good.

October 2015. I’m a good girl, scribbling notes furiously while my psychology professor talks. My grade in this class has consistently surpassed all my other grades this semester. I tell myself it’s because the subject matter captures my attention more, or the late-afternoon class time works better for my sleepy brain. That’s not why, though. I’m doing well because my professor is appallingly attractive and gives me heart feelings and vag feelings and daddy-kink feelings. I’ve nicknamed him “Professor Hot Dad,” taken to calling him “PhD” as shorthand when I tell my friends about him, and they know it doesn’t stand for Doctor of Philosophy.

Today’s lecture is about developmental psychology, and I’m dying. “Some theorists say reinforcement and punishment are most of how we learn,” he explains, raking a hand through his sandy blonde hair and changing the slide. “Like, you know, ‘Be a good girl for daddy, princess, and maybe he’ll get you an ice cream cone.’ That kind of thing.”

I let out an involuntary sigh so loud that people turn to look at me. I grab my bag, get up, and leave the class for a minute, ostensibly to get a drink of water or use the bathroom. But instead of doing either of those things, I just stand outside the classroom, tweet, and try to breathe.

December 2015. I’m a good girl, waiting at Bex’s house all day for them to get home from work so we can drink wine, watch Magic Mike XXL and maybe spank each other on Periscope for funsies. But even good girls get bored sometimes when they’re cooped up inside. So maybe they send taunting texts to their domly fuckbuddies back home in Toronto.

Our digital flirting starts light, then gets heavier. And then he tells me to go get my toys and come for him. “Why should I?” I demand, full of sass and spunk.

“Because you’re a good little girl,” he replies. Um. Yup. Yes I am. I hunt for my Tango and Double Trouble in my suitcase and make excellent use of them, immediately, so I can tell him I did. He’ll be so proud.

February 2016. I’m a good girl, cheeks still glowing pink from a guiltily recent blowjob. We’re out for dinner at the brew pub and no one in this place can even tell what we were up to twenty minutes ago. Well, probably not, anyway.

Sipping a pint and nibbling my chicken club sandwich, I can’t get my eyes off my clever, handsome friend as he tells me funny stories, slips in and out of silly voices to make me laugh, gets all puffed up from the pleasure of sharing a jovial meal with someone who’s just blown you.

We’re talking about kinks. This is a frequent topic of conversation for us, two dyed-in-the-wool sex nerds, though we come at it from pretty disparate perspectives: I’m a burgeoning little kinkster, and he’s a self-described vanilla dude. “One of my exes used to call me ‘daddy,’ and liked me to call her ‘princess,'” he recounts, casually digging into his curry like he didn’t just drop a bomb on me.

I laugh a little too loud. “Well! I’m having feelings about you saying those words,” I tell him honestly, which I probably wouldn’t if I was just a little sober-er. “At least you didn’t say ‘good girl.’ Then we’d really be in trouble.”

He stares at me blankly. Vanilla people always do.

March 2016. I’m a good girl. I’m a good girl. That’s what my boyfriend keeps telling me as he roughly rubs his fingers in and out of me, scoring my A-spot with ecstatic stripes. “That’s your sweet spot, huh, babygirl? You’re getting so wet for daddy,” he murmurs against my thigh, speeding up his thrusts. “You gonna be a good girl and come for me?” I do. Immediately. What can I say – he’s got a way with words.

It takes me long minutes to catch my breath and slow my heart. He holds me while I recover from rapture. When I’m well enough to speak, I tell him, “Holy shit. You are really good at dirty talk.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I’m pretty good at knowing what people want to hear.” And though I don’t say so, I’m crushed. Those words aren’t hot because I want to hear them; they’re hot because I thought he wanted to say them. I thought he was getting off on being my domineering daddy, same as I got off on being his good little girl.

We’re only together a couple more weeks after that, and one of the reasons is: I can’t trust someone who only tells me what I want to hear. I can’t go deep into my dark, taboo, intimate kink with someone who’s standing on the outside of it, performing the ritualistic rites without actually being part of the club. It’s a sharp, staggering betrayal that he thinks “good girl” is a character I’m playing, a mask I’m wearing. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see what I am.

Early April 2016. I’m a good girl, dutifully working on my last assignment of the semester, when I get a message from a domly pothead acquaintance who wants to take me to my first marijuana dispensary.

“I can’t,” I explain. “My deadline’s soon and I still have so much work to do. I can only go if I get a ton done tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’re the highly responsible type,” he tells me. “Work really hard all day tomorrow. Let weed serve as a motivator. Agreed?”

He should not be allowed to talk to me this way when I have so much to do and need to focus. “Are you getting kinda dom-y with me right now?” I ask, and add a “haha” so I’ll seem cool and nonchalant, although I am utterly not.

“Just friendly advice,” he says. “Read into it whatever you’d like.”

I bite my pen and stare at his message for a few moments before answering. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll work extra hard tomorrow.”

“Good girl,” he says. Dammit. Now I have to actually get my work done so he can take me to the freaking dispensary.

Late April 2016. I am a good, brave, capable girl. That’s what Bex tells me, sitting in their car in the parking lot of a Minneapolis pizzeria where I’m about to go on a Tinder date with a total stranger. “You can totally do this,” they assure me. “It’ll be fine.”

I’m still anxious. What if Tinder Dude doesn’t find me attractive IRL? What if I don’t find him attractive? What if he’s boring and insufferable? What if he thinks I’m boring and insufferable? “What if he’s a serial killer?” I ask Bex, because that seems like a more reasonable concern than all of the smaller worries puncturing my resolve.

“He won’t be,” my best friend promises. “But just incase: I expect you to text me within 15 minutes, to tell me all’s well. If I don’t hear from you by 7:30, I’ll come back with a Double Trouble in each hand.”

I laugh. “Okay, dad,” I sneer, leaning in to hug them goodnight. “I’ll text you.”

“Good girl,” Bex says, and I get out of the car with renewed grit and mettle. Whatever happens, happens. I can do it because Bex said I could. I’ll be good and go on this goddamn Tinder date.

Later that night, when dude is inside me, I reach down to touch my clit to try to get myself off. “Oh, you’re touching your pussy for me, huh?” he jeers. “Good girl.” I laugh in his face, because I’m amazed that I feel absolutely nothing in response to his words. No rush of arousal, no dutiful call to action, no swell of pride. Maybe this particular loaded compliment – like sex in general – only stirs emotions in me when I’m emotionally invested.

This stranger from the internet who I’ll never see again after tonight? He’s nice, and fun enough to spend an evening with. But I don’t care about him enough to try to impress him. I don’t care if he thinks I’m a good girl.

May 2016. I’m a good, talented, gutsy girl. I mount the stairs onto the stage of the 519 ballroom. Me and my ukulele get a warm welcome from the boisterous Smut in the 6ix crowd. “I’m gonna play you a song I wrote when I was just coming into my identity as a submissive person,” I purr into the mic. “It’s called Good Girl, because, uh… that is a phrase that gives me a lot of feelings.”

I strum the opening Cminor7 chord and go into my sweet, kinky little waltz. “Tie me to the bedposts, kiss my wristbones, leave bruises on my arms,” I sing. “Do it really nice, though – gentle and slow. Don’t leave me lasting harm.” I can remember the mythical dream dom partner I vividly envisioned when I wrote those words – someone I knew hadn’t entered my life yet but was drifting around the periphery, waiting to arrive for me when I least expect it.

As I come to the last line of the song – “I’ll show you that I’m a good girl” – the room bursts into applause, and I glow from the attention. The act before me was a beautiful burlesque performer who shamelessly stripped on stage, and that image lingers in my mind and emboldens me. “Is it okay if I take off my skirt?” I ask the audience, and they holler their jubilant yeses.

I shimmy out of my pencil skirt til it falls to the floor, and I’m just wearing my figure-hugging gold lamé bodysuit. I have one terrifying moment of self-consciousness – does the lamé make my belly look fat? Are my thighs too pale? Is my cellulite showing? – before someone near the front shouts, “Good girl!”

Everything’s okay. I grin. I play my second song.

On a Sex Blogger’s Desk: A Sexy-Weird Mini-Altar

Kate Sloan

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I have long been obsessed with totems: physical tokens which represent, and remind you of, a mental or emotional idea. I believe you can invoke magic, meaning, passion and purpose through the use of these small symbols. Magic, the way I see it, is a blend of attitude and action: when you’re reminded of your intentions all the time, they stay in the forefront of your mind, making it likelier that you’ll take small (and big) steps toward them every day.

A totem, the way I view it, can be any item that reminds you of something you want to feel or something you want to accomplish. Lately I’ve been enjoying the process of maintaining an altar of sorts: a collection of these totems, grouped together in one place, to remind me of what I’m trying to bring into my life.

My little mini-altar is a grey stone bowl that sits on my desk, perched atop a piano-shaped music box. It’s positioned to the left of my computer, so its presence looms lovingly over every moment of work I do at my desk. It’s filled with objects that keep me on-task and feeling good whenever I look at them.

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Central to my altar right now (it changes frequently) are two vulvas: a custom-made vulva ring I commissioned from CatStache Accessories, and a turquoise silicone vulva cast that was a gift from Colin at Hole Punch Toys. Obviously, sexuality is central to my work – especially the encouragement and validation of the sexuality of female-assigned-at-birth people – so these vulvas act as a daily reminder of the Power of the Pussy! Colin also gave me a cast of a butthole, so that’s in there too.

I bought a quartet of beautiful dice at a Long Island nerd shop last time I was there visiting Bex. They viscerally called to me when I saw them in their display case, even though I don’t play Dungeons and Dragons or do anything else that would necessitate me owning dice. I think I was drawn to their nerdy-fun energy: most of the people I’ve ever been attracted to are nerdy enough to participate in stuff like D&D with great enthusiasm. (Cough, the McElroy brothers, cough.) The presence of these dice in my altar reminds me of the type of romantic and/or sexual partner I’m always trying to attract into my life, and they also remind me of how much I love nerds in general. Sex nerds are my ideal readers here; I connect so deeply with nerds’ extreme enthusiasm and obsessive love of their interests.

Last week I went out dancing at a bar with my friends Dan and Sarah, and drunkenly bought an expired vintage-looking condom from the vending machine in the bar bathroom. It’s in my altar now because it makes me laugh (“Do not use as a substitute for a condom,” the packaging dares you in a distinctly 1970s-looking font), but also because it reminds me of how absolutely crucial sex education is. There are people in the world who wouldn’t know how perilous it could be to use an expired, “for-novelty-use-only” condom, and that kind of gap in knowledge is part of what I’m working to eradicate with my sex education work!

When I had coffee with Kidder, my sex-positivity hero, he gave me a box of gifts, including a signed copy of his book, a new-in-the-box copy of a sexy card game he developed when I was but a youngin’, and a silver coin emblazoned with the “Sex is Fun” logo. That coin holds a place of honor in my altar, because it reminds me that my heroes are people too, and that maybe someday I’ll be somebody’s hero the way Kidder was for me.

Tucked into the top of my altar is a white index card folded into an origami heart. Periodically I like to write down my current hopes and wishes and do some kind of magic ceremony with the piece of paper to release my wish to the universe, whether that be burning it, shredding it, or just folding it into a meaningful heart. I don’t even remember what’s written inside this particular heart, but the sight of it makes me happy.

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I own lots and lots of crystals. Like a lot of magical items, I’m not 100% convinced of their ability to make magic in the ethereal sense of rearranging the universe and attracting specific things into our lives, but I do think they serve to remind you of what you’re trying to achieve, and that’s always a useful thing. Each crystal in my altar was chosen for a specific purpose; some of my favorites are my rose quartz wand (for encouraging self-love and compassion), a chunk of labradorite (for quelling anxiety and overwhelm), citrine (for prosperity and higher self-esteem), and amethyst (for increased creativity and intuition). Sometimes when I meditate about my hopes and dreams, I like to clutch a rose quartz heart in one hand and a carnelian heart in the other; those are the love and sex crystals, respectively, and it feels divinely right for me to combine their powers and use ’em together.

I own a lot of jewelry, some of which I keep in my altar because it holds specific meanings for me. I have a rose quartz point necklace, to (again) evoke self-love. (Never enough rose quartz!!) And I have three rings: an emerald and diamond ring given to me by my high school girlfriend (to remind me I’m capable of being loved deeply), a ring my late grandmother willed to me that features a panther with glowing jade eyes (to remind me of my inherent feminine power and bravery), and a blue topaz heart ring I bought myself (to increase my writerly powers). Sometimes I stack them all on my fingers when I leave the house, on days when I need cheerifying and emboldening.

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There are a few things my altar is missing, that I’d really like to find for it:

• A penis, or at least some kind of phallic symbol (other than the semi-phallic rose quartz wand up there). There’s a lot of vulva-energy in this spread and I wanna balance that out. A miniature dildo would be ideal!

• Something that reminds me of Bex. They’re my best friend, my romantic advisor and my favorite shoulder-angel. I want a little symbol that basically functions as a reminder to ask myself, “What would Bex do?”

• Something kink-related, like a tiny handcuffs charm or a heart-shaped lock. Kink is an important part of my sexuality and even my spirituality; it’s odd that it isn’t represented here.

• Maybe some specific mementos from happy past sexual experiences. A receipt from a drinks-date. A matchbook from an illicit hotel. A chocolate wrapper from a romantic weekend. I think these things are imbued with colossal positive energy and we can always use more of that!

Do you have any kind of altar-like space in your home? How about tokens that serve to remind you of what you want? What are they?