Girly Juice

A Year With the Double Trouble (+ Win My Favorite Toy!)

November 21, 2016October 9, 2017Kate Sloan

November. I creep to the post office with a harried desperation in my step. Once there, I slink to the service counter and slide my “missed delivery” notice toward the clerk, hoping she won’t ask me what’s inside the package she fetches for me. She doesn’t. I clutch it to my chest the whole way home, protecting it from the world and the prying eyes of others, like it’s my baby. It kind of is.

December. I’m enthusing about my new toy – the Fucking Sculptures Double Trouble – to an equally new fuckbuddy. “Why don’t you marry it?!” he jibes, and I think through this scenario like it’s an actual possibility. Already, the Dub Trubz has given me more orgasms than this fuckpal has, so it seems like a decent contender for spousal consideration.

A few weeks into fucking me on the regs, my FWB’s getting frustrated that he hasn’t been able to make me come. It’s not his fault, I tell him; it takes me a while to warm up to new partners, and for them to learn what I like. “Show me how to get you off,” he texts, and I come over to his house with my Double Trouble and Tango crammed into my bag.

Post-makeouts and foreplay, I lube up my favorite side of the D-Trub – the slightly thinner, longer side – and push it inside myself. I let him grasp the other side and take the reins, but I offer a running commentary of directions to help him along: “Tilt the handle down so the tip hits my A-spot better. Move it in small in-and-out motions. A little deeper, please. Harder. Just a liiiittle faster. There. Yes. Like that. Right there.” It doesn’t take long. I fall to pieces in front of him, the Tango handily handling my clit while he strokes the DT over my spot again and again. He finally got to see me come. He’s thrilled.

January. I masturbate constantly with my not-so-new-anymore treasure. It’s like the honeymoon phase in a relationship; I just can’t see anything wrong with it, nor do I want to. It makes me squirt, it makes me giggle, it makes me come and come and come. I take it in the bath, to fuckbuddies’ houses, to coffee-dates with friends so I can show them my fave toy. Sometimes I’m lying in bed and I catch sight of it on my nightstand, and I have to use it immediately. It’s that good.

February. Planning my first anal sex experience, I’m sexting with a handsome hookup who loves using toys on me. “Any particular toys you want me to bring?” I ask him, nervous and excited. The hotel room is booked; this is really happening.

“It’s about what you like,” he replies. “Even if I’m having a good dick night, that’s gonna be three rounds, max, with variable stamina. But if you want to get rammed with a toy for another 20 minutes, bring that. ;)” My heart quickens and I slide the Double Trouble into the toy bag I’ve already packed well beyond its capacity.

When the moment for toy-ramming actually arrives, there are really only two choices worth considering, and they’re both on the nightstand of our hotel room. “It’s up to you,” I tell him when we’re trying to decide which one should be the one to get me off. “The Eleven is more G-spotty, and the Double Trouble is more A-spotty.”

He fingered me a little, earlier in the night, so he’s bang-on when he intuits, “It seems like you’re in an A-spot kind of mood tonight.” (This is before I realize that I’m pretty much always in an A-spot kind of mood.) He fetches my Hitachi and lubes up the dildo, and I give him my same old detailed play-by-play of how to fuck me with this blue glass behemoth. He absolutely nails it. “I wish my dick was shaped like this,” he mutters, mere minutes before making me come so hard I practically black out.

March. “Some orgasms are quick, small, and barely noticeable,” I tweet. “And some orgasms involve the Double Trouble.”

April. I have a lacklustre Tinder hookup in Minneapolis. It sates my BJ craving but doesn’t get me off – one-night stands almost never do – so I wreck myself with my Dub Trubz after the dude drives me back to where I’m staying. Once again, a damn good dildo saves the day.

May. I’m on antidepressants for the first time in my life, and suspect that they might be affecting my sexual sensitivity. During a threesome with Bex and my favorite fuckbuddy, he uses his fingers and then the Double Trouble on my A-spot, and I don’t even get close to coming. That’s when I know for sure that my orgasmic capabilities have been stunted by the medication. If that dude’s fingers can’t get me off, something is wrong; if the D-Trubz can’t get me off, something is really wrong. I quit the pills the very next day.

June. I declare on Twitter that if my vagina were a polyamorous person, the Double Trouble would be its primary partner. (Truth be told, when I’m between partners, this toy feels like it’s my primary partner.)

July. I have a new kinda-boyfriend, and my fave fuckpal is in town. I have a lot of sex. No, really, a lot of sex. And a lot of it involves the Double Trouble. It’s fascinating to observe different partners’ approaches to using it on me.

One memorable afternoon, me and my fuckbuddy are gettin’ down to business in my bedroom in an Airbnb, while Bex shoots porn in the next room. While warming me up with his fingers, he reminds me in a low, vaguely dom-y tone, “We have to be really quiet.” I nod and pull a pillow over my face as a preemptive measure. He hands me my Hitachi, then lubes the Double Trouble and pushes it into me. I thought I could be quiet. Now I’m not so sure.

When we go out for dinner, I say to Bex, “You’re gonna lock the door, right?” and without missing a beat, they reply, “Duh. There’s a Double Trouble in there.”

August. I bring my Dub Trub to Woodhull so the other sex bloggers can ooh and aah over it. They do. One afternoon, horny and socially overwhelmed, I skip a session and sneak upstairs to my hotel room for an introvert break that is also a masturbation break. I work myself up with deft precision, Tango in one hand and Double Trouble in the other. It’s quick and easy. I feel instantly better.

Later in the month, I bring a new beau back to my place, and we hook up for the first time. “I want you to show me where your A-spot is,” he whispers darkly; he’s obviously been reading my tweets. I help him find it with his fingers first, and then I arm him with the DT. He picks up the necessary skillset admirably fast. After I come, he tells me, “That was hot,” and I radiate a glowy grin.

September. I’m miserable. Heartbroken over a recent romantic rejection, bitter over a couple of nasty break-ups, and as dour and depressed as I’ve been in recent memory. My genitals feel foreign to me, and most days, masturbation is too much work to contemplate. But when I need it, the Double Trouble is there. It sleuths out my A-spot. It makes me come. I don’t have to think, or try, or fantasize. Paired with the Magic Wand or Tango, it’s nearly instant. I’m unspeakably grateful for sex toys, because they make my life a little easier when it seems very, very hard.

October. I go to Malta and Italy for two weeks. Knowing I’ll be sharing a hotel room with my mom the whole time, I give minimal thought to masturbation. At the last minute, I decide to pack my Tango and G-Spoon, just incase. They end up being indispensable to me, since travel stress makes me horny as hell – but I still wish I’d brought my Double Trouble. True, I would’ve panicked the whole time that it’d get lost or stolen somewhere in an airport or a cargo hold, but nonetheless, I miss it. It’s my go-to guy.

November. I have an impromptu threesome with a handsome friend and a pretty lady. She plays with my nipples, kisses me, and tells me how cute I am, while he fucks me with the Double Trouble. He stands by the edge of the bed so he can fully harness the strength of his quads to ram me. At one point I start to get anxious and ask him, “Are you tired? Do you want to stop?” and he all but rolls his eyes, because he knows I’m prone to insecurities about taking too long to come. “You just lie back, relax, and feel good,” he instructs me. While I’m coming hard a few minutes later, he quips, “See what happens when you trust me?” and it’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever heard.

The next morning, Suz has to go home early, so it’s just me and Handsome Pal snugglin’ naked in bed. One thing leads to another, and once again, he’s got that big chunk of blue glass buried in me. “Harder,” I pant. I want more sensation. I want it to almost hurt. I want to come so hard for him. “If I go any harder, I might impale you,” he comments, “but I think you want to be impaled.” And then he presses the DT’s tip even more insistently against my A-spot, slamming the toy in and out of me faster. My yeahs and right-theres and don’t-stops coalesce into gasps and screams. The orgasm hits me like a train. I haven’t come that hard in months.

The 20th is the one-year anniversary of the Double Trouble’s arrival in my life. I decide I want to do something to mark the occasion. I ask the many-times-aforementioned friend with benefits – the person who’s handled my D-Trubz the most, other than me – for a mini-review to include in this post, and he writes back: “Fucking a partner with the Double Trouble fulfills my fantasy of having some kind of prehensile sci-fi alien penis… Recommended!” I simultaneously laugh and get turned on, a thrilling Pavlovian response. Unf.

dtrubz

I have the most exciting news for you, my loves: you can win a Double Trouble!! Last week, I reached out to SheVibe and Fucking Sculptures to ask if they’d provide a gift card that one of my readers could win and potentially put towards a DT, but both companies are fuckin’ superstars and they each generously offered an actual goddamn Double Trouble for my giveaway instead. Amazing!!

If you win one, SheVibe or Fucking Sculptures will ship you the toy for free if you live within the U.S. If you’re located elsewhere, you’ll have to pay the shipping yourself (but trust me, it’s worth it).

The giveaway goes until December 1st. I’m so so happy I get to hook up two of my lovely readers with my very favorite sex toy!

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What Gala Darling Taught Me About Self-Love, Mean Boys, & Magic

November 17, 2016November 17, 2016Kate Sloan

When I initially discovered Gala Darling online, I thought she was self-absorbed. She was always posting outfit photos and linking incessantly to her blog, and I thought, “Wow, she really thinks highly of herself.” Hypocritical, for sure, since I was also posting outfit photos and blogging at that time. What an oaf I was.

Little did I know, this kind of snap judgment about women’s right (or lack thereof) to proudly love ourselves is exactly the kind of thinking that Gala seeks to dismantle in her work on radical self-love. And it’s exactly the kind of thinking I badly needed to dismantle in myself at that time.

At age 14, I was a surly, snotty, deeply insecure dork. I believed with certainty that I was ugly and unloveable. I felt awkward in my body, hiding away my curvy femme flair in baggy, masculine clothes. I hated most people I met, because I projected my insecurities onto them and that made me perceive them as shallow, mean, boring, and stupid. I thought I was smarter than everyone – my friends, my family, even my teachers – and that made me feel desperately alone, like no one understood me. Classic teenager, right?

Worse yet, some part of me believed this negative viewpoint made me special and unique. My bitter façade felt central to my identity. I thought my sarcastic snark was all I had to offer, because (I thought) I wasn’t pretty, sexy, or worthy of love. If I could be dark and sharp, hardened and smart, at least I’d be something.

Oh, I was “something” alright. If by “something,” I mean “miserable.”

When curiosity finally got the better of me, I clicked through to Gala Darling’s website after seeing her link to it in many an outfit photo description. And as I read page after page of her blog – first begrudgingly, then perplexedly, then rabidly – I felt something once-solid inside me start to break down and shift.

Gala wrote about positivity, love, living a celebratory life, unconventional personal style, treating people well, kissing, blogging, confidence, and embracing your inner nerd. She wrote about getting dressed up for the sheer joy of it, courting yourself like you were your own cherished lover, and making your daily life lovelier. She wrote about sex appeal, magic, and knotted pearl necklaces. I loved her, immediately and profoundly.

In the days after combing through Gala’s entire blog archive, taking fervent notes in my Moleskine the whole time, something remarkable happened to me. I found myself starting to feel happier, lighter, more self-loving and self-accepting. And to my immense surprise, that feeling didn’t go away.

A lot of Gala’s writings about self-love resemble a framework I now recognize as cognitive-behavioral. That is to say: she addresses your tangled thoughts, in all their maladaptive disarray, and your actions, encouraging you to actually go out and do things differently.

I did a whole lot of things differently in the months after devouring Gala’s blog. I started making gratitude lists, began dressing how I actually wanted to dress, and set concrete goals for myself that I started moving toward, little by little, day by day. All of those habits are still with me today, and they’ve completely transformed my life. I honestly don’t know who I’d be right now if Gala Darling hadn’t entered my world.

So, needless to say, I was over the moon when – after almost a decade of following Gala’s adventures like her writing was gospel – I finally got to meet her in person this past May.

I was visiting New York for a threesome, because of course I was. Gala had mentioned, on numerous occasions, her love of witchy East Village shop Enchantments, where you can buy all manner of occult treasures: incense, essential oils, herbs, tarot cards, and talismans. I tweeted about wanting to visit Enchantments while I was in town, and Gala asked if I wanted a “witchy date” to accompany me. Um, yes, I very very very much did.

We made plans, and met up on my last day in New York in the dark, cozy, half-underground front room of Enchantments. I was nervous, but I was also surprised by how easy our rapport was, right off the bat: it felt like I’d known her for years, because in some sense, I had. We hugged, and chatted about our lives, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

tumblr_o7z5xme1qq1qzigipo3_1280 Enchantments’ most exciting offering, if you ask me, is their custom-made spell candles. They’re enormous pillar candles, colored and carved and anointed and blessed according to whatever specific concerns are troubling you in your life. I told the shop’s resident witches about my romantic situation at the time: a hopeless crush on someone who would never love me back, and a string of recent bad relationship decisions that probably stemmed from the distraction caused by that endless crush. They listened to my tale of woe and determined I’d be most benefited by a “Love Uncrossing” candle, which can help clear psychological blocks around love and promote clarity in that area. The witches asked me for some other details, like my name and astrological sign, and had me taste some ceremonial honey as part of the process. Then Gala and I absconded to a café to sit and chat while my candle was being prepared.

After she bought me a frozen hazelnut latte with almond milk (the yummiest, and such a sweet gesture), we sat down and talked for ages, about blogging, boys, sex, Tinder, goals, and so much more. I felt like I was in a dream – one of those dreams where you inexplicably get to sit down with your hero and ask them all the questions you’ve always wanted to ask them. It was weird and wonderful and I couldn’t believe it was real.

The aforementioned romantic situation was very much on my mind at that time, so I may have sliiiightly talked Gala’s ear off about it. But she was so gracious and kind. She told me she thought I should cut off contact with the boy whose lack of affection for me was hurting me every day, even though my poor smitten heart wanted nothing more than to be with him all the time. He was just taking up space in my life, she said, that could be better filled by people who actually would love me and treat me right.

It’s funny how you can read about a concept at length, and understand it on the theoretical level, but still suck at actually implementing it. That’s how I am with self-love, sometimes. If a friend of mine told me she was stuck on some dumb boy who didn’t like her back, and it was breaking her heart every day, I know exactly what I’d tell her. I’d tell her she deserved better, that he didn’t know what he was missing, and that her time and energy would be better spent nixing him from her life and moving on than pining and obsessing. It would be tough advice to hear, but it would be rooted only in my love for her. And of course, that’s the same advice I want to give myself, when I’m truly radiating and living self-love.

Gala is my idol, so when she told me I should phase that dude out of my life and move the fuck on, I listened. I’m not saying I cut him out of my social sphere entirely, or vowed to tell off anyone who mistreated me from then on, or announced a dating hiatus while working on my self-love; after all, I’m only human, and I’m prone to backsliding like anyone is. But Gala reminded me of what she’s been teaching me all these many years, over and over again, in so many ways: that I am worthy of love, even (and perhaps especially) when I’m the only one who’s madly in love with me.

I’m so lucky. This year I got to meet two of my heroes, two of the people who shaped me for the better at crucial times in my life: Kidder Kaper, and Gala. In both cases, they taught me things that made me want to do better, live better, and be better.

I realized recently that now, at 24, I’m as old as Gala was when I discovered her blog and it changed my goddamn life. And if that doesn’t make me want to be a beacon of light every day, writing helpfully and openheartedly for the people who need to hear what I have to say, then nothing will.

7 Ways Weed Boosts My Libido

November 14, 2016October 23, 2016Kate Sloan

My relationship to marijuana has been a journey. There was a time, years ago, when I was “straight-edge,” but now I firmly consider myself a member of the #StonerFemme contingent. Weed helps me on a near-daily basis with my anxiety and depression, my chronic joint pain, and – yes! – my libido.

I get a lot of questions about this whenever I mention it on Twitter, largely from people who are confused because they haven’t experienced this effect from marijuana. I can’t really explain it; I’m sure it depends on your body chemistry, your method of consumption, and what type of weed you’ve got. As for me, I find that sativa-dominant hybrids work best if I’m trying to amp up my libido, but really, almost every strain I’ve tried has made me feel this way. (The first Leafly review for my favorite sexytimes strain just says “Yo I was vibrating and shit,” so apparently I’m not alone.)

Hopefully I don’t have to tell you that intoxicants can complicate consent. If you need a refresher on that, read the first four paragraphs of this article I wrote. But with that caveat, I want to tell you today about the seven (!) key ways that marijuana helps raise my libido and my enjoyment of sex and masturbation…

Arousal. Oftentimes, when I go several days without masturbating, it’s because it just feels like too much work. My sex drive is more responsive than spontaneous, so if I want to jerk off, I have to spend some time warming myself up and getting turned on: watching porn, reading erotica, and/or gently touching myself in places that aren’t my genitals until that area is ready to be touched. That process is lovely when I’m in the mood for it, but sometimes it just feels like an extra barrier to entry that isn’t worth the hassle. So I skip masturbation entirely.

Weed, amazingly, helps me circumvent the arousal process. If I smoke up, I’ll reliably get turned on within about 10 minutes, without having to actually do anything to make that happen. My genitals start to feel all warm and engorged like they do when I’ve been engaging in foreplay for several minutes – except I haven’t. It’s brilliant.

I remember one time, I smoked some weed at my then-boyfriend’s house just before leaving to head back home. On the walk home, I felt my own wetness start to drip down my leg. That’s a level of lubrication I usually only reach after, say, an hour of teasing and edging and fucking with someone I find colossally attractive. And weed made it happen without any effort or work at all. Strange and lovely!

Sensitivity. There is science to back this up: weed increases our capacity to feel physical sensations. Whether it’s a partner’s fingertips trailing along your spine, someone’s soft lips pressed against yours, or a vibrator nestled against your clit, sensory information tends to feel amplified when you’re high.

I wouldn’t say that weed makes my orgasms come more quickly or easily – I’m still a tough nut to crack, even when I’m stoned – but the lead-up to orgasm does feel better than it normally would. It’s as if I’ve never felt those exact sensations before, and my body and brain are experiencing them anew. It’s pretty magical.

Worth noting: this increased sensitivity isn’t always a good thing. When I had anal sex for the first time, my fuckpal – a seasoned stoner – advised me not to smoke beforehand, because anal penetration is already an intense sensation and weed could make it so I’d feel every bump and vein. I’m glad I listened to him. But for less overwhelming sex acts, that boost in receptiveness can be positively delicious.

Tactility. So, yes, weed makes me more physically sensitive, and it also makes me more excited about the whole notion of touching people. Or touching myself, as the case may be.

I once smoked weed with a beloved fuckbuddy while at a party, and when it hit me, I became obsessed with his arm hair. We were standing close together and I kept brushing my arm against his, sloooowly, to feel his comforting hairiness slide against my porcelain smoothness. It felt shockingly intimate and sexy, despite the fact that we were fully dressed and not even looking at each other – he was absorbed in conversation with someone else and I was pretending to listen to that conversation, too. But my attention was reduced to just those few inches of skin on skin, and how fucking delightful he felt against me.

This obsession with tactile information also means that oral sex on weed is a damn good time. You know what they say about “the munchies”…! When I’m high, I’m equally thrilled if there’s a Reese’s cup in my mouth or a dick in there, and for roughly equivalent reasons.

Visualizations. I wrote about this a bit when I had my first stoned orgasm. Weed isn’t a full-on psychedelic, in the sense that you’re probably not going to have a spiritual breakthrough or an LSD-esque “trip” on it, but it can create some visual and sensory hallucinations sometimes.

For example: once, Bex was sexting with their long-distance Sir while high, and when the topic of a blowjob was broached, Bex says they could actually feel their Sir’s cock in their mouth. I’ve had similar experiences when I’ve combined weed with fantasies, sexting, or porn: I become very suggestible, such that the mention of, say, a fist in my vagina can create the sensory illusion that there actually is a fist fucking me. When I try to sexually fantasize while sober, my mind often wanders and I can’t focus enough to get a vivid fantasy going; weed makes that process a lot easier and more fun.

Disinhibition. Much like alcohol, marijuana can loosen your inhibitions so you don’t feel as self-conscious. For an anxious person like me, this is a godsend. Anxiety triggers my sexual brakes, making it hard for me to get turned on and relax into the moment. Weed lifts the oppressive weight of anxiety off my shoulders, so I can be in the moment and quit worrying about shit that doesn’t matter.

While this effect is, like I said, similar to the disinhibition alcohol can facilitate, weed is physiologically a far better pre-sex choice than alcohol. Due to how booze affects the blood vessels, being drunk stunts our sexual sensitivity, our capacity for orgasm, and our ability to maintain an erection (penile or clitoral). They don’t call it “whiskey dick” for nothin’!

Joy. Gala Darling has written that regular exercise creates “a constant undercurrent of joy” in her life; I feel similarly about marijuana. It melts my stress and transports me to a place of childlike delight, where I can see the present moment for what it is: an opportunity for happiness, growth, and play.

There is certainly a time and a place for sex that is emotionally intense, focused, and serious. But that type of sex is a rare craving for me; what I want, far more often, is the goofy, giggly, relaxed kind of sex. I firmly believe that sex is grown-up playtime. I’m happiest in my sex life when I remember that and take it to heart. Weed makes that even easier to do.

When I’m depressed, or recovering from some kind of heartbreak, I often find it difficult to get turned on, because my sexual thoughts and fantasies just make me sad instead. Weed helps with that: it puts me into a happy-go-lucky brainspace where even people who’ve hurt my feelings can’t really bother me. So I can fantasize about them to my heart’s content.

Ecstatic pain. This one is weird, and I don’t have a scientific explanation for it, just firsthand experience to draw from: marijuana sometimes makes me experience pain as pleasure.

I first noticed this years ago when, stoned at a party, a friend and I began doing sun salutations. I noticed immediately that the stretching of my muscles – usually an intense, slightly uncomfortable feeling for me – felt almost orgasmic. I moaned aloud as I moved through the poses, pushing my body farther than I normally would, because the more I pushed, the better it felt.

It took me a few years to figure out how best to use this effect to my advantage: kink! I looove getting spanked, slapped, bitten, and scratched when I’m stoned. It all feels so fucking good. When I’m in that headspace and someone really skilled is spanking me just right, sometimes it even seems like I could get off from that alone. That hasn’t happened yet, but I’m still holdin’ out hope!

How do you find marijuana interacts with your libido, sensitivity, and enjoyment of sex? Got any tips, tricks, or favorite strains to share?

Strange Self-Care in a Time of Terror

November 12, 2016November 12, 2016Kate Sloan

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The day after the election, like many of you, I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t wash the previous night’s tear-streaked eyeliner off my face, or brush my teeth, or get dressed.

What I could do, and what I did do, was as follows: I put on some lipstick, watched YouTube videos and blowjob porn, and cried.

Self-care – or coping, because sometimes they are one and the same – is so unique from person to person. What’s comforting to you might be scary or weird to me, and vice versa. But with that caveat, here are some things I’ve been doing to take care of myself during what feels like a global depressive spell. I hope some of these suggestions help you, or at least inspire you to do what you can do for yourself.

Lipstick. If you ever see me wearing just lipstick and no other makeup, you’ll know I’m either feeling minimalistic in a French-starlet kind of way, or I’m depressed. It’s the easiest cosmetic to slick on when I barely have the emotional energy to look in a mirror. It doesn’t require the patience of liquid eyeliner, the precision of eyebrow pencil, the fastidiousness of foundation. It’s a simple, quick burst of color. It signals to my body and my brain that I am beginning my day, even if my pajamas and unbrushed hair say otherwise.

Mundane activities. If I can manage to get out of bed when depressed, I may be able to (slowly) work up to cleaning, doing laundry, or other boring day-to-day tasks. They are small and not terribly significant in the grand scheme of things, but they are something I can do, and it feels good to be able to do something when you’re depressed. My friend Sarah likes to bake, for similar reasons; she says doing something with her hands feels useful when depression makes it hard for her to move her body a lot. The other day I went to the mall with a friend because he needed to return a shirt he’d bought, and it was the sweetest banal respite. Sometimes going grocery shopping or stepping out for a coffee feels oddly affirming when I’m depressed. It’s okay to do small things when you can’t manage the big ones.

Blowjob porn. I’m aware that this is unconventional, but that’s the point of this post, after all. While watching Heather Harmon porn in a weed-induced stupor the other day, I became aware that it was calming me down and comforting me. Part of that is simply that her porn is familiar to me; I know the rhythms and features of it, the noises I can expect from her husband Jim, the predictable cumshot at the end. And blowjobs are, historically, a calming activity for me. The love between Heather and Jim really comes through (no pun intended!) in their videos, and that helps, too. There is something so sweet and simple about a loving blowjob. When Heather does it, it is a gift without expectations of reciprocation. It is a pure expression of affection. In a world that feels cold and heartless, it can be nice to remember that there are still people who love each other that selflessly, somewhere; that there are still people who want to see their loved ones experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake.

Funny podcasts. I sing the praises of the McElroy brothers at any given opportunity. Their humor is goofy, fresh, and relentlessly kind. Whether I’m puzzling through advice questions with the brothers on MBMBaM, immersing myself in the fantasy world they’ve built in The Adventure Zone, or laughing til I cry at the weird creations of Monster Factory, I’m hardly thinking about my problems or worries when I’m mired in a McElroy show. It’s not hyperbole to say that these boys may have saved my life on many occasions.

Making music. My songs are predominantly about romantic rejections and unrequited love – phenomena that feel huge when they’re happening to you, but pale in comparison to, say, the impending threat of a global economic collapse and the xenophobic mass ejection of immigrants. When the big things feel too scary to contemplate, it can help to whine about the small things for a while. And if perfectionism doesn’t make your anxiety worse, it can give you a concrete task to work on when the world’s issues feel unsolvable. I showed my friend Brent a song I wrote recently, and he – a seasoned songwriting teacher – gave me detailed notes about structure, syllables, melody and arrangement. Working toward perfection, even within the small world of a single song, felt fuelling when I would’ve otherwise been crushed by the weight of the global problems I cannot solve.

Scary media. Stephen King novels, American Horror Story, bad slasher films on Netflix – whatever works. There is some evidence that horror movies alleviate anxiety for some of us, and I’ve definitely experienced that. It’s comforting to feel that there is an actual, concrete reason for your fear, instead of just letting your nonspecific dread run rampant. And when the story resolves, some of your terror might, too. For similar reasons, my friend Sarah says reading erotica helps her anxiety. Don’t judge yourself for the seemingly strange self-care strategies you employ. If it works, it’s worth doing.

Marijuana. Some would say it’s not healthy to rely on substances to get you through tough times. I say that sometimes substances are the only things that can get you through and that may not be ideal but it’s still okay. Weed blurs my brain a little, forcing me to think one thought at a time instead of losing myself in worry. And it also reawakens my libido even at the unsexiest of times (more on that in a post coming out on Monday), enabling me to masturbate when I otherwise would’ve been too depressed to do so. Masturbation can be, for me, an important medicine, flooding my body with uplifting neurotransmitters and re-affirming my love for myself, so any impetus to do it more often is a good thing.

What are your unconventional self-care methods?

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The Good, the Bad, and the Awkward: 5 First Dates I’ll Never Forget

November 10, 2016December 6, 2016Kate Sloan

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Dating is so weird. It simultaneously triggers my anxiety and makes life seem beautiful. It’s an antiquated practice but still feels fresh and crucial. Good dates can be amazingly, astonishingly good, and bad dates can be unendingly, unforgettably bad.

Dating and hookup sites like Justlocalsex.com make it easy to find dates plentifully and quickly, but after a while, sometimes all those trepidatious evenings start to blur together. There are, however, some dates I’ve been on that I will just never, ever forget. Whether memorably marvelous or memorably mortifying, here are five dates that will stick in my head forever…

My first date ever was with a boy I met on DeviantArt (ugh, god, I know!). A high schooler already, he seemed devastatingly wise and cool to my dweeby middle-schooler ass. We met ostensibly to trade photography tips and wander around Kensington Market taking pictures, but first we made a pit stop in a nearby Burger King to fuel up for our mission.

It’s normal for conversation to be stilted when you first meet someone in person, as you both shake off first-date jitters and get to know each other’s conversational rhythms. But sometimes that rigidness just doesn’t go away. This was one of those dates.

After waiting in line to buy our food and finding we had damn near nothing to say to each other, we sat down with our burgers and fries and tried not to look each other in the eyes. Mid-bite, he shook his head sadly and proclaimed, “This is exactly the kind of awkwardness I was hoping to avoid.”

Needless to say, there was not a second date. I think he later came out as gay – which might explain our lack of romantic or sexual chemistry, but not our lack of conversational chemistry. Dates can still be great even if they end up veering less romantic than expected – I’ve made some of my closest friends that way – but that was not the case here. It was, shall we say, not an auspicious start to my dating career.

My first good date was with a gorgeous, goofy, purple-haired lesbian I’d had a crush on forever. The week previous, I’d confessed my feelings in a handwritten note containing lovelorn excerpts from my journal. My crush was reciprocated, and now, tentatively, she was my girlfriend and I was hers. It was the most exciting and terrifying thing that had ever happened in all my fifteen years on earth.

We met at her favorite coffee shop, Chocolate Heaven. My cafés of choice at the time were Starbucks and Tim Hortons, so this cozy indie haunt seemed as refreshingly quirky as my new girlfriend herself. She ordered a cappuccino and I swooned; what a cool thing to drink, I thought. I ordered a hot chocolate and my hands shook so much, the mug clattered in the saucer.

We talked for hours. We couldn’t stop talking. Her synapses fired so quick, it was like riding a roller coaster of puns, anecdotes and retorts. Her eyes flashed brightly, her hands swirled in wild gesticulations, and she spun clever yarns I devoured with fervor.

When we couldn’t reasonably linger in the café any longer, I walked her home. On her porch, I rocked back and forth on my heels, shoved my hands in my pockets, hemmed and hawed. I’d never received a kiss; how could I be so bold as to initiate one? But somehow I did. I leaned in, and – ouch – our foreheads collided. We tried again. My nose crashed into hers. “One more time,” she giggled, and we gave it another shot. That time, it worked. I skipped home like the smitten idiot I absolutely was.

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One night in 2009, a boy rang my doorbell. I answered the door with tears in my eyes. He was the reason I was crying, and he knew it. He’d betrayed my trust, and I was crushed, in more ways than one.

I said his name when I opened the door, surprised to see him. “I really like you,” he blurted in response. This was new information to me. “Would you maybe wanna go out with me sometime?”

“Let me get my coat,” I managed to respond, the tears already drying on my cheeks.

We went to a nearby café. I ordered a chai latte, which he insisted on paying for, in that dorkily chivalrous way teenage boys have. As we waited for our drinks at the bar, I chirped, “I can’t wait to call my best friend and tell her I went on a date with you! She’s gonna freak out.” He grinned and replied, “Why don’t you call her right now?” He was a weirdo. It’s one of the reasons I liked him so much. I took my phone out of my pocket and dialed, unable to stop smiling.

My most life-changing date was in March 2011, and I didn’t even want to go. It was my first time meeting an OkCupid suitor in person, and I was nervous about any and all possibilities: nervous our conversation would be awkward, nervous he’d think I was ugly, nervous he’d be an axe murderer. I asked my best friend to casually “drop by” the tea shop where the date would take place, about midway through, so she could save me if I needed saving.

As it turned out, I had no reason to worry. I showed up and found that the boy was charming, smart, witty, and kind. We geeked out over Pokémon, bemoaned the shortcomings of OkCupid, and laughed at each other’s weird jokes. When my friend stopped by to check on me, I told my date that she was doing this and why, and he was completely cool with it. He understood. We bid my friend adieu and my new cutie walked me to my doorstep.

We didn’t even kiss on that first date, and that is why I will argue ceaselessly with anyone who claims a first date has to end with a kiss or the match was a failure. That man ended up becoming my first serious boyfriend, my first love, and my portal into new worlds. We took things very, very slowly, and I’m glad. That first date was just as effortlessly delightful as the rest of the relationship. I don’t regret a bit of it.

My first Tinder date was with a cute comedian. I met up with him at a sketch show, breathless and late. “What did you do today?” he asked, conversationally. “Oh, I was working on a post for my blog,” I told him. “What was the post about?” he asked, and I had no choice but to tell the truth: “Um, it was about my clit.” He reacted, I should say, admirably well.

The show was so funny I repeatedly choked on my beer. Afterward, I asked, “Do you wanna hang out for a while?” and he said, “Yeah, I really do.”

We sat in the dim scuzz of Comedy Bar for hours, asking each other questions about our childhoods and favorite movies and online dating experiences. Eventually we meandered to McDonald’s for some food. I remember he complimented my blue tights and asked if he could touch them. I think that was the moment I decided I wanted to have sex with him. And later, I did.

It’s funny how, even though that relationship ended terribly, the first date still shines in my memory. Sometimes a first date is a preview of the magic to come, and sometimes it’s the only magic the two of you will ever conjure together. Either way, good first dates are worth appreciating: they are preciously rare in this world.

What are the most memorable first dates you’ve been on?

Heads up: this post was sponsored, but as always, all writing and opinions are my own!