Personal

I Sold My Panties to a Stranger

Kate Sloan

Years ago, I heard a rumor about an ex-girlfriend of mine that I considered very unsavory. The rumor was that she had taken up selling her used panties to random dudes she found via Craigslist, in order to earn a little extra spending money.

My feminism wasn’t as evolved then as it is now, so my first reaction was one of disgust and pity. My attitude toward her was slut-shaming, though I’m not sure I knew that term back then. I thought someone would have to be really desperate and depraved to do what she was (reputedly) doing.

Granted, I think we may have been about 17 then, so there was an element of age-related weirdness on top of all the other weirdness I thought I perceived. But now, seemingly aeons later, not only have my feelings on that ex’s panty-selling evolved, but I’ve actually been wanting to try it out myself. Why not, right? I’ve got panties, I could use more money, and it would be like a very basic form of the ethical fetishism I’m always advocating for.

I posted half-heartedly on Reddit’s /r/pantyselling forum a couple of times, with photos, descriptions and prices. But no buyers went for my wares. That forum relies on a feedback system, and it’s also often the women with sexier pictures (and “sexier” bodies) who get voted to the top for maximum visibility. I thought there was no interest and abandoned the task for a couple months.

Then, however, I tweeted about it – and almost immediately, I attracted the interest of a guy who follows me on Twitter. It makes sense, now that I think about it, that people who already “know me” (even if it’s just via the internet) would have more of an interest in buying my panties: as with most fetish objects, it’s not just about the object, but also about the fantasy behind the object – which may include the person behind the object. This guy had read about my masturbatory adventures here on my blog so he knew what he was getting himself into.

We emailed back and forth for a while, negotiating type and number of pairs to be sold (1 thong and 1 pair of briefs), what would be done to them (soaked through with vaginal fluids), and how much they would cost ($20 each plus shipping). Fortunately we were able to come to an agreement pretty painlessly; he didn’t ask me for anything that made me uncomfortable.

Well, except for when he asked if I could make a video to go along with the pictures I’d be sending. That made me a little apprehensive, not because I’m averse to someone owning a video of me masturbating but more because I am soooo not a performer/exhibitionist and just don’t feel sexy in front of a camera, ever. But he made it clear that any video or audio would just be an added bonus and not part of the core price he was paying me, so I didn’t feel obligated to do it, and he wasn’t upset that I didn’t end up doing it.

His main request was that he wanted the two pairs I was sending to be as soaking wet as I could get them. I’m not a squirter, so this doesn’t happen instantaneously; it takes work and time to get me to an adequate level of wetness. That’s why I normally use lube when I jerk off – but, of course, I wasn’t being paid for panties soaked with artificial lubricant. So I had to do it for real.

I felt a bit of performance anxiety even though I wasn’t being filmed. There was pressure: to smell fresh (I showered thoroughly before each play session), to get super wet (I warmed up with lots of porn and erotica and then drew out my sessions much longer than I normally would, for maximum saturation, so to speak), and to be sexy in my correspondence (my approach to sexual chatting is usually less “smoldering and risqué” and more “dorky and honest”).

I also felt embarrassed that my panties aren’t tiny. I’m not a small person. I wear a size 10 or 12 on my bottom half, putting me right on the (admittedly arbitrary) cusp between “regular” and “plus” sizes, and I always feel self-conscious about that in sexual situations unless the person has explicitly admitted to liking my body or liking chubbier bodies in general. Fortunately it wasn’t an issue at all. I think my patron was more focused on the wet crotch of the panties than their dimensions.

I sold two pairs of panties and had two orgasms in each pair, which isn’t typical for me (I’m not very multi-orgasmic). I sealed each pair in an individual Ziploc bag and crammed them into a little bubble mailer. Then I took them to the post office and anxiety-sweated through the mailing process. (I thought they were going to ask me to fill out a customs form explaining what was in the package. Luckily, they didn’t, because my buyer was from the same country as me.)

He received the package a couple days later and seemed happy with its contents. I was two pairs of underwear poorer and $40 richer. If you’re wondering: I went out and spent the money on some fancy scented candles for my workspace. Re-investing sexy-on-the-internet money into my sexy-on-the-internet work environment, you might say. It makes a certain sense to me.

Anyway, after all that rambling, I want to hear from you… Have you ever sold your underwear, or any other fetish object? How did you go about it? Would you consider doing it again?

Are Orgasms Better When You’re High?

Kate Sloan

I’ve smoked pot maybe five times in my life, and ingested it once in an edible form. So I’m not exactly a pothead.

But I have a lot of friends who are, and recently a friend gifted me a little baggie of weed. I’d never actually possessed my own before; I’d always bummed it off friends at parties. Naturally, being a total geek, I started researching and planning what I could do with my little stash: how best to use it, as well as, of course, what I could write about the experience of using it.

When I was in high school, I dated a girl who smoked pot multiple times a day, every day (which was only one of multiple reasons why that relationship didn’t work out). I abhorred the idea of smoking with her, being relatively straight-edge at that time, but she kept telling me she thought I would like it, for two reasons: it stimulates creativity, and it makes sexual stimulation feel way better.

I wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but that seed of an idea lingered in my mind: if I ever did get high, I thought, I’d have to remember to get off, too, and compare and contrast. But the first several times I smoked up, I felt too tripped-out and lethargic to even fathom pushing my panties down, let alone getting myself to the point of orgasm.

After a bit more practice and acclimatization, though, I finally managed it. Here’s what went down.

I smoked for about ten or fifteen minutes, I think (time assessment is hard when you’re intoxicated!), making sure to hold in each breath for as long as I comfortably could before exhaling, to maximize the effects. Then I put away my pipe, got into bed and waited until that telltale haziness hit me a few minutes later.

As soon as I could tell I was high, I started masturbating, using the same circular motion with my fingers that I always use when I’m not using toys. But the circles were different this time. It was like my fingers were stirring up a whirlpool that got bigger and bigger until it surrounded me, and I became dizzy as I spun around. I could feel my body actually lurching side to side as if I were really stuck in a vortex, but I was just lying in bed. And still touching my clit.

At some point my cat came into the room, hoisted herself up onto the bed, crawled under the covers, and nestled between my thighs, pressed up against my crumpled, half-lowered pajama pants. Normally I’m not bothered by a feline presence while I jerk off because it’s so commonplace and unavoidable, but while high, my senses were heightened and I could vividly feel the cat’s breath against my vulva. It felt creepily like a lover’s breath, like that moment when someone is about to start giving you head. I felt freaked out and uncomfortable and kept trying to push the cat away but she came back again and again. It did not occur to me to get up and forcibly remove her from the room. Eventually, after multiple attempts to push her away, she settled down a few inches from my thighs and stopped causing me distress.

As I continued trying to masturbate manually, I found that my fingers felt wooden and robotic, not sensual at all. So I leaned over the side of the bed and felt around on the floor for my Eroscillator (the cat had knocked it off the nightstand while climbing up onto the bed). I found it, turned it to the first setting and put it on my clit.

Nothing felt particularly mindblowing but I was certainly seeing things I don’t usually see when I jerk off. Every motion I made and every individual pulse of the vibrator seemed to set off or continue some strange, psychedelic visualization in my mind. I’d see a crew of men paddling a long boat, or someone doing a cannonball into a deep well, or several unidentified people climbing a mountain. My internal visualization of the vibration was at once a jackhammer, a waterfall, and the bathtub where I learned to masturbate as a child. There were bright colors, swirling patterns, streaks of light and smog.

I turned up the vibrator to its second speed because I felt a bit numb on the first one. Then I started getting closer to orgasm, and the imagery ramped up even further. A lot of it was water-based: waves, splashes, streams, fountains.

My mind began to wander to unhelpful thoughts (including “I need to remember what this feels like so I can blog about it!”) so I started trying to refocus it by envisioning sexual fantasies. One particular crush came to mind and I thought about him going down on me, fucking me, pinning me down. Then my mind wandered to sex offenders and other scary people doing the same stuff. I shook it off and thought about my crush again, and managed to stick with that thought until finally I reached orgasm.

Again, the weirdness and excellence of it was unrelated to sensation – for the feelings themselves were not really remarkable – and instead all about the visuals. At the moment of my orgasm, I saw my clit as a huge, Northern mountain; someone had scaled the peak and was now standing at the top. The aftershocks of the orgasm showed me coniferous trees, softly avalanching snowbanks, and cold crisp air, and I genuinely felt that I was on that mountain for a few moments.

After the orgasm finished, I was unable to pull up my pants, as they felt endlessly far from my hands. I turned on my side, the cat nestled up against my back, and I lay there in the darkness, feeling more awake and alert than I had thought I would.

For the next hour or so, I felt out of touch with my body. Parts of it would start to twitch uncontrollably – fingers, feet, thigh muscles, shoulders – and the twitching would rise and fall in fits and starts. At one point I started doing kegel exercises in rhythm and a whole symphony of music grew up around that rhythm, until I felt like I was kegeling in time with a song from some nearby radio.

When the twitching and other motor weirdness stopped, I wanted to eat and be entertained, so I went downstairs, gorged on some Halloween candy, and then eased the accompanying nausea with a ginger ale while watching Gossip Girl. When I felt sane enough, I came back upstairs and wrote this.

So… It wasn’t really better. It was definitely an odd experience, but not one that I’ll rush to repeat.

What about you? Are your orgasms better when you’re high?

Hormonal Birth Control Made Me Crazy

Kate Sloan

I went off birth control when my relationship ended two months ago, after being on it for over three years. In the weeks that followed, school started up again, I did some freelance work, socialized with friends and family, and basically just went about my life as usual – with one key difference: for the first time in three years, I felt 100% happy, well-adjusted, and sane.

When I started flooding my system with artificial hormones in April 2011, I was about to go through some major life changes: starting school, getting into my first sexual relationship with a cis dude, enduring the deaths and mourning of a few people I loved, and falling out of touch with some of my high school friends. So when I started to feel sad, antsy, isolated and irrational, I thought it was just the circumstances of my life transforming me into a different person. I thought, I guess this is my personality now. I wasn’t thrilled about it but I didn’t think it was fixable.

I’d have bad anxiety days, when I’d show up at school and have the unsinkable sensation that everyone around me was staring at me and whispering about me. I’d have bouts of depression so bad that I had to call my city’s distress centre and sob at them over the phone, or lie in bed all day staring at the wall. I’d get irrationally upset at things my boyfriend said or did. I’d look at my body in the mirror and absolutely hate what I saw. My creative output all but stopped and I knew I needed to write and make music but it just didn’t happen, no matter how much I tried.

In short, I had turned into a nutcase. I could see that it had happened, but, again, I thought it was just the new state of my life and that I couldn’t do anything to change it.

Since going off birth control, I’ve felt sunny, excitable, flirty, creative, juiced up, carefree, and ambitious. I’m taking six very challenging courses with heavy workloads at school but I’m breezing through them with excellent grades and not giving a fuck what my classmates think of me. I wake up every day excited to put on a cute outfit, skip to the streetcar stop and go on a new day’s adventure. And my creative output is up up up.

As happy as I feel… I also feel kind of angry. Angry that I had no idea how much birth control was messing me up. Angry that the side effects of birth control are so often misrepresented or downplayed when they can actually literally transform your life. Angry that my doctor told me I should continue with hormones when I asked her to give me a copper IUD instead. Angry that I lost three years of my life to lunacy and turmoil.

Sure, there are some downsides of going off BC – my skin is a tad spottier, my periods will be unpredictable when they start back up, my sex drive is once again high to the point of almost being unmanageable, and my weight loss has slowed right down – but I think mental health is way more important than any of those things. I’ll happily be a zitty, chubby, horndog version of myself if it means I get to be outgoing, cheerful, productive and creative. That trade-off is a no-brainer.

I’ve spoken to a few friends who have corroborated my experiences, and now I’m wondering: did this happen to you? Do you know people who’ve gone through this too? Do you consider your mental health when you make contraceptive decisions? Are you as pissed off as I am that you didn’t know about this sooner?

5 Things I’m More in Touch With, Now That I’m Single Again

Kate Sloan

God, I can’t believe that prior to my break-up this past weekend, it had been over three years since the last time I was single. I mean, wow, man. In high school I sort of conceptualized myself as a “forever alone” type, so it’s truly astonishing to me that I was in a relationship for that long – that someone actually liked me enough to want to be with me and stay with me.

But what’s even more astonishing is that I wanted to be single again, which is what prompted the break-up – and that I’m enjoying the hell out of it already. Yeah, I miss my ex occasionally, like when I see a movie he would’ve liked or when something hilarious happens to me that I wish I could tell him about – but the benefits outweigh the costs and I am loving the single life.

Here are 5 unexpected things I’ve been getting back in touch with, since my break-up…

1. My natural cycle.

Well, not quite yet, but soon. Yes, an exciting announcement: I’ve gone off hormonal birth control!

While I dig how it’s kept my periods regular and my skin relatively calm, I’ve never been thrilled about pumping myself full of hormones, especially given that I’ve got a family history of breast cancer, a fact that doesn’t bode well when mixed with estrogen. And of course, birth control comes with a host of possible side effects, which, for me, included increased cramps, premenstrual irritability, depression, and sometimes suicidal ideation.

I’m looking forward to seeing what my ovaries and uterus will do when left to their own devices. A couple years before going on HBC, I was diagnosed with a benign ovarian cyst that really messed with my cycles, but it had shrunk considerably at the time that I started on the pill, so it’s possible it’s gone completely now – in which case, I might actually have regular periods! Hooray!

2. My natural vaginal aroma.

Uh, yeah, totally TMI. Sorry-not-sorry.

When I’m sexually active, I’m always worrying about vaginal smells, even though I consider myself body-positive and my partners have always told me not to concern myself with that stuff.

I mean, when I knew I was going to receive oral sex for the first time at age 16, I snuck away to the bathroom and gave myself a pre-cunnilingus scrubdown with DivaWash. And the girl told me I tasted slightly soapy so probably I shouldn’t have bothered.

Well, anyway. Now that no one’s face is down there regularly, I’m being less obsessive about keeping things pristine in that region. And it’s nice. I’m discovering that I actually don’t hate the way I smell. Maybe it’s the changes I’ve made to my diet and exercise routine lately, but the fragrance is actually kind of… sweet. Earthy. Natural. Lovely. Hmm…

3. Flirty energy.

Holy shit, this is blowing my mind.

I may have mentioned here before that my ex and I had an “arrangement” – a compromise between his desire for total monogamy and my complaint that the lack of flirtatious possibilities in my life was making me feel dead inside. (It’s possible that I’m a bit melodramatic.) We had negotiated that we were both allowed to flirt with and kiss other people, on a don’t-ask-don’t-tell basis. (That part wasn’t my idea. You might be able to tell from my blog that I always prefer to talk things out and be 100% honest, but the boyf just wasn’t into that.)

Well, despite this tiny negotiated degree of openness, I never felt quite right about flirting with other people while I was “taken.” I hated hiding it from my partner, and I felt like it was somehow dishonest to the people I was flirting with, too – like they’d believe it could go further than it actually could. Kissing was the hard limit; some folks tried to push past that boundary, thinking surely it would be okay, and I always had to stop them, even though it felt really unnatural to do so.

Obviously, all this guilt and concealment also meant that I couldn’t blog about my adventures, lest they be read by the boyfriend or by a relative or family friend who didn’t know about our monogamishness and wouldn’t have understood it if they did.

Now that all barriers to flirtation have been wrecking-ball’ed into oblivion, I can flirt as much as I damn well please. I haven’t really taken advantage of this fact yet – hell, it hasn’t even been a week yet – but just the option is making me feel giddy and enlivened. And if anything does happen, I can blog about it with wild abandon!

4. Being sexy in public.

By “in public,” I mostly mean “online,” because that’s the kind of person I am: an introvert and a geek. But I’m working on it.

Another thing my boyfriend didn’t like me to do was post naked or otherwise scandalous pictures of myself online. When you’re living in monogamy-land, this sort of makes sense, but every time I mentioned it to my poly friends, they’d be outraged on my behalf. “He doesn’t own your body!” they’d cry. “You can do what you want with your own tits and ass!”

I had really conflicted feelings about this, and I still do – but the fact remains that I do indeed hate the feeling of someone thinking they get to decide what I do and don’t do with my body. Sure, I understand why a monogamous partner wouldn’t want me to share my sexuality with another person… but I don’t consider my naked body to be an inherently sexual thing. Posting those pictures isn’t sexual for me; it’s an act of self-love, a confidence booster, a bold declaration of my womanhood and body-acceptance and unconventional beauty. It feels good, not illicit, and it feels like something I ought to be able to make my own decisions about.

Well, now that I’m single, I can. I’ve been posting as many (anonymous) naked pictures as I feel like posting. I’ve been enjoying the comments, guilt-free. Ohhhh yessss.

5. Being alone.

I don’t mean being single. I mean being physically alone. Being in a room that no one else is in. And not stressing that I “should be” spending time with someone. Just being.

The death knell of my relationship was when I realized that spending time with my partner had started to feel more like an obligation than a joy. It was another thing on my list that I had to do, like completing my sociology readings and emptying the dishwasher.

I have great love and fondness for my ex, but when someone is your Boyfriend-with-a-capital-B, it’s expected that you spend a lot of time with them. They expect it, and so do other people in your life. As an introvert, and someone with a lot of schoolwork and work-work on my plate, that got to feel like a lot of pressure. And the pressure to spend time with him sucked the joy right out of it.

Last night I was lying in bed reading a book, and I stopped and just thought to myself, “There is nowhere I’m supposed to be right now. There is nothing I’m supposed to be doing. There is no one who’s disappointed that I’ve decided to take tonight for myself.” And that realization was BLISSFUL. I sank down into the covers, took a long sip of tea, and buried my head back in my book. Mmm, heaven. Sheer heaven.

Look, I’m not saying the break-up didn’t make me sad. It did. And I’m not saying I’m never lonely, because sometimes I am. But by and large, I can see that this was the right decision for me. I’m thrilled with my life right now, even though I’m busy as hell with school and work and people keep asking me in hushed tones whether I’m “okay.”

I am more than okay. I’m reclaiming myself.

What was the best part of your last break-up? Got any advice for me on this journey of “finding myself” again?

Can Butt Plugs Cure Constipation?

Kate Sloan

Am I getting a reputation for being that chick who blogs about pooping? And a follow-up question: do I care?

This past week, three whole days went by without me evacuating my chute, if you know what I’m sayin’. That has never happened to me before. I was very worried.

I’ve been eating fewer calories lately to lose weight (that’ll be a whole ‘nother post, sometime in the murky future) and the other day I ate FIVE LARGE CARROTS because I am a lunatic. That’s probably what caused it.

I tried everything I could think of – short of regular ol’ laxatives, because I wanted to reserve those for a true emergency. I drank a fuckton of water to lubricate the pipes. I took an herbal psyllium husk supplement and waited 12+ hours. I walked around and jumped up and down. I ate more fiber, more fats. Nothin’.

Then I had a brilliant idea. There have been times in the past when I’ve inserted a butt plug, only to need to take it out again a few minutes later on account of sudden-onset bathroom requirements. This was always annoying before, but maybe now it would be a solution.

I poured a couple drops of Pink silicone-based lube on my medium Njoy Pure Plug and slipped it inside. I chose the Pure Plug because it’s heavy, so my butt would really be able to feel it and maybe it could wake up my intestines. (Man, I am so not a doctor.) I was prepared to switch out the medium plug for the larger version after a few minutes if necessary… but it wasn’t necessary.

After about 5-10 minutes of rhythmic clenching, hopin’ and prayin’, I heard angels singing hallelujah as my intestines started to do their thing. And then I went into the bathroom, took out the plug, and all became well with the world.

My theory on why this worked, which is backed by no medical knowledge whatsoever, is that the plug stimulated peristalsis. My butt was like, “Hey! There’s something in here! We better clear it out!” and other stuff was cleared out in the process too. Kind of sort of makes sense, right?

Mr. Will, another sex blogger, presented an alternate explanation: perhaps the lube was a factor. Indeed, the lube I used contains aloe vera, which some people use as a suppository when constipated. Soooo… yeah. That probably makes more medical sense than my theory.

Do you ever use sex toys to deal with your medical problems? (You probably shouldn’t. I’m not a doctor, I’m not responsible for the choices you make, you should always check with a medical professional, etc. You know the drill!)