Personal

My First Threesome Was a Smash Success

Kate Sloan

10817850_909874085759259_65076584_n

On Friday night I cracked open a fortune cookie and it told me my life is becoming more of an adventure… in bed. I didn’t give this prediction much thought, because, you know, it came from a fortune cookie.

But then, the next night, I had my first threesome, so maybe the cookie was onto something.

 

I have a beautiful, blonde, effervescent friend who I’ve known for almost 10 years. We met through Livejournal and bonded over a shared dorky enthusiasm for musical theatre. As it happened, we both ended up running in the same sex-positive feminist circles as we got older, so we’ve been reconnecting recently after a long period of mostly being casual-pals-from-afar.

She invited me over for what we thought was going to be a quiet night: dinner, conversation, and “Netflix and chill” in the literal sense. But then we went a little hard on the wine, some clothes came off, and we got into some slutty chats with her rowdy roommate… One thing led to another, and it was decided we should go out. My friend gave me a cute dress and jacket to wear, and we put on some sky-high heels and headed out to a loud underground bar.

She and I got to talking about a dapper dom guy we both know and have both banged, and we agreed (half-jokingly, except completely-seriously) that we should have a three-way with him someday. I am standing on the precipice of having a full-on Slut Phase and my blondie pal had agreed to be my mentor in this endeavor – my Slut Sherpa, or the Dumblewhore to my Ron Sleazy, if you will – and orchestrating a threesome seemed like a great way to kick that off.

When I get tipsy, I get flirty and text-happy, so of course we notified our mutual bang-buddy of our plan, not really expecting him to take us seriously. But, y’know, we’re foxy babes with feminine wiles, so he agreed pretty quick. “That’s a lot of babe for one dude,” he texted, to which I replied: “I think you can handle it.”

He met us at the bar and we cabbed back to his place. We talked for a long while, and did that tipsy thing where you all giggle over Facebook photos of your exes, and the boy let me borrow a pair of his socks because my feet were cold (quel gentleman). And then we migrated to the bed and cuddled a bunch. And boobs were (consensually) shoved into faces, and then she started giving him a blowjob while I kissed him… which I wish I’d been more alert/sober for, honestly, because holy shit, it was the logical next step in my blowjob porn obsession. Hnnnggg.

It’s often hard for me to remember the order of events in sex with just two people, because bodies blur together and pleasure makes brains into mush… so with three people, obviously this problem is exacerbated. Plus, when cute people are doing pleasurable things to me, my eyes tend to drift closed, making it hard to follow the action. But I do remember a cock in my hand, and mouths on my nipples, and a hand rubbing me through my panties, and fingers in my mouth, and a hand on my throat, and my tits being slapped, and and and… smiling-face-with-heart-shaped-eyes

Eventually my beautiful friend took off my panties and started going down on me. She had already displayed her blowjob prowess earlier in the night and now she was proving her cunnilingual skills too. I don’t know if you have ever had the experience of knowing someone platonically for a long-ass time and then having sex with them, but… wow. It is eye-opening and strange and fantastic.

If our threesome was a porn scene, what happened next would’ve been the centrepiece shot: he started fucking her from behind while she continued licking and finger-fucking me. His thrusts reverberated through her body so I could feel their impact too, so it was like he was fucking both of us. Ummm, yes.

I can’t remember too clearly but I think we wrapped things up with him coming in her mouth while I dozed beside them. (I am a sleepy person and had had a lot to drink, okay?!) And then we cuddled some more, and checked in with each other about our feeeeelings, and it was niiiice.

Afterwards, the boy asked me, “How many threesomes have you had before?” and I sleepily held up my hand in an “O” shape and said, “This many.” And then probably grinned like an idiot.
12092432_10153922907910348_1410715962_n

When we got up to put our clothes back on, I found that my friend had neatly folded my underwear and the dress she’d let me borrow, and had put them in a pile for me. (Perfect sex partner etiquette.) We kissed our gentleman-pal goodbye and walked to the subway station together. She took this photo of me on the platform, and it sums up the whole evening pretty well: dishevelled post-sex hair, cute dress and jacket borrowed from her, warm boy-socks borrowed from him, red wedge heels I’d switched out for flats, and a goofy, sleepy smile on my face.

Shortly after this photo was taken, a random guy came up to us and asked us how our night had been. We burst out laughing, and my lovely amiga told him we’d “cemented our friendship” that night. He kept pressing us for details, and I don’t know if it was because I was tipsy or tired or just bursting to share the news with someone, but eventually I told him, “We just had a threesome with a guy we’ve both banged before.” The dude’s eyes practically fell out of his head, and we just laughed.

 

“Sex Blogger” Is Not My Entire Personality (+ How to Date/Court a Sex Blogger)

Kate Sloan

Here is a paradox for you:

When I do any kind of online dating, or even (gasp!) in-person dating, “I have a sex blog” is one of the first pieces of information I always reveal about myself. It acts simultaneously as a conversation starter and a filter, scaring away the people who are intimidated by open sex-positivity while pulling in those who are intrigued by it.

But it also starts the interaction on a wacky, imbalanced note – because everyone has different notions about how they “should” talk to a sex blogger, and it’s rare that that notion is just “treat her like a regular person.”

 

I recently made the not-entirely-thought-out decision to link my Tinder account to my Instagram page. Naturally, a sea of dudes immediately followed me. The number of messages in my Tinder inbox, and the intensity of their creepiness, shot up.

This shouldn’t be surprising. And some people would say, “What did you expect? Why do you put that information in your profile if you don’t like the reactions it gets you?”

This feels like borderline victim-blaming, but I’m not even 100% comfortable making that claim. Because, yes, I am a sex blogger and should therefore theoretically be okay with receiving sexual attention. It’s what I’ve “signed up for,” especially when I’m interacting on already-sexual platforms like Tinder.

But, ugh. I don’t mind if people get sexual with me sometimes – it just has to be consensual, and for fuck’s sake, polite.

 

I think it surprises some people to discover that although I am a sex blogger, I am not actually a nymphomaniac. (There’s nothing wrong with having a super high libido or with pursuing lots of sexual experiences and/or partners. That’s just not really who I am or what I do.)

I have always had an interest in sexuality as a topic. It’s almost a theoretical or academic fascination for me. I know a lot about it, I think a lot about it, I find it compelling to talk about and learn about – but my life doesn’t actually revolve around the act of sex itself. I, like most people, am way more complex and nuanced than That One Thing you happen to know about me.

When someone learns about my sex blogging right off the bat, too often they put me on a weird pedestal where I’m supposed to perform the role of the “sexy lady.” I feel boxed into explicit conversations, high expectations, and being “up for anything.”

And let’s be real: I am definitely not sexy 100% of the time. I am goofy and strange, shy and awkward. I have interests and hobbies (so many!) that have nothing to do with sex. And if I’m going to date someone – or even just fuck them – I want them to know that. I want them to see the totality of me, acknowledge me, accept me, approve of me.

 

I’ve been dating a lot lately (ugh!/yay!) and have encountered two dudes who illustrated polar opposite ends of the “how (not) to treat a sex blogger” spectrum:

One guy fixated on my sex-related work. He asked me endless questions about my personal sexual tastes, which is pretty inappropriate for someone you’ve just met. He took my work as an invitation to fast-track our relationship toward sexytimes, even as I was pretty clearly pumping the brakes.

I tried to introduce other aspects of my personality, and other hobbies of mine, like I would do with anyone I was getting to know. I mentioned my journalistic work, my music, my improv background. I also asked him about his work and hobbies, scrounging for anything to talk about other than sex. But he kind of ignored me and kept hounding me about my sex life, fantasies and desires, as if there was literally nothing else of value in my whole brain.

The second guy, thank goodness, treated me like an actual human. We talked about my work, and he clearly found it interesting, but he didn’t press me for details and we didn’t get too personal. He’d periodically make a comment like, “We can talk about something else if you want; you probably get tired of talking about this stuff,” giving me an opportunity to change the subject if I wanted to. But because he was being so respectful, I actually loved our sex chats. He understood my fascinations with things like sexual ethics and the origins of kinks, and we talked for literal hours about sexuality in a way that was neither boring nor creepy. We also talked about other interests and pursuits, mine and his.

This guy was hesitant to make a move – not that it’s always the man’s responsibility to take initiative, because it isn’t – and it turned out he was worried I’d think he was creepy if he assumed I’d be DTF just ’cause I’m a sex blogger. I was DTF, but it wasn’t because I write about sex – it was because I loved spending time with him, felt totally comfortable with him, and found him incredibly attractive. (Amazing how sex bloggers’ attractions work just like other people’s attractions, huh?!)

 

This has all been pretty rambly so far, so here are some actionable items if you want to interact with someone who blogs about sex or works in some other sex-related field. (Keep in mind that these suggestions are based on what I prefer and value; as always, everyone is different so your mileage may vary.)

  • Ask me about non-sex-related stuff too. Remember that sex blogging is my job, not my whole life. Would you ask your dentist friend to look at your teeth on the daily? Would you ask your lawyer friend to explain tort law to you when they’d just worked an 8-hour court day? Probably not. I have other shit going on, which I will gladly tell you about if you ask me what’s up. Listen, pay attention, follow the natural flow of the conversation like you would with any normal human.
  • Give me an “out.” Despite what I just said, I actually do like talking about sex – in the right context, with the right kind of people, some of the time. I work in this field because it fascinates me. If you’re getting the sense that I might be uncomfortable or bored with our current conversation, give me an easy opportunity to shift topics. I will if I want to.
  • Don’t get too personal. Unless we’re close friends, fucking on the regular, or maybe slightly drunk, I probably don’t want to tell you about my kinks and fantasies in too much detail. They might come up in the course of a conversation but please don’t badger me for specifics and examples. If I feel comfortable with you and it feels appropriate for the type of conversation we’re having, I might open up, but I’m not required to.
  • Likewise, don’t dump your TMI sex secrets on me. Or at least, don’t assume it’s okay to do this. There are definitely contexts in which this is okay and feels natural… but please oh please read my non-verbal and verbal cues and stop that shit if I seem uncomfortable. (Or just ask, “Is this okay? Do you want me to stop talking about this?”) I may not feel able to straight-up tell you, “I’m not comfortable talking about this,” either because I don’t know you well enough to know if I can trust you or because I am trying to be sex-positive and avoid shaming you for the desires or experiences you’re expressing to me.
  • When bringing up stuff you’ve read on my blog, my social media, etc., start small and see how it goes. It is gross if you immediately say something like, “That selfie you posted today gave me a boner,” or, “Reading your review of that dildo made me wish I could use it on you.” (You would be surprised how many guys think it is okay to open with lines like this!) If you want to talk about something you saw me post online, bring it up subtly, tactfully, and in such a way that I can easily navigate away from the topic if I’m uncomfortable.
  • Don’t assume I want to fuck you. It is okay to flirt with me, respectfully; it is okay to have a crush on me, and to express those feelings; but please don’t take my sex-blogger-ness as a substitute for the positive signals you would normally look for when flirting with someone. If I’m talking about sex a lot, it may or may not be an indicator of my feelings for you – but if I’m laughing at all your jokes, blushing, giggling, maintaining eye contact, leaning in close, making excuses to touch you, and doing all the other things that smitten-and-flirty people do, then you can take that as a green light, same as you would with any kind of person. ‘Cause guess what? I am a person!

 

Sex bloggers and other inhabitants of sexual fields: how do you navigate the dating world while being true to yourself but also discouraging creeps? Non-sex-world folks: is there anything else you’d like to know about how to approach dating/courting/fucking people like me, in a respectful way?

A Tale of Three Blowjobs: Getting Over Penis Terror, Continued

Kate Sloan

My very first post on this blog was about something I termed “penis terror.” Maybe that doesn’t bode especially well as a kick-off to a sex blog… but at the time, it was the main sexual issue occupying my mind.

See, when I was a youngin (by which I mean age 15–18), penises – and men in general – made me very, very nervous. I had a plethora of anxieties and neuroses about male sexuality. I believed men were hard-wired to be sexually aggressive, to put their own sexual desires above women’s, and to judge women’s sexual performance against impossible pornographic standards. And that shit terrified me.

It’s so embarrassing and strange to recount this now, but in my first sexual relationship with a cis guy, I literally cried the first several times his penis was brought up in sexual conversation. I was so fucking nervous and I can’t even explicitly identify, in retrospect, what was making me so nervous. It was just a fear of the unknown, I guess.

I worried I would be bad at pleasing penises, and that my boyfriend would judge me or leave me for it; I worried that touching penises would somehow make me “slutty” or “tainted,” even though I intellectually knew these are bullshit concepts; and, maybe most frighteningly of all, I worried I wouldn’t like penises. I was petrified that I’d turn out to be biromantic but homosexual – because I knew I wanted to date and kiss and cuddle with men most of the time, but I didn’t know if I also wanted to fuck them. And that was a scary, dicey question hanging in the air.

 

But my feelings about penises have transformed monumentally over the years. I crave them, I appreciate them, I write them love songs and gratitude missives. They’re kind of one of my favorite things.

There’s no clearer barometer of my penis-comfort than my attitude about performing oral sex on them. So, for your amusement: a tale of three blowjobs.

 

1.

My journal entry for July 5th, 2011 begins: “Today will go down in history as the first time I ever put a penis in my mouth.” A tad dramatic, perhaps, but it really did feel that significant to me.

I was nineteen years old. My very non-scientific Twitter poll indicates that this makes me a relatively late bloomer. What can I say? Willies gave me the willies. But when I did finally get around to it (with some very gentle prompting from my then-boyfriend), it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be.

Granted, he didn’t come in my mouth that first time, which definitely made it easier to handle. But, overall, I considered it a huge step forward and an even huger relief. I had a major fear reference; I felt invincible.

“Throughout all of this penis stuff,” I wrote in my journal, “I have learned that there are two things I need in order to comfortably jump into a fear: a supportive, loving, respectful environment, and a little push.”

 

2.

After the aforementioned First Penis In My Mouth (and its owner) exited my life, I started to wonder if the same fears would rear their head again when I got another dude into my bed.

I broke a long dry spell by romancing a cute guy from the internet. During the proceedings, he very politely asked if I’d go down on him, and I immediately did, and it was good.

It wasn’t until a couple days later that it occurred to me: Huh. What took me literal months of waffling and wailing with my first serious boyfriend only took one respectful request with a hook-up. I guess I really am over that fear at long last.

The one fellatio-related anxiety that lingered for me, though, was being watched while going down. Maybe it’s linked to my fanaticism over blowjob porn and some shitty internalized ideas about “sluttiness,” or maybe it’s just insecurity about the way I look, but I’ve always hated being watched while giving a BJ.

I explained this to Adorable Internet Hook-up and he seemed to have no problem with it whatsoever. We turned off the light and all was fine and good. But, well, you hear a lot of things about how the visual of a BJ is almost as important for men as the actual sensations. Obviously preferences vary from person to person, but as someone who loves watching, say, Heather Harmon inhale a dick, I totally get the appeal. And I was bummed I still couldn’t be looked at while my mouth was full of cock.

 

3.

Shortly thereafter, I had sex with a… uh, how do I even put this? A friend who I also now like to kiss and have sex with? (Um, obviously I am new to this whole sex-outside-of-relationships thing, but, semantic difficulties aside, it is fucking great.)

When a blowjob became imminent, he grabbed his glasses off the nightstand where he had set them during our makeouts. I asked him what he was doing and he said, “I want to watch.”

For some reason I didn’t even think twice about this. I guess I was preoccupied by the prospect of a cock in my mouth. (Cocks!!!) As before, it took a day or two for my brain to properly process the magnitude of what had happened. I had let someone watch me blow him! And this had previously been one of my biggest sexual insecurities!

As we were putting our clothes back on afterward and getting ready to leave, the guy even said to me that he thought I’d look hot giving him a beej on my knees, and instead of reacting with terror, I just giggled with delight. Because, yes, this is a thing that I would like to do…

 

Did you have any anxieties or insecurities to deal with when you first started giving oral sex? How did you overcome them?

I Wear My Heart on My Belly: My First Tattoo!

Kate Sloan

image

Way back in February 2015, I wrote this in my journal:

I want to get a tattoo this year. Maybe a heart on my lower belly. Something meaningful and sweet and pretty.

Seven months later, I finally made it happen: my external G-spot is now emblazoned with a red heart for all time. And I love it so much.

The day before getting inked, I did a marathon journaling session where I unpacked all the reasons, symbols and meanings behind this tattoo, to make sure that I really, really wanted it. And I did. Below, basically unedited, is that journal entry.

 

 

My “external G-spot” is an erogenous zone I discovered when I was with [my ex]. It likes firm pressure, especially when I’ve just had an orgasm. I wrote a blog post about this spot earlier this year, and for the post photo, I drew a red heart over the spot as a visual guide for readers. But I grew to like it so much after that that I wanted it tattooed.

I liked the idea of having a small tattoo there as a sort of “press here!” guide for sexual partners, and I toyed with the idea of making it a flower or even a 3D-looking button of some kind, but I just kept coming back to that red heart.

I’ve been made fun of by some friends for feeling such a deep connection to the symbol of the heart. It’s a little obvious, like saying your favorite band is the Beatles. But I just love it. It feels peaceful and encouraging and juicy and joyful and optimistic and romantic. It reminds me of first loves, first kisses, exciting crushes, youthful optimism about love. Hearts show up in my gratitude lists and happy journal entries a lot; drawing them in the margins of a notebook is like a little ritual that affirms: thank you, universe, for this blessing. I see it and I appreciate it and I love you.

image

Having a heart in this particular spot would symbolize a number of different things. Like: I love my sexuality, my desires, my pleasure. I love my femininity, my vulva, my powerful babeliness. I love my belly, that little dip where it meets my mons, my chubbiness, my Venus de Milo-esque voluptuous foxiness.

Also, in the sense that the tattoo idea originated with me wanting it half-jokingly as a visual aid for partners, it is sort of an ode to sexual assertiveness and a reminder to always ask for what I want and to not be afraid to be specific, bossy, and slightly selfish in bed. It is okay to want things and to want a partner who will give you those things!

It’s difficult to be entirely coherent about this, I’m finding. But something just feels viscerally right about having a red heart at the literal centre and sexual centre and fertility centre of my body. As if to say: this body, this life, is dedicated to love. Love is at the centre of it, now and forever.

2015 feels like the right year for this heart to be branded on me. I’m 23: a woman, but still becoming an adult. Started on a trajectory that seems it’ll take me where I want to go, but unsure where that is, exactly. This has been SUCH a big year for me in terms of professional development, mental and emotional healing, relationship upheaval, gaining romantic and sexual confidence, and so much more, and it feels right to commemorate that.

I used to have a lot more tattoo ideas… Symbols and illustrations and phrases that I found meaningful at the time. But I can’t think of one more enduring and timeless than a red heart. I will always be committed to love and to self-love. And even if one day I’m not, it’ll always be something of which I ought to be reminded. Love is the most important, powerful touchstone, the fuel of my life, my guidepost and beacon and motivation. I want it on me, tangibly, visibly.

I was considering getting said tattoo on my left ring finger – a self-love reminder in the very place where a conventional symbol of love would go if I was engaged or married. But more and more things felt wrong about that, the more that I considered it. Finger tattoos fade more quickly; they are more difficult to conceal, should I ever need to; and I think it might take up weird psychic space if I were to have a pre-existing symbol in a place where a love symbol ought to go. That’s not to say I definitely intend to get engaged or married, but it feels sacred and proper to reserve that real estate on my finger, just incase. Hold space for what you want and the universe is likelier to deliver it.

Besides which: the origin of all the love and romance in my body feels intuitively much closer to my belly than it does to my finger.

 

Do you have any tattoos? What do they mean to you?

What Do You Put On Your Business Cards When You Have an Alter-Ego?

Kate Sloan

bizcards-3

Oh, business cards. How I love thee.

You may be impractical in this modern, paperless age. You may be expensive to print and difficult to design. You may languish on my desk in boxes, largely untouched, because I so rarely have occasion to hand you out.

And yet, still, I love you.

Recently I got annoyed with my old biz cards because I noticed they didn’t have my Twitter handle on them. I think your Twitter handle is one of the only pieces of information people will ever use when you hand them a business card, at least in web-based industries like the one I work in. So it seemed like a massive oversight that my card was missing mine.

I typed “business card” into Pinterest’s search box and pored over the results for design inspiration. I sketched out possible designs on index cards, because I am a dork. Then I opened up InDesign and Photoshop and got down to business (cards).

bizcards

I’d had the idea to make my card reversible. The upper-left corner would list all my “real-life identity” details, like my journalism portfolio website, vanilla Twitter handle, and phone number. If you spun the card 180 degrees, the new upper-left corner would have all my Girly Juice deets: my blog URL, email, Twitter, and so on.

While I keep those two identities staunchly separate on the interwebz, most people I meet in real life will find out about my sex blogging sooner or later. So I don’t mind handing out a card that “outs” me as a loquacious, lascivious loudmouth.

bizcards-2

The back of the card bears a circle filled with sex-related words and phrases. This helps unify my sex journalism with my sex blogging, while pointing out some areas within sexuality that are of particular interest to me: feminism, gender, body image, masturbation, sex toys, and so on.

My old business card design had a big silhouette of a rabbit vibrator on the back. I liked it, but I got feedback from some vanilla friends and colleagues that they sometimes felt embarrassed if they opened up their wallet in public and someone got a glimpse of my card in there. So I decided to go with a (slightly) more low-key design this time around.

I designed the card in my blog’s colors, which are also my favorite colors: bright turquoise and hot pink. When they were printed (by VistaPrint, if you’re wondering), the pink came out darker than it looked in my original design – it’s more of a deep fuchsia. But I don’t mind; I still think it looks pretty rad.

Sex-industry peeps: how do you deal with the issue of business cards? Do you keep separate ones for your vanilla life and your sexy life, or do you combine them somehow? Do you even use business cards at all? I’d love to geek out about ’em with you in the comments section!