Review: Le Wand

Kate Sloan

Y’all, I’m so angry about the Le Wand. SO ANGRY. It has been a long time since a sex toy has pissed me off this much. But I have some Opinions and Feelings about this one and we are going to talk about them.

This rechargeable wand vibrator – sent to me for my honest review by the lovely folks at Peepshow Toys – was designed as an upgrade to existing wand vibes like the Magic Wand and Doxy. In a braggy interview about her product, designer Alicia Sinclair says, “I’ve always found the aesthetics and design of wands rather unappealing, industrial and masculine… In my humble opinion, Le Wand satisfies this need in the market by offering a refined classic wand massager with upgraded features and gorgeous design.”

It’s definitely good for companies to keep trying to outdo the Magic Wand, reigning queen of the wand vibe genre. Innovation and improvement are important, and perpetual forward motion in the market is one of the only good things about capitalism. But here’s the thing: if you claim to be innovative, you need to actually innovate. The Le Wand does not. In fact, in many ways, it’s a massive step backward for wand vibrators.

First, let’s talk aesthetics. Sinclair says her wand’s design is “elegant,” “sensual,” “fresh” and “stylised.” But let’s be real: it’s essentially a re-skin of the Magic Wand Rechargeable. Seriously, they look like fraternal twins. The product names are printed in the same spot, the number of buttons is the same and they are located in exactly the same place on the body of the toy, the bases of the toy are the same shape, and they even use the same charger! For a toy that claims to be so groundbreaking, the Le Wand sure seems like a straight-up ripoff of the Magic Wand.

It’s not an improvement vibrations-wise, either. Though Le Wand’s ad copy repeatedly claims its vibrations are rumbly, it’s one of the buzzier wands of this size that I’ve tried. The Magic Wand, especially on its two lower speeds, is so delightfully rumbly that you can actually see its head thrumming back and forth during use, and feel it rippling against you. The Le Wand, comparatively, stays pretty stationary and its vibrations are much more surface-level, leading to numbness far more quickly. My clit gets bored and blasé instead of staying engaged and excited.

And the noise! The Le Wand is one of the loudest vibrators I’ve ever encountered. Even on the lowest speed, it sounds like an angry robotic cow having a mooing tantrum. Its lowest speed is just as loud as the Magic Wand Rechargeable’s highest speed, though not as strong or as rumbly. In testing my Le Wand, I was reminded of that time a partner fucked me with a toy while my best friend shot porn in the next room; I had my Magic Wand on my clit, set to the lowest speed, and it was quiet enough that we didn’t even have to worry about fucking up the porn happening nearby. There’s no way that would’ve been true if I was using the Le Wand. (It wouldn’t have gotten me off anywhere near as quickly, either.)

The Le Wand’s head is more rounded than the angular, squarish head of the Magic Wand. For many people, this won’t be an issue, but for me, it has a marked effect on my ability to get off with this toy: I prefer relatively pinpoint stimulation on my clit, so I always hold my Magic Wand slightly angled so as to get that focused corner right on my clit. That isn’t possible with the smooth, rounded head of the Le Wand, though they do sell attachments separately which can narrow the vibrations into a slimmer shape.

Additionally, one of the most-advertised features of the Le Wand – its bendy neck – isn’t actually as effective as the toy’s promotional copywriters seem to think. As with the Magic Wand, there’s a little flexibility in the neck, but you have to press pretty hard to get it to bend. This is a good thing for people who like pressure on their clit, but seems to me like false advertising.

The Le Wand has 20 different vibration patterns, and unlike most patterns, some of them are actually good. My complaint about patterns is usually that they’re too slow or that there’s too much space between bursts of vibration, so they act as a tease without really getting me closer to orgasm. But many of the Le Wand’s patterns are continuous vibration moving up and down in waves or fast pulses, so I can actually get off using them. This toy’s vibrations are still so aggressively buzzy that I don’t like using it on my bare genitals, because of the numbness and slight itchiness that ensues – but the Le Wand’s patterns, applied to my vulva through panties and/or pants, can be kind of nice sometimes.

But for a vibe that costs $170, the Le Wand should be way better than it is. It should be rumblier and quieter, and it shouldn’t be an obvious Hitachi clone. The Magic Wand Rechargeable costs only $125 and is superior in every way that matters to me. Get that one, or the also-wonderful (but electric, not rechargeable) Doxy Wand for $120. You’ll be much happier with either choice than you would with the shrill, buzzy bleating of the Le Wand.

 

Thanks so much to Peepshow Toys for sending me this vibe to review!

10 Things I’m Looking Forward To At This Year’s Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit

Kate Sloan

The Woodhull Sexual Freedom Summit is about a month away, amigos! It’s “like sex blogger Christmas” – we wait all year for it to come, and now it’s nearly here. I hope to see you there, but if you can’t make it, you can follow along from afar by tracking the #SFS17 hashtag on Twitter and on Instagram.

There are soooo many things I’m looking forward to at this year’s Woodhull; here are my top 10!

The digital creators’ meet-and-greet. This is a fun opportunity for sexuality-focused digital content creators to meet up, talk shop, and get to know each other. There will be bloggers, vloggers, podcasters, and more. We’ll do skillshares and nosh on snacks – what could be better?! (You have to RSVP to this event in order to attend, so make sure to do that if you have your eye on it.)

Storytelling for Social Change. I’m fascinated by the way narratives help us teach things, learn things, and feel things. Stories are powerful tools for anyone who has a message to share, and they can be particularly useful in areas where emotion runs high, like sexuality. This panel promises to explain “how storytelling techniques can be used to resolve conflict, reduce stigma, increase pleasure, and change the world.” Exciting!

Suz‘s butt after I spanked her with my Lexan paddle last year.

Spanking babes. I’ve only been to Woodhull once before, but hotel-room spankings there have already become a solid tradition in my mind. Let’s just say I’m packing some impact toys in my suitcase…

Femme As Fuck. This panel, put together by three glorious femmes, will discuss how the feminist movement has often devalued femininity and femmeness in its path toward empowerment and “coolness.” Fuck femmephobia forever, am I right?!

Bedpost Confessions. This yearly event involves sexy storytelling, provocative poetry, and carnal confessions. Then there’s a dance party. What’s not to love?!

Hurts So Good. This panel on pain disorders’ interaction with sexuality looks intriguing. I have some chronic joint pain in my hips and knees that’s often affected my sex life, so I’m interested to hear what folks with chronic pain issues have to say about self-advocacy and boundary-setting around pain and sex. (I wonder if they’ll talk about consensual pain, too?!)

Wearing ridiculous outfits. I feel closer to my “true self” at Woodhull than I do almost anywhere else, because everyone there is chill as fuck and knows me more as my brassy online persona than the awkward wallflower I often am “in real life.” As a result, I tend to dress weirder at Woodhull than at any other time all year. Last year, I rocked princess pajamas, a blue striped rockabilly dress, a sparkly mermaid ensemble, and a dress covered in vulvas. Who knows what silliness this year will bring?!

The Dildorks live recording. I’m absolutely thrilled to report that my bestie Bex and I will be doing a recording of our podcast for sex nerds, The Dildorks, in front of an audience at Woodhull! We’ll dole out our best tips for attending sex conferences, from making friends to absorbing workshop content to taking care of yourself. Come be a part of Dildorks history by watching our first-ever in-person live event!

Keep Giving a Fuck. This panel will discuss how to prioritize sex (or maybe whether to prioritize sex) when you’re going through tough times like health crises, financial problems, or – hell – the current political climate in the U.S. I always love seeing JoEllen speak, and I find her work so encouraging as a fellow sufferer of clinical depression, so I’m excited to hear her thoughts in this talk.

Hanging out with sex blogger friends. Chillin’ with the #BlogSquad was absolutely the highlight of my Woodhull experience last year, and I know this year will be more of the same! I feel so loving and grateful every day to have found a crew of like-minded sex-nerdy weirdos on the interwebz, and Woodhull’s one of the only times all year when we get to hang out IRL. I can’t wait to laugh til I cry, ogle each other’s sex toy collections, make bad puns, livetweet en masse, and feel surrounded by blogger love!

Will I see you at Woodhull this year? (If you spot me, come say hi!) What are you most looking forward to about the summit?

Sadsturbation: Hobby of the Heartbroken and Horny

Kate Sloan

One night, in the throes of a mind-numbing depression, I nuzzle my nose into my boyfriend’s chest. He tells me he’s feeling out of sorts as well, and sex is off the table tonight. “You are more than welcome to masturbate, though,” he adds.

“Nah, I don’t want to do that,” I reply instantly. I don’t mean it as the guilt trip it probably sounds like; it’s just that masturbation holds no appeal for me now, while sex still does. Partnered sex, when I’m depressed, is like visiting another world – a world where my selfish problems are distant and unimportant, where everything boils down to connectivity and sensuality, and where my pleasure is useful to someone other than myself. Sex is a mutual joy that brings me out of my self-absorbed misery and into the light of another person’s gaze. I can be someone else when I’m having sex, someone who isn’t depressed, if just for a little while.

We don’t have sex that night, and we don’t masturbate, either. We connect physically in other ways – touching, kissing, cuddling – and it feels like almost enough.

In the morning, I hold his hand while we walk dazedly down the street, and I confess I haven’t masturbated in over a week. A long time for me. “I think tonight I’m gonna get high and party down with my Hitachi,” I say, noticing immediately how much the idea does not appeal to me, while also recognizing how necessary it is to my wellbeing.

“I’ll help. I’ll sext you,” my partner replies, and I want to cry because it is the most selfless thing I have ever heard.

Many people report that when they’re depressed, their libido goes away. Mine rarely works that way. It goes deeper underground, maybe, or I get distracted from it for a while – but it’s always there.

But masturbating while depressed is a task and a half. It’s like trying to go ballroom dancing with an anvil chained to your ankle. Sure, you can do it. But it’s probably gonna be fucking miserable and you’re gonna feel exhausted the whole time.

When I’m depressed – whether due to situational factors, biochemical factors, or both – I often think of masturbation as a medicine I must force-feed myself. It won’t be pleasant or fun, in the way masturbation is “supposed” to be. But it’ll shift my neurotransmitters just enough, lift my crushing depression just enough that I can get out from under it for a little while.

The entire process may feel unappealing from start to finish – but at the very least, it’ll remind me that my body is capable of pleasure. Even if the pleasure is muted. Even if I feel undeserving of any pleasure at all.

Sexual fantasies are supposed to be fun. What happens when they aren’t anymore?

What happens when the person who fucks you most reliably in your fantasies is also the person who broke your heart? What happens when thinking about them makes you cry, but you can’t get off without thinking about them? When your precious, elusive orgasms hinge on replaying memories that make you want to weep and hurt yourself and give up on love forever?

Sometimes you find distraction tactics, workarounds. You mentally replace the object of your affections with a beloved celebrity or fictional character: Jim Halpert, John Watson, Rosa Diaz. You seek out new porn or erotica to repopulate your sexual fantasies with people and situations that don’t hurt. You cultivate a crush on a fresh new human, a crush for the sake of crushing.

Other times, though, you wade headlong into your heartbreak. You spritz on the cologne of the person who wrecked your heart, murmur to yourself all the dark hot things they said to you, and try to fuck yourself like they did – in that sweet special way you worry no one will ever fuck you again.

In discussing the ends of relationships, we rarely mention the unique pervy grief of missing the way your lost love fucked you. In losing them, you are also losing that particular flavor of sex you loved so much. Maybe no one else will do those particular things to you ever again – or maybe they will, and it’ll just be different; better, even. But sometimes, for the time being, you just have to mourn melancholically for that particular flick of their wrist, that one thing they could do with their tongue, those magnificent words they knew how to whisper at the always-perfect moment.

Two tools I return to in my saddest masturbation sessions, time and time again, are the Magic Wand Rechargeable and marijuana.

Weed can make me horny when seemingly nothing else can. It lifts the pressure of my sadness slightly, just enough to let arousal flow in. I might still be aware of the heartbreaks weighing on me, but they seem less impactful – like how weed makes physical pain feel like pleasure to me. I am aware that it hurts but, absurdly and blessedly, I do not mind.

The Magic Wand, on the other hand, gives me the distance from my genitals that I seem to need when I’m depressed. When the very idea of sticking my hand into my panties feels distasteful, when even contemplating my own heat and wetness and skin feels unsettlingly intimate, a wand vibe can save the day. I just turn it on and press it against myself through layers of fabric, and it does what it’s made to do – no nauseating touchy-feeliness required.

Sometimes my third go-to when cryin’ and jerkin’ it is reliable porn – reliable in the sense that it almost always turns me on and helps me get off. For me, this category is basically limited to Heather Harmon‘s POV blowjob videos. But even Heather, in all her dependable beauty and skill, sometimes makes me sad when I’m sad already. I contemplate the rumors that she divorced her husband, which would prove once and for all that even terrific sex full of care and love cannot always save a relationship. Or sometimes I just stare jealously at Heather and Jim’s sexual rapport, profoundly bitter I’ve never felt as connected to anything as Heather seems to feel to her husband’s dick.

Look, porn is great, but sometimes I just need to turn off my brain and focus on the vibrator thrumming against me. Orgasms don’t have to be about anything. Sometimes they can just happen, unmoored and isolated from any mental stimulus. Sometimes that’s the exact type of orgasm I need, or the only kind of which I’m capable.

Though my partner’s explicitly offered to help me get off by sexting me, I’m too anxious to ask directly – knowing he’s not in the sexy headspace that could make sexting a fun thing for us rather than just for me. I ask for it in a way that feels safe. “If you felt inclined to tell me some hott things to help me in my quest, I would be amenable to that,” I hem and haw.

“Has your quest already begun?” he asks, and we’re off to the races.

He guides me through a sext-a-thon that feels more meditative than sexy – like when a yoga teacher asks you to visualize a waterfall, an ocean, a bold white light spreading through your body from the inside out. “Imagine me putting my hands on you, kissing you,” he texts. He doesn’t need to describe how he would kiss me if he was here; I already know. “I’m going to slide my hand between your legs, over your panties. I can feel you getting wet already.” He’s right. I am.

In sext-land, he chokes me, fucks my face, pushes his fingers inside me. I can see it, feel it, and it’s some semblance of something I deeply need. Hot tears drift down my cheeks and dry on my lips as I pant and moan. He is so sweet and selfless to type these words of salacious encouragement into his phone for me, when I know he doesn’t feel like it. He understands that this sexual interaction is more than sexual to me; it’s life-affirming, mood-lifting, intimacy-building. It’s a “sexual favor” in the sense that it’s sexual and a favor, but it’s so much more than that.

“I know you’re going to come for me like a good girl,” he writes. “Turn that toy up higher.”

I crank the wand. I’m surprised at how close I am, in almost no time at all. For a week, arousal’s felt like a jewel in a locked treasure chest – and here he is, handing me the goddamn key.

“I’m so close, daddy,” I tell him.

“I want you to come for me, princess,” he writes back.

I do. It’s delicious and deep. I feel something shift in my brain – something small but important.

“Mm, I did it, daddy. That was really nice,” I type. “Thank you.”

“Good girl,” he responds, and for the first time in days, I feel like I might actually be a good girl. A girl whose brain isn’t swimming in depression. A girl who believes in herself, and can accomplish things. A girl whose daddy wants her to be happy, and who can therefore soldier on.

I set my Hitachi down, put my phone away, wipe off the tears half-dried on my face, curl up contentedly, and go to sleep. Maybe I’ll be okay after all.

Monthly Faves: Cakes, Collars, & Analog Orgasms

Kate Sloan

Are you having a nice summer so far? I sure am! Here were some of my favorite sexy things in June…

Sex toys

• I will be real with you: the majority of my orgasms this month were the doing of my boyfriend’s mouth and/or fingers, not a toy. In fact, I have felt somewhat lukewarm toward vibrators recently. I’m sure it’ll pass; they’re just a different kind of pleasure, one I’m not especially feelin’ right now. It’s like how sometimes you get obsessed with sushi for a few weeks and eat so much of it that eventually you feel like you never want to lay eyes on another dynamite roll ever again… but then you’re back at the sushi place the following month. Everything is cyclical, naw’m sayin’?

• When I did use vibrators this month, I was particularly partial to the ScreamingO Charged Vooom, which I reviewed back in April. It’s got a lovely level of rumbliness for such a tiny vibe. The raspberry-pink color makes me happy, too.

• I bought a Weal & Breech wooden paddle at the Pink Market T.O. and it is soooo fancy and beautiful! All of this company’s stuff is painstakingly handmade by folks who clearly know what they’re doing, both wood-wise and kink-wise. This paddle is thuddy with a bit of sting, and feels luxurious in the hand (and on the butt). Swoooon!

Fantasy fodder

• At one point this month, my boyf fucked me and then went down on me while fingerfucking me, and I was a bit stoned so I started having a weird fantasy: I imagined there were two of him, one fucking me and one licking my clit, and the one going down on me was intermittently saying filthy shit like “I’m gonna make you come all over his cock, little one.” Uhhh. Can this type of threesome be an actual reality in my life sometime?! I’m not sure about position logistics, but I bet we could figure it out.

• Speaking of threesomes… Lately I keep picturing a scenario in which my very dommy boyfriend sits on the sidelines issuing orders while me and another subby femme (*cough*) get it on. Specifically, I want him to tell a lady to go down on me and then instruct her on exactly how to make me come. And then he can boss me into going down on her too. HELP, I’M DEAD, this fantasy is too hot.

• (Content warning for consensual non-consent and “rape” porn.) I watched some “stalker porn” this month, i.e. porn based around the contrivance that a (male) stalker has broken into the home of his (female) unrequited love and essentially rapes her (but, as is par for the course in a lot of kinky porn, she eventually gets into it). While I still often feel icky about my “con non-con” kinks, I can’t deny that this scenario definitely makes me Feel Some Ways…

Sexcetera

• I got to be the demo bottom for an impact play workshop my friend Taylor J Mace taught at The Nookie this month. It was fun to get spanked in front of spectators! (Later that night, my boyfriend gave me a more thorough spanking, and we joked that the workshop had been a “slappetizer.”)

• On our podcast this month, Bex and I talked about fanfiction, Daddy doms, and sex-positivity, and we interviewed Andre Shakti about polyamory and fisting.

• Nerdy orgasm statz: I had 28 orgasms in June, which is about average for me. 17 of those (61%) were with a partner, and the other 11 (39%) were from masturbation. That brings my total for the year so far up to 162.

Femme stuff

• Back in April, I bought some tiny black shorts from H&M for about $15, and they’ve gotten a shocking amount of wear in recent weeks. They are very small but I feel super cute in them. Score!

• I wrote a piece about collars this month so I was pondering/lusting over them even more than usual. Peep these beauts: a simple black leather heart collar from NerdyPixie, a glorious padlocked day collar from LiquidNymph, the sexy deep purple Prince collar by Aslan Leather, and this ridiculously over-the-top heart necklace from Tarina Tarantino that would make an ideal day collar for, like, a rambunctious leather queen. *fans self* *sighs dramatically*

Little things

My new dayjob doing social media for some adult-industry companies. Friends who feel comfortable enough with me to confide in me. Nathan Stocker’s solo project (I never realized, before listening to his song “Little Rabbit,” how much I’d love for a domly partner to call me that…!). Spanakopita. Writing at a picnic table in a park. Improv dorks. Attending a cake-sitting party (OMG!). My boyf laundering my panties for me so I wouldn’t have to walk home in wet, day-old underwear (or, worse, commando). Getting to watch my little brother graduate. Combining perfumes. Sending pitches like a badass. Being dommed into making better decisions for my health (like taking my iron supplements and drinking more water). Grapefruit radlers in the park with Anais. Having my mind blown by Reid Mihalko’s jealousy workshop. Bite marks and bruises. A Tinder guy I found who had a cupcake recipe in his bio.

The Best One-Night Stands I’ve Ever Had

Kate Sloan

My Best One-Night Stand (Emotionally)

He approached me and a friend late at night in the dungeon of my local sex club – but unlike almost all men who do this, he was respectful, casual, and cute.

He was a comedian, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that he made me laugh, a lot – but I was. It’s so rare that I meet someone in a skeezy environment like a sex club who I actually connect with. “I think we matched on Tinder at one point,” he said, conversationally, between goofy jokes and silly impressions. “I noticed you in the crowd and thought, ‘Who is that? I recognize her!’” I was charmed.

We stepped out onto the balcony to smoke some weed, plush white towels hiding our nudity from the August air. “Do you ladies want to come back to mine and do some coke?” he asked us. (I am sure he put it in cooler terms than that, but not being a “coke person,” myself, I can’t remember what those terms were.)

I waffled, unsure how to say what I needed to say, and eventually decided just to say it. “I don’t want to do cocaine, but I do want to go to your place and make out with you a bunch,” I told him.

“Oh, good,” he said. “I was actually just offering you coke because I wanted you to come to my place and make out with me a bunch.” It should have been an off-putting line, but I was not put off.

He’d been flirting with both my friend and I in equal measure all night, and I was convinced he wanted a threesome. After all, this friend of mine was gorgeous – much moreso than me, I thought – so who could blame him? But she was in a monogamous relationship, so after an appropriate amount of flirting, she had to bow out. “I totally understand if that means you just want to call it a night,” I blurted apologetically as I broke this news to him, utterly certain he wouldn’t want me if my gorgeous pal wasn’t there to sweeten the deal.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “What? No, I totally still want you to come over, if you’re down!” Oh. I realized then that maybe I am actually attractive. Maybe this myth I tell myself about being second-best, an unconventional delicacy, a consolation prize, is indeed a myth. Maybe a charming, hilarious, handsome comedian can hit on me at a sex club and mean it. Maybe I have nothing to worry about. Oh. 

We took an Uber to his house and had a passable hookup. I don’t remember the details; I was drunk and giggly and elated to be wanted. I pulled his floppy hair and laughed at his jokes and basked in desiredness. I didn’t come and I didn’t care; a different type of pleasure was exchanged.

In the morning we went for coffee and he bid me adieu at the subway station. I never saw him again but he had healed something old and gnarled within me. He had made me new and happy. He had shown me I deserve to be happy.

My Best One-Night Stand (Sexually)

“I just realized where I recognize you from,” an OkCupid stranger told me. “I was your server at [restaurant name redacted]. I remember thinking you had an interesting energy.”

I glanced at his photo and recognized him immediately. My friend and I had giggled over half-price martinis about our hot waiter, daring each other to ask him out but never actually doing it. And here was Hot Waiter, in my OkCupid inbox, asking me out. Neat.

We went for drinks the following week. We chatted about our kinks, matter-of-factly, in that way people do when they’re not terribly invested in impressing each other but are still probably gonna bang.

“I can’t wait to take you home and fuck your brains out,” he growled in my ear later when he had me pushed up against a fence in an alley, one thigh shoved between mine. He kissed me so hard our teeth collided, nibbled at my earlobes so insistently I lost an earring.

“I dunno, I don’t usually like to have sex on first dates,” I told him, my indecision clear in the way my words wavered.

“Okay, that’s fine,” he replied, but it was only a few minutes until I decided that yes, actually, we should fuck. Like, ASAP.

A short cab ride later, he tossed me onto his bed like a ragdoll. “What’s your safeword?” he asked as he grabbed his under-the-bed restraints and strapped me into them.

“Red and yellow are fine,” I murmured through breathless giggles. He nodded. And then he fucked me so good and for so long that I felt blessed to have a vagina, blessed to have nerve endings, blessed to have been born.

“I… can’t even form sentences right now,” I slurred slowly in the afterglow. “I think you fucked my brain right out of my head.”

“I told you I was gonna,” he said. Cocky fucker. I grinned at him and he looked like Jesus: the lord and savior of my faith in one-night stands. 

My Best One-Night Stand (Hypothetically)

I never met him. I never got to kiss him or taste his skin. I never felt his hands on me, his mouth, his gaze. But I dreamed about it for weeks and sometimes I still do.

“Tell me five things about you that you think I should know,” he said in our initial lightning-fast exchange on OkCupid. “One of them has to be a pivotal sexual interest or kink of yours.”

I don’t remember what I said. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go back and look at our messages to check. It would remind me too much of what I missed out on.

I remember what he said when I asked him the same question, though.

“I am absolutely addicted to giving oral and making people cum. I am pretty handy with a dick but my true addiction lies in eating people out,” he confessed/bragged. “I am beyond into it and have made a point to be Olympian-level good at it. My favorite thing in the world is learning someone’s body to the point where I can make them cum uncontrollably and they physically have to stop me.”

Normally I do not sext with strangers; it makes me uncomfortable and it does not turn me on. But we had been talking openly enough and for long enough that I felt we were not strangers, at least not entirely. They say erotic stories can help relationships thrive, and in this case, the story appealing to me was the one he was weaving. His profile pictures and clever repartee had woven an image of a man I wanted to get to know – and, now, a man I wanted to go down on me.

“A thing about me is that I’m normally not that into people going down on me – but people aren’t normally very good at it,” I informed him. “So. We shall see.”

“Oh, a challenge,” he wrote back. “I have NEVER FAILED when presented with this. I am batting 1.000 with pussy-eating success.”

As I get older, I become increasingly aware that while sex-in-theory is a wonderful thing that excites me greatly, sex-in-practice is often a clunky disappointment. Transcendently good sex still exists, of course, but for me it is often the domain of long-term relationships: a partner has to know my body, my tastes, and my kinks before they can really do me right. This is why one-night stands have never appealed to me much. You can’t build the house without the blueprints, naw’m sayin’?

But this boy’s approach got me so curious. He didn’t just brag about being a good cunnilinguist, like many men do; he talked about enthusiasm for the act, curiosity about partners’ preferences, passion for learning what works for each individual. He wasn’t just sexting my body; he was sexting my brain.

He ghosted me before we actually went out, for reasons that are still unclear. And while ultimately I wouldn’t want to date or go out with someone who would do that to me, I’m still curious about that tongue, those lips, that brain. I wonder if the antidote to bad one-night stands is simply to have them with people who give a shit. People who want to learn your body like a puzzle. People for whom your pleasure isn’t a token bone they’re throwing you, but instead, the entire fucking point.

 

This post was produced in collaboration with Badults, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own.