A Month’s Worth of Phone Sex

Kate Sloan

Content notes for this post (in alphabetical order): ageplay, alcohol, bruising, bullying, confined spaces, consensual non-consent, Daddy Dom/little girl roleplay, face-fucking, fingerfucking, hypnosis, impact play, incest roleplay, intoxication, marijuana, objectification, self-harm, semi-public sex, sleepy sex.

September 4th. I get home late after Tell Me Something Good, giggly, excited, and slightly tipsy from a double whiskey on the rocks. In telling him how the night went, I ask Sir what story he would tell about us if he ever attended TMSG, and he tells me the tale of our second date the way he would if he was in front of an audience. Then we recount some of our fave sex memories from the weekend we just spent together in Toronto, which definitely turns us both on. He instructs me to smoke some weed, as I’ve had a long, somewhat stressful day and need to relax (and also he likes how I get when I’m high). We want to do some impact, so I get out my Weal & Breech purpleheart truncheon – a mutual fave – and he directs me to start hitting my thigh with it. The rhythm of the impacts makes me a bit trancey, which he capitalizes on by having me imagine that each hit feels like his mouth on my clit, or his fingers on my G-spot, or his cock against my A-spot. He has me use the Double Trouble and Eroscillator, all the while telling me how good I am and how deep he’s fucking me, until I come to the sounds of him saying, “You like that? Is that gonna make you come, if I keep fucking you just like that?” He comes shortly after I do, making great noises. We haven’t had phone sex in 6 whole days before this (!) and it’s clear we’ve both missed it. For aftercare, he reads me some Girly Juice Ebooks tweets out loud, and then we say goodnight around 2:40AM.

September 5th. I’m already high and turned on when Sir calls me around 10:05PM, so we get into dirty talk pretty quickly. He laments how much he misses fingerbanging me, and describes his favorite aspects of that act. The weed causes this to turn me on even faster and more intensely than usual. He asks, “Have you gotten off yet today, little one?” and I haven’t, so he says, “We’ll have to do something about that.” He’s in the mood to hypnotize me again, so he takes me down into a deep trance and then, since I’m already feeling quite little (weed does that sometimes), he plants the suggestion that I will feel like a little girl desperately using all her wiles to get her daddy to fuck her. When he brings me out of trance, we do a highly literal ageplay scene wherein I’m confused by my own arousal and daddy has to explain it to me, also explaining (and demonstrating the uses of) my sexual anatomy all the while. We use the Fucking Sculptures Corkscrew (a fave) and he shows me how to hold the We-Vibe Tango on my clit while he fucks me with the toy (“You’re gonna be my good little helper, okay?”). After a while, I’m having some trouble getting off, so he has me switch to the Double Trouble (“We’re gonna use this big pretty blue glass one, see?”) and mutters in my ear about how he’s gonna keep fucking me hard after I come. When I do – loud and long – he describes unzipping his pants, climbing on top of me, and shoving inside me. He’s gasping “Right there, baby, right there” when he comes about 30 seconds later. After we catch our breaths, he reads aloud the fragrance recommendations I wrote for him earlier that day, and then we joke about how we definitely have more phone sex than anyone we know who doesn’t do it professionally (easily upwards of 220 times in the ~270 days we’ve been dating at this point). He has to go to bed early to get on a plane to a work conference in the morning, so we say goodnight around midnight.

September 7th. Sir’s in a different time zone for the weekend, but we negotiate that he can wake me up at 3AM for phone sex if he wants to, because a) he likes fucking me when I’m sleepy and b) he’s my dom and I love him. He actually calls a little after 2:20AM, because he is punctual and respectful. He tries to make conversation about my day but I’m half-asleep and can’t form sentences, so he says, “Do you just want daddy to fuck you, little one?” I do. He paints a word-picture of fucking me from behind in a spooning position, slow and gentle, as befitting a sleepy girl. He tells me to use a realistic dildo so it’ll feel more authentically like his cock; I grab my current fave, the Fleshjack Brent Corrigan. It’s big, so I sleepily attempt to pour lube onto it in the dark, accidentally getting most of the lube on my belly and chest (it’s late, okay?!). It takes me a while to come, because I’m tired, and I can hear that he keeps getting close, but he just spins this into additional dirty-talk designed to ping my premature ejaculation kink (“It’s so hard for me not to come when I’m this deep inside your tight, hot cunt…”). Finally, with the Eroscillator on my clit and the Fleshjack deep inside me, I come, and then so does he. Then he says nice things to me about how good I am and how hard I’ve worked all day, until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore and have to say goodnight.

September 10th. I lament to Sir, as he’s flying back to the Eastern time zone, that I haven’t come in days (I rarely do outside of our phone sex since we started dating, honestly) and he says maybe he’ll give me two orgasms tonight, if I’m good. When he calls after getting home from the airport, we catch up and joke around for a bit, and then he says he wants to hurt me. He guides me through some impact on my right thigh with my Billiard Banger. “How is that making you feel, little one?” he asks. “Real spacey,” I reply. “Good; that’s what I want,” he says. I’ve just received a new dildo in the mail, the Uberrime Night King, so he has me use that while imagining it’s him fucking me, slow and hard. When I come hard with it and the Eroscillator, I pant, “I like that toy,” and Sir laughs and says, “I know.” An hour or more of aftercare-y giggling and chatting later, I’m craving more impact, so he has me hit my ass with the Weal & Breech truncheon until I’m spacey again. He gets audibly turned on and mentions that if he were kissing my shoulders right now, I would feel his hard cock against me – and it’s like a choose-your-own-adventure where I can decide whether I want to say goodnight and drift off into subspacey sleep, or get fucked again. I choose the latter. He has me use the Magic Wand and Double Trouble to approximate all kinds of delightful sex acts, until we both have absurdly long, strong orgasms. We sigh blissfully and say nice things to each other until we finally have to say goodnight around 3AM.

September 11th. Sir and I both had long, stressful days, full of illness and busywork and pressure, so we want to unwind together, as we often do. “It’s easier to get through the day when I remember I get to talk to my little girl at the end of it,” he tells me. “That’s a nice ritual for us.” And it is. After we both vent about what’s stressing us out, he reads a few chapters of Lolita to me (“Time for your bedtime story, little one”). Then he’s in the mood to trance me, so he asks me what I want to feel, and all I really want is to relax. During the induction, he asks me to picture a place that makes me feel relaxed, and immediately I vividly imagine myself on the Maid of the Mist. Once he’s gotten me into a deep trance, he gives me two triggers for the night: getting called “slut” will turn me on fast, and being told to “beg” will make me ask for what I’m craving most in that moment. He wakes me up and uses these two words to brilliant effect during the subsequent phone-fucking, eventually getting me so close to coming with the Eleven and Eroscillator that my mind is too empty to even think of anything to say when told to beg. We both come and then we do cuddly aftercare. My brain’s still all fuzzy and we both got the relaxing catharsis we needed.

September 12th. The trouble with keeping a phone-sex diary (or even a sex diary in general) is that you obviously don’t want to make notes during the encounter, and you certainly don’t want to make notes right after the encounter, when you’re a sweaty unraveled heap in bed. So inevitably, there will be nights like tonight, when I roll over shortly after a long phone-sex sesh and immortalize it in my phone’s Notes app with the following scribble: “some kind of ageplay idk.” Sex fries your brain sometimes. That’s okay. Even if you’re a sex blogger.

September 13th. We ask each other a series of check-in questions, modeled after my friend Taryn’s weekly check-in with her partner but specifically tailored to our relationship and our needs. One of the questions is, “What sexual fantasies are you thinking about lately?” and one that comes up this time is school-bully roleplay, something we’ve previously discussed but haven’t tried yet. Later, when the mood gets sexier, Sir says he’s in the mood to roleplay as a bully, and asks if I’m up for that. I am. There’s a silence, I giggle nervously, he asks me in his tough-guy voice what I’m laughing about, and we’re off to the races. The bully shoves me into a closet, aiming to use his sexual wiles to get me to give him my homework answers for the rest of the semester. It turns out he has a burgeoning hypnokink (who’da thought?!) and wants to hypnotize me to make the proceedings easier. He puts me into a trance and gets my suggestible little brain excited and turned on at the thought of sucking his cock. Rough fucking ensues, with him fucking my face, going down on me, and eventually fucking my cunt – quietly, there in the school closet. A new-ish protocol of ours comes into effect, whereby I’m allowed to choose and use sex toys without Sir’s permission when we’re roleplaying, to best approximate what’s happening in the scene, and I go with the Corkscrew and Eroscillator. We both come achingly hard while he’s inside me, and it takes me a long while to catch my breath. I know we’ve come back to the real world when he says, softly, “I love you, little one.”

September 15th. It’s a bad brain day. I sheepishly text Sir to tell him my anxiety is so bad that I want to hurt myself. He replies, “Well, the good news is, that’s a thing we can do. We can hurt you with supervision and safety and someone else in control. And we’re good at it.” I love him. He calls me around 10PM, and as we’re chatting about random stuff, it comes up that he’s never seen Secretary. We decide to watch it immediately. Coincidentally, it deals with the links between self-harm and consensual sadomasochism, so it feels fitting. After the movie – which we agree is problematic, yet hot – Sir has me hit my thigh with my stone crop, gently at first and then harder, until there’s a big pink bruise we both admire in the photos I take for him. Then he leads me through a comfortingly familiar phone-sex scene: I get daddy’s mouth and fingers and cock, and the Eroscillator and the Pure Wand. Afterward, he stays up with me until almost 3AM, dropping compliments left and right in his smooth baritone until I feel calm enough to go to sleep. The last thing I remember him saying is, “I love being the one who says most of the stuff when we have phone sex. I love listening to your sounds and reactions. You never have to worry you’re not saying enough, okay? This is what I want.”

September 16th. We’re both extremely stressed at work, so after some mutual ranting and consoling, we decide to do a hypno scene. I smoke some weed and put on my headphones and Sir takes me down into a deeeep trance, where he suggests that hearing the phrases “You want to tell me” and “You want to do it” will indeed make me want to tell him or do whatever he wants. When he wakes me up, he somehow intuits – as he often does – exactly which toys I want: the Double Trouble and the Eroscillator. He’ll occasionally cut through my shy giggles by saying, “What do you want? You want to tell me…” and I do. He describes holding me down and fucking me, using me as his fucktoy, taking what he wants from me. He says, in this caring, paternal voice, “I’m gonna get a little deeper so you come on the whole thing, okay?” and that pushes me over the edge; he comes soon after me and I imagine his teeth sinking into the flesh of my shoulder as he does. We talk and laugh more for about an hour – he reads me some terrible old tweets of mine – and then his voice gets dark and gruff and I know what he’s going to say before he says it: “I wanna fuck you again, little one.” I’m not turned on at all anymore, but he’s very, very good at making that happen, and I trust completely that he will. He talks about the last time he made me squirt in person – how he did it, what it felt like, why he likes it – and, whoops, now we both want to make me squirt. He tells me to slip the Seduction inside me and then talks about fingering my G-spot, first gently and then more firmly, while licking my clit. It takes me a while, but eventually I get very close, and he tells me to turn up my Magic Wand at the exact perfect moment to make me come hard. I keep pounding myself with the wooden toy afterward until I squirt a tiny amount on my sheets. Then he groans that he wants to fuck my face, and I say, “I’m sleepy, daddy,” and he promises, “You can just take a little nap while daddy fucks your face, baby,” and then he comes immediately, because, surprise, the guy who goes by “Super Sleepy Dude” online has a sleepy-sex kink! We catch our breaths and send kisses through the phone and go to sleep around 2:30AM.

September 17th. Sir’s phone is broken and getting repaired overnight so he hooks up his AirPods to his iPad (confirmed Apple nerd over here) and, even when we’re just chatting about our days, I’m vaguely aware that we’re definitely gonna have phone sex sans phone. My chronic joint pain is flaring up, so Sir wants to be gentle with me and also to give me some consensual pain to distract me from the nonconsensual kind. He has me slap my face over FaceTime (…FaceSlapTime?) and says repeatedly how much he loves my subspacey face, making me feel beautiful even as my body feels broken. Then we switch to audio-only and he has me put on some nipple clamps and tug on the chain when he tells me to. At his behest, I slather my Eleven in lube, push it inside me, and pair it with the Eroscillator. He talks through a fairly standard daddy-fucking-me scene, because I’m too achy and irritable for anything wilder, and it’s perfect. I come shortly after he says something like, “You’re so tight I can barely move, so I can just do those tiny little motions you like, rubbing your spot over and over with the head of my cock.” I’ve told him before that hearing in detail about his minute movements inside me really turns me on for some reason, and, uh, he takes direction well. Through my disoriented haze, I beg him to fuck me harder until he comes. Afterward, I show him the draft-in-progress of this post, and he gets all emotional and says, “Even if you never do this again, it’s such a perfect time capsule of our sex life over the phone, and how varied and romantic and good it is.” I cry, because he always understands me and my work so completely. He kisses his iPad goodnight and we go to sleep.

September 18th. I’m already extremely high when he calls me. He’s so good at dealing with me when I’m intoxicated, because it’s a state so similar to subspace and trance, both of which he’s highly familiar with. He says sweet, positive, uncomplicated things to me, and makes me blush and giggle, and turns me on without even trying. My period has started so he has me put my Magic Wand on my clit and, in lieu of suggesting I take out my menstrual cup to put a dildo inside me (something of which I’d be incapable in my current state), he just describes in lascivious detail how exactly he would fuck me and how good it would feel. I have a sharp, overwhelming orgasm against the head of the wand, and then I listen, smiling dazedly, as he comes soon after I do. During aftercare, our conversation drifts to a new D/s thing we’re trying as of today – my daily to-do list is a shared note with him now, so he can check on my progress at any time – and he explains how good this makes him feel, how it connects us even more fiercely, the sharing of this mundane-but-intimate thing. “It’s such a gift,” he insists. “I can’t thank you enough for that, little one.” I’m still tingling and smiling when I drift off to sleep.

September 24th. We just got back from spending the weekend in Boston together, and it’s already difficult being apart again. “I missed having phone sex with you,” Sir says, and I admit I did too, despite us having had tons of in-person sex all weekend. “I don’t know how or why that happens, but it does.” He has me smoke some weed and then we do a bunch of impact on my ass with a Kronic Sensations wooden bat I was supposed to bring on the Boston trip but didn’t because of TSA concerns. He tells me to rub my clit and that he’s going to watch my cunt get wet and ready for him while I fantasize about what his cock will feel like inside me (oof). Armed with my Eleven and Eroscillator, I listen to him describing fucking me hard and deep, until I come sometime after he mentions dripping precum into me and hitting my spot on purpose so I’ll come all over his cock. I love listening to him come after me; I heard those sounds in person all weekend but hearing them over the phone is still special and necessary somehow. He reads me silly tweets afterward, and then we say goodnight and hang up. I get a text from him a few minutes later that says, “I’m so in love with you.”

September 25th. Sir tells me he was fantasizing about the Neon Wand earlier and wants to use it on me. He directs me, using just his voice and his attentive ears, to zap myself the way he wants to zap me: on my wrists, my tits, my thighs. It goes on until I’m subspacey as hell and somewhat overwhelmed and use my “yellow” safeword, so he has me zap my inner wrist for a little longer and then put the wand away. Then he tells me to smoke some weed. “What are you gonna do to me?!” I ask as I load my pipe. “What do you think I’m gonna do to you?” he counters. “I think you’re gonna try to trance me,” I tell him. He says, “I’m not going to just try, little one. I’m going to do it.” And he’s right. He mesmerizes me with his voice, and makes it so that the words “off” and “on” manipulate my mind in and out of trance like a lightswitch. Then he tells me he can immobilize certain parts of my body, or my entire body, by commanding me to “freeze.” He freezes my arms over my head so I can’t move while he describes kissing me and grinding into me – so frustrating! He has me slide the Fucking Sculptures Corkscrew into my cunt and then freezes my arm so I can’t move it in and out yet. He makes me position the Magic Wand on my clit and then freezes that arm so I can’t remove the vibe by myself. Eventually he lets me fuck myself with the dildo, and explains exactly how he likes to fuck me until I come, sharp and hard. A few seconds later, he freezes my whole body, and I guess it turns him on to think about fucking his immobilized little girl because he comes soon after that. My swollen G-spot wants to squirt, so he murmurs the word “now” to an increasingly frenetic rhythm to make me fuck myself as fast as he wants, and I squirt a little on my sheets. In the afterglow, I munch some chocolate and he kisses me goodnight over the phone, telling me I should be good, i.e. drink some water because I squirted and try not to stay up too late.

September 26th. Sir’s feeling romantic and sentimental tonight, I guess, because he launches unprompted into a monologue about how he wants to be with me for years and he loves me and is committed to our relationship. This isn’t uncommon for him, but I burst into tears nonetheless, and he keeps talking until I’m so wracked with emotion that I tell him I feel like we’re doing a kink scene where his express goal is to overwhelm me. He says, “I like that. I like fucking you when you’re already all vulnerable and teary from emotional conversations earlier. I guess that’s, like, ‘lovemaking’ or whatever.” I snicker at this, but that’s the word that came to mind for me too. Then, proving he knows exactly how to make love to me, he has me hit my thigh with my stone crop, first gently and then harder, until I have a beautiful purply-red bruise. I cry more, and he tells me to set the crop down. “It’s okay to feel whatever you’re feeling,” he murmurs helpfully. “You know how sometimes you’re worried you take too long to come, and I tell you to take as long as you need? You can take as long as you need to cry and feel your feelings, too.” So I do. Then he has me rub my clit slowly to get myself turned on, while saying hot things I won’t recall later because I’m so overwhelmed. I fuck myself with the Double Trouble, to the slow rhythm he dictates, while holding the Eroscillator on my clit. After we both come, he says somberly, “I love you so much,” and then, a moment later, switches into a goofy British accent to announce, “I could just float away. I have no use for this corporeal form anymore. I have transcended it.” I love him.

September 27th. I’m staying over at my parents’ house, where there isn’t much privacy. Sir calls me shortly after 10PM and we chat and laugh until the new Hippo Campus album drops at midnight, at which point we listen to it together over the phone, repeatedly vocally wishing we were together so we could kiss/cuddle/have extremely high sex to this sonic masterwork. I’ve been snacking on banana bread intermittently and ask Sir if I can have another slice, and he laughs and says, “No, not yet; I wanna fuck you first.” I dutifully retrieve the sex toys I’ve stashed in my parents’ piano bench for this exact scenario – the Lelo Gigi 2 and NobEssence Fling – and creep down to the basement to get some privacy. Sir starts doing a literal DD/lg roleplay and asks, “Where did you get those toys from, little one?” and I burst out laughing because it’s hilarious to me that a little girl would’ve started her own sex toy review blog, but I can’t think of another answer to give my daddy. He says he’ll help me test out the toys so I can do my “little job.” We both come really hard (though quietly), and I rinse off the toys and stow them back in the piano bench.

September 28th. We had busy weeks and decide to de-stress by spending our Friday night watching The Artist & the Pervert, the excellent documentary about Mollena Williams and Georg Friedrich Haas and their 24/7 D/s dynamic. I’ve seen it before so I know there’s a spanking scene that Sir will probably like, and he does. After the movie, when we’re tripping and falling into some flirty phone-sex foreplay, he asks for the exact thing I want at that moment: to hit me on my ass with my Weal & Breech truncheon. Sometimes it really seems like he is reading my mind. He builds up to even harder hits than he normally does, and after a while, I’m so spacey I can hardly speak. He has me fuck myself with my Double Trouble and Eroscillator – also the exact toys I was craving – while unleashing a stream of objectifying-yet-sweet dirty talk about how I’m just a receptacle for his cum. We both come hard, say adorable romantic things to each other, and say goodnight.

September 29th. I arrive home from a hypno play party at a dungeon, where I didn’t see any actual hypnosis happening but saw a lot of impact, bondage, and D/s (woof). I’ve been a grown-ass sexy adult around strangers all night and now I want to be little with my daddy. After we catch up about our days, he says he wants to trance me and asks what I want to feel; I say I want to feel like I have a crush on him and he has one on me. (Little Kate has simple needs.) He puts me into a deep trance and sets three triggers: “love” makes me feel flooded with happily reciprocated crushy feelings, “little” makes me feel even younger and smaller, and “squeeze” makes me squeeze my PC muscles and get turned on. Once he wakes me up and plays with these a bit, he asks me what I’m fantasizing about, and through my disoriented haze, I manage to tell him I want to hear what he’d say if he was teaching someone else how to make me come. (This is a long-standing fantasy related to my “you knowing exactly how to get me off” kink.) Ever the good sport, he asks one clarifying question about who this person is (“whoever… they’re nameless and faceless”) and then says “I guess I’m teaching a class, then!” and launches into a detailed monologue instructing someone on how to turn me on and get me off. He describes holding a Magic Wand on my clit while this other person pounds me with an Eleven, and then says, “You want daddy to take over fucking you, little one?” and I do. He fucks me until I come. I’m in a dreamy fog and don’t retain much after that massive orgasm. That’s often how these things go.

Monthly Faves: Boy Bands & Black Leather

Kate Sloan

Wow, what a month! Here are some sexy things that kept me smiling in September.

Sex toys

• My pals at Peepshow Toys sent me a new silicone dildo, the Uberrime Night King. They thought I’d like it for A-spot stimulation, and they were right! Full review to come once I’ve tested it some more.

• While I love being collared, I’ve never really had an interest in collaring anyone else. However, my boyf wanted to play with that in a scene this month, so I put my black Aslan Leather collar on him and enjoyed tugging on the O-ring from time to time while I did all kinds of evil dommy shit to him. I think I’m getting more comfortable being dominant!

• Shout-out to my leather bat for being menacing enough to leave wicked bruises but not so menacing as to be disallowed on planes by the TSA.

Fantasy fodder

• I’ve been having some feelings about interrogation scenes lately. I saw a Kink Academy video where Danarama was explaining interrogation tactics, and then I saw a truly excellent episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine that centered around an intense interrogation, shortly after my Sir and I had played with some mild interrogation in a hypno scene over the phone. Definitely pondering how to incorporate this kink into my sex life without tipping over into upsetting unpleasantness!

• Sometimes a new kink just hits you out of nowhere… This month I thought a lot about being kicked, stood on, and stepped on. My Sir, ever a sex nerd, wanted to understand my motivations for this before we did it, and I’m glad we discussed it, because I didn’t want it for humiliation-y reasons like I think a lot of people would assume. I was more interested in the meditative, subspacey, powerless feeling I thought I could access through these acts. They were lots of fun and I want to try ’em more!

Sexcetera

• I was asked to fill in as co-host of Tell Me Something Good this month, and it was so much fun! The people who tell stories at this event are overwhelmingly open-hearted, kind, and sex-positive. It was a pleasure to share the stage with Samantha Fraser and help hold space for all these wonderful stories.

• The lovely Cy of Super Smash Cache invited me, my boyfriend, and my friends Rae and Epiphora to dinner while we were at Woodhull, and she wrote a blog post about the evening. Read this if you’re voyeuristically curious about any of us (or all of us), ’cause, uh, it gets juicy.

• Two exciting honors this month: the podcast I cohost with my friend Bex, The Dildorks, was named one of Uproxx’s 18 favorite sex podcasts, and I was nominated as Best Blogger in the NOW Readers’ Choice Awards. Thanks, babes!

Femme stuff

• My favorite jewelry designer, Tarina Tarantino, a.k.a. Our Lady of Extremely Extra Sparkly Hearts, restocked some colors of the big-ass heart necklaces I love so much, so I snapped up what may have been the last blue one. It is, to say the least, eyecatching as hell.

• Today in “strange and exciting femme news”: remember that custom perfume my boyfriend commissioned Stephen Dirkes to make me for my birthday? Well, Stephen loved it so much that he used it as a starting point for his latest fragrance, Flocked & Gilded. So, if you’ve ever wondered what I smell like 80% of the time, go get thee a sample! The initial reviewers have called it “velvety and delicious” and “a rich velvet and hypnotic dream,” which… yes.

• My brother’s band, Goodbye Honolulu, came out with some new merch recently, and my bro set aside a “Typical” T-shirt for me. It might be my fave song of theirs, so I love this tee and have been wearing it a lot!

Media

• I went to the Toronto launch of Clementine Morrigan’s new book, You Can’t Own the Fucking Stars, and loved what I heard from Clementine, as per usual. Their writing on mental illness, polyamory, kink, and femmeness always feels particularly salient to me. There is so much packed into this book and I think you will find it comforting if you are poly, femme, mentally ill, a recovering addict, spiritual-but-not-religious, and/or (to borrow Clementine’s terminology) a “trauma bb.”

• My fave band, Hippo Campus, has a new album out. It’s quite different from their usual style but I love it: the music is, by turns, lush, jarring, and eminently danceable, and the lyrics are much more personal and emotional than their previous works, touching on topics like mental illness (“I haven’t been much myself, and I feel like my friends are being put through this hell I’m feeling”) and what it means to be committed to a partner (“Love? Is it love? Who can say you’re the one and never doubt?”). I love these boys so much and I’m so excited to see their show in New York in a couple weeks!

• I’m not quite sure if theatre counts as media, and my cursory Google search on the subject turned up unclear results, but let’s talk about it anyway. I’ve been a Soulpepper subscriber for many years running, and this month they staged one of my favorite productions I’ve ever seen there, Bed and Breakfast. Real-life couple Gregory Prest and Paolo Santalucia played a gay couple navigating homophobia and family secrets in small-town Ontario – and they also played all of the other characters in the story, from an awkward closeted teen to an Irish butch lesbian to a gruff contractor. I took my Sir to see this show and giggled and wept all the way through it. I wish I’d had the time and funds to take all my queer friends (and some of my straight ones) to see this!

• I loved Cameron Esposito’s new special, Rape Jokes, which is “about sexual assault from a survivor’s perspective.” If you’re hurting right now from all the sexual violence in the news, a) I don’t fucking blame you and b) maybe this will help you laugh through the pain a little bit. It’s pay-what-you-want and all donations go to RAINN.

Little things

A waiter telling Sir his cocktail order was “very sensible.” Making photoshoot plans. Dorkily premature anniversary-planning. Karaoke and drinks with Dan, Lav, Sarah, and Jason. Big juicy writing assignments. Whiskey on the rocks. Stealing hotel pens. Trinity Bellwoods hangtime with my love. Glennon Doyle. Sir having access to my to-do list so he can keep an eye on me and keep me on task. The Black Walnut cocktail at Northwood (OMG, new fave). Trading tips with other submissives. Celebrating our nine-monthiversary with a thorough spanking. Writing drunk poems on the subway. Thoughtful and compassionate editors. New bedding. Commiserating about long-distance relationships with my cousins at Rosh Hashanah. The underground walkway to the Island airport (and getting excited about small things, like a little girl would). Limoncello and oysters. Being told I am safe, and knowing it’s true.

Protocol Diaries: An Iron-Clad Commitment

Kate Sloan

It’s not an exaggeration to say that kink has improved my life substantially. Not just because I’m having sex that better suits my tastes, but also because the structure (optionally) imposed by D/s can be transformative. (Just look at the #BetterLivingThroughKink hashtag on Twitter if you don’t believe me.)

I’ve had partners before who seemed unenthused about implementing and enforcing protocol – and I don’t blame them: it’s gotta be exhausting to be in control of not only your own life but also significant portions of someone else’s. This gets easier, so I’m told, if you have the type of brain that relishes that level of control rather than shying away from it – and my current partner is, indeed, that type of dom.

When we discussed protocol in the early days of our relationship, we discussed not only things that would be fun and hot, but also things that would be practical. I’m mildly anaemic and thus have to take an iron supplement every day, but I struggle with remembering to do it. Unlike something like a birth control pill, which you can set a daily timer for, my iron pill has to be taken with food – and, as a work-from-home freelancer, my meal schedule fluctuates wildly depending on what I’m up to that day. So, before meeting my Sir, I would often forget to take my iron for days at a time, resulting in dreaded dizziness and lethargy – not good!

During our early protocol negotiations, my Sir asked me what reward I thought would motivate me to take my iron daily. I contemplated the question, and then felt almost embarrassed to answer: selfies from him. It sounds fairly basic, but when you’re long-distance, you never get to see as much of your partner’s face as you wish you could. We were already in the habit of sending each other occasional selfies for no particular reason, but I still wanted more of his gorgeous face, and suspected it could keep me on-track with my iron regimen.

We implemented this protocol, and I immediately loved it. The exchange is simple – once a day, at mealtime, I take my pill, text him “Took my iron,” and he sends back a selfie as soon as he has a spare moment to take one – but it achieves exactly what we wanted it to: it makes me actually want to take my pill.

Not only do I want to see his face, I also want to connect with him throughout the day. As a person who sometimes has anxiety about seeming too “needy” or “bugging” my partners when they’re busy, I like having an excuse to reach out to my love in the middle of the workday, even if it’s just for this small two-component exchange. This anxiety still persists sometimes – I’ve occasionally gotten in trouble for taking my pill but not telling him, because he was busy and I didn’t want to “bother” him! – but it makes it easier overall, and that’s nice.

This protocol is so important to my Sir that he even sticks to it when we’re together in person. He’ll watch me take my pill while we’re having lunch or dinner together, and then pull out his phone, snap a cute selfie, and text it to me. It makes me giggle, because it’s, in some ways, “unnecessary,” but I also appreciate his dedication to this agreement we’ve made. And I like looking back at the selfies later!

One thing we were deliberate about, in creating this protocol, is setting it up so that there’s a reward when I Do The Thing, but there’s no punishment when I don’t. The adverse health effects I suffer when I skip my pill for a few days, though fairly mild, are their own punishment of sorts, as is my Sir’s gentle disappointment when he asks if I took my pill and I say no. Some say positive reinforcement works better than negative, and I’ve definitely found that to be true for me: I thrive on praise and treats when I do well, while admonishment and punishment just makes me recede into myself and feel sad and panicked. I’m glad we were able to set up this protocol in a way that feels good for both of us.

What protocols could you create in a D/s dynamic to make yourself healthier, happier, and/or more productive? Which have you already found work well for you?

Five Fragrances For Kinky Pervs

Kate Sloan

Kinksters talk a lot about headspace: subspace, topspace, dom space, little space, these nebulous moods which result from enacting our deepest desires and also help us enact them better. The way vanilla people talk about arousal or erection or lubrication is also the way kinksters talk about their various headspaces: as a state both desirable and potentially elusive, sometimes spontaneous and sometimes hard-won, and usually best to capitalize on when the mood happens to strike.

Personally, I use many different tools to get into the kinky headspaces I enjoy: sadomasochism, hypnosis, certain sex acts, certain clothing and hairstyles. Scent is one of these tools for me. Once applied, it permeates whatever happens next on a level so subtle yet total that it can’t help but affect the proceedings. The right fragrance can shift your entire mood, the way you carry yourself, the way you view yourself. Here are 5 scents that evoke 5 different kinky dispositions…

“Cuir” by Mona di Orio

What to say about this spicy, carnal leather scent? Fragrantica calls it “ruthlessly chic.” Rachel Syme calls it “leather at its most pure and therefore most dirty.” C. Murphy says it makes them feel “irresistibly seductive” and like they want to “fuck [themself] and rip someone’s head off.”

I don’t resonate much with the notion of a “femdom,” the way that keyword plays out in mainstream porn and the kinky corners of Tumblr. When I take on a dominant role – which is rare to begin with – I don’t deck myself out in bust-emphasizing corsets or treacherous stilettos. I don’t glare menacingly or call anyone a maggot, a pathetic loser, or my bitch. I don’t pace with purpose, wielding a whip.

My dominance is softer, smaller, more a compelling coo than a harrowing howl. But this Mona di Orio scent is the olfactory embodiment of that towering femdom, and so maybe I could anoint myself with it to bring forth a little bossy flair.

The scent isn’t sweet or forgiving, like some fragrances which soften their leathers with vanilla or warm spices. It’s sharpened to a point with rough-and-tumble anise, cardamom, and juniper. It’s the quirk of an eyebrow with no hint of a smile. It’s the dominant persona I will never melt into, but secretly wish I could try on for a day.

“Dark Purple” by Montale (content note for DD/lg / ageplay in this one)

What would the “little girl” of DD/lg fantasies wear, if she wore perfume? It’s easy to say she would choose something over-the-top sexy and feminine (like “Good Girl,” below), but to me, that rings hollow. My inner babygirl isn’t a lithe adult in precise pigtails; she’s an emotionally messy 13-year-old (or thereabouts) who craves cosmopolitan adulthood while still clinging to the comforts of youth. She would, therefore, wear a gourmand. I think she would wear Montale’s “Dark Purple.”

When you imagine this scent, imagine dark purple lollipops, dark purple flowers braided into strawberry-blonde hair, a hint of grape cough medicine or honey whiskey or both. It’s a sticky, syrupy scent that oozes unsophisticated sweetness – like a little girl before she knows the power of being a woman. Plum, orange, rose, geranium, and ambergris combine to create something as rich and saccharine as raspberry coulis spilling off a slice of cheesecake. This, I imagine, is what Lolita would wear if she wore perfume – and it would make Humbert sick to his stomach and haunt his carnal dreams.

“Body Scent” by Leatherstock

On an episode of Why Are People Into That?, artist and award-winning bootblack KD Diamond tells a tale from her perverted youth. She describes sating her burgeoning leather fetish as a child by relentlessly sniffing an Italian leather glove. She would even sleep with it near her nose so she would never have to stop smelling it. Now that’s dedication.

While I don’t have a leather fetish, I nonetheless relate to this story. Some scents really are that good, and for me, leather is one of them. I bought a rollerball of Leatherstock Body Scent while on a kinky road trip with friends: we spent an afternoon at the Leather Archives in Chicago, and later dropped by the Leather & Latte café in Minneapolis. The scent of Leatherstock, while it really is almost identical to your standard leather smell, always reminds me with such specificity of those places: the solemn stained-glass art, the heavy books of Tom of Finland illustrations, the casually-clad kinksters clutching coffee cups, the dim dusty basement filled with ominous mannequins. I spent much of that trip wearing Leatherstock and my first collar, so leather was close to me both literally and figuratively for the trip’s entire duration. It was a comfort and a constant, as I’m sure it is for many leather fetishists.

Leatherstock is for when you want to smell, as literally as possible, like leather. Like kneeling and pressing your face to a master’s boots, or faceplanting prayer-like against your own cuffed wrists during a hard spanking, or secretly wrapping yourself in a mystery guest’s motorcycle jacket in the coat room at a party. In the Dry Down, Rachel Syme writes about how our modern understanding of leather’s scent is really just perfumers’ attempts to cover up the reek of the “bloody, gut-strewn tanneries of 16th-century France” with something more palatable. So to me, it’s a scent that carries that weight, that history, and also the weight and history of queer kinky culture. Leather daddies, drag queens, well-worn chaps, a trusty flogger. I can keep all that near my nose when I wear the right jacket, the right collar, or Leatherstock.

“Good Girl” by Carolina Herrera

This is the trashiest perfume I own, and I mean that affectionately. It just smells like the fragrance you would reach for if you were also rocking a Juicy tracksuit and a blonde blowout and basically saying “fuck you” to whatever bullshit the patriarchy tends to whisper about all of that.

I bought it for its name – I am a good girl, after all – but it actually doesn’t strike me as a “good” or innocent or pristine scent at all. It’s reckless, messy, slutty. I don’t wear it a lot, because it doesn’t feel like “me,” but it’s grown on me, in its own weird way.

There can be a certain kind of power, in a heteropatriarchal world, to reclaiming tropes long used to tamp your people down. Some women get called ditzy, bitchy, dramatic. They’re accused of being “dumb blondes,” cockteases, sluts. “Good Girl” smells like a woman who decided to stop giving a shit about all that and just live her life – even, and perhaps especially, if that means laughing “too loud,” speaking “out of turn,” and blowing hot-pink bubblegum bubbles with hot-pink glossy lips.

Wearing this scent makes me want to embrace my inner trashy trollop, my inner ballbusting shrew, my inner bad girl, whatever the hell any of that means. Lots of people find “bimbos” hot; lots of people find it hot to be a “bimbo.” I don’t want the world to treat me like a silly slut, but I do enjoy feeling like one from time to time – even just for the duration of a rough blowjob.

“Sir” by D.S. & Durga

It is always limiting to suppose that submissives or dominants have to look or act a certain way to be valid in those identities. When I think of my own insecurities as a submissive, I think immediately of Creepy Yeha and pigtail-clad Tumblr babygirls: shapely waifs strapped tight into pastel leather gear, pouting with perfect pink lips and staring doe-eyed at an unseen dominant. These pixies are cold and unsmiling; they exist to be pretty and petite, compliant and complacent. They are not the type of submissive I am. I cackle, and giggle, and whine, and sometimes I smear my lipstick, and sometimes I say my safeword. I am neither as strong nor as beautifully delicate as those girls in the far reaches of Instagram’s #DDlgLifestyle hashtag.

The dominant equivalent of those sinewy submissives, in my mind, would smell like “Sir” by D.S. & Durga. It’s a formidably masculine scent, seductive jasmine layered on top of animalistic oakmoss, peppered with bergamot and patchouli. It smells like burying your face in the tweed jacket of a silver fox who smokes clove cigarettes and drinks too much green tea. Like getting a little too intimate with your classics professor during office hours, or like the exotic comfort of curling up in daddy’s lap once he’s home from happy hour with the boys. This is a “Tumblr-dom” scent: it brings to mind black-and-white photos of faceless men in suits, aiming for stately masculinity but coming off slightly caricatured.

My Sir – a fellow fragrance nerd – asked me to choose a scent for him one day, eschewing his usual faves (Molecule 03 and Tobacco Oud, if you must know). I put “Sir” on him partly for its name, but partly because I wanted the strange synthesis of this polished-dominant scent on my real-life dominant, who – handsome and captivating as he may be – will never be a black-and-white besuited Tumblr dom, because no one really is, not even Tumblr doms. As I’m sure it would please my love to see pale pink fetishistic leather digging into my flesh – the fantasy submissive mingling with the real one – so, too, did it please me to smell the mega-masc absurdity of “Sir” against my Sir’s warm and comforting skin. He is my fantasy, and he is much more than that.

What scents put you in a kinky headspace you enjoy?

5 Myths About Sex Work

Kate Sloan

It’s disheartening that sex work is still so stigmatized in 2018, even after the groundbreaking work of so many sex workers’ rights advocates throughout history. Whorephobic language is commonplace in our media and even our everyday conversations. Stigma against sex workers literally endangers their livelihood and their lives. This has to stop!

I’m not a sex worker (more on that later in the post), but my friends and internet acquaintances in the industry seem to encounter a lot of the same frustrations over and over again. I’ve quoted some of them here, since they would know better than I would, obviously! Here are some common myths about sex work that really need to be busted…

Sex workers are “selling their bodies.”

I mean, in a sense, we’re all “selling our bodies” – or at least renting them out – because our bodies are involved in the labor we do. Coal miners, retail workers, teachers, lawyers, doctors… All of these people use their bodies to do their work. I’m using mine right now, typing this! Sexual labor is labor; there is no moral law that somehow makes sex work worse than any other kind of work.

Sex work is inherently demeaning.

Someone like Marx might argue that all work is inherently demeaning, since you’re exchanging your labor for the human-invented construct that is money… In any case, people who choose sex work often have excellent (and even empowering) reasons for doing so, not that their reasoning is anyone else’s business anyway! If you don’t think working construction or retail (for example) are demeaning, then it doesn’t make any sense to think that about sex work, either. There’s no reason a brothel would necessarily be a worse workplace than, say, McDonald’s or the Gap. And if you do think those other kinds of work are demeaning, maybe your problem is with work in general, in which case you should go lobby for better employment rights and/or basic income instead of yelling at sex workers!

“Cleos on Nile in Brisbane, the capitol of Queensland, is very pro-sex workers’ rights. They provide everything for the ladies to work independently within the venue. The women work for themselves (no pimping) and can refuse service to any client they like. The venue provides everything for the service providers to work in comfort, from cable TV and internet to food and private smoking areas. Condoms, etc. are also provided free of charge, as only safe sex practices are permitted for everyone’s safety. The brothel is owned by an ex-worker who worked for herself for 25 years before saving enough to buy what has become the most successful brothel in the state.” –Lynette Black, owner of Cleos On Nile

Sex work is easy money.

Hahaha, no. I’ve barely dipped my toe into sex work and even I know this one is bullshit. As with any kind of work that relies on building a clientele, maintaining a career in sex work can take a lot of time and energy. Whether you’re crafting and posting ads for your services, filming and editing content for a clip store, promoting the hell out of yourself on social media, or perhaps all three and more, there’s no doubt that sex work is an effortful enterprise. That effort deserves to be recognized and acknowledged!

There’s only one way to do it.

A lot of different activities can be classified as sex work, not just full-service work like what goes on at Brisbane brothels. Cam performers, dominatrixes, phone sex operators, strippers, and porn performers are just a few examples of different types of sex workers. The World Health Organization defines sex work as “the provision of sexual services for money or goods,” which, of course, covers a broad range of transactions. While I have done certain forms of sex work – camming, selling nudes, selling panties, paid sexting and phone sex, and being a sugar baby – I don’t typically call myself a sex worker because I don’t experience sex work-related stigma or oppression to the same degree as many people who do this work on a more full-time basis and/or for survival. All this to say: sex work takes many forms and all of them come with their own challenges.

All sex workers have STIs.

Oh my god, so much to unpack here. So, first of all, having an STI isn’t something we should stigmatize. Many, many, many people have STIs, and many of those people prioritize disclosure, treatment/management, and transmission prevention. But on top of that, remember: sex workers’ sexual health is their livelihood, so of course they take it seriously, and some research has even found sex workers have lower STI rates than the general population (makes sense, if you ask me!). This is particularly true in places where sex work is decriminalized or legalized (just ask escorts in Brisbane) – demonstrating that making something illegal and/or difficult to do just makes it more difficult to do safely and healthily.

What myths about sex work do you wish would just go away?

 

Heads up: this post was sponsored; however, as always, I support and agree with all of the sentiments therein!