Happy Pride!

For those of you who celebrate Pride, I hope it is/was/will be a fantastically fun time for you this year.

I wish that you get covered in rainbow glitter, that somehow rinses off easily when you want it to. (Easily rinsable glitter is a myth, but a girl can dream.)

I wish you lots of hot strangers of the gender(s) you find attractive, looking you up and down as you sashay past.

I wish you plenty of roadside booths stocked with T-shirts with silly slogans, sparkly cowboy hats, and hand-blown glass dildos in Pride colors.

I wish you epic dance parties in dark sweaty clubs, and exactly as much physical contact from strangers as you desire, whether that’s none at all or a whole lot.

I wish you a reverential experience that reminds you of why it’s so crucial to feel outrageously proud of who you are.

I wish you total self-acceptance and, in fact, self-adoration.

Happy Pride, darlings! I’ll see you tomorrow for more sex toy talk.
-G.J.

Progress Report: G-Spot Orgasms (Take Three)

When I first wrote about my G-spot here, I had figured out how to make it feel good and swell up, but that was about as far as I’d gone. When I wrote an update a couple weeks later, I had given myself a seemingly “blended” orgasm by using a very intense G-spotting dildo in conjunction with a reliably excellent clit toy.

This time, I’m checking in to let you know that, for the first time I can remember, I managed to achieve a seriously intense, blended orgasm during intercourse with my boyfriend.

It started out innocently enough. At around 4AM, we dragged ourselves to bed, wanting sleep but also wanting to fit in a little “intimate time” before nodding off. We agreed that it would have to be slow and lazy sex, because neither of us had the energy for the hard ramming that is usually my preference.

Earlier that day, I’d been reading Deborah Sundahl’s book (yes, still – I’m a slow reader, okay?!) and she mentioned that it’s sometimes helpful for a man to concentrate on rubbing his coronal ridge over the G-spot with every thrust. I told this to my boyfriend and he accepted the challenge.

I was on my period, and feeling slightly self-conscious about my ladybits, so we skipped our usual foreplay and cut right to the chase. My man condom’ed and lubed his cock, I grabbed my Eroscillator (my clit’s best friend, and a perfect choice for those times when I’m too exhausted to rub myself during sex or just can’t be bothered), and we got down to business.

Normally my G-spot needs a good amount of prep and warm-up before it becomes sensitive enough to register pleasure, but as Ms. Sundahl predicted, my spot seems to gain sensitivity the more I use it and the more I focus on its sensations. So when my man slid into me, there was vaginal pleasure almost immediately.

Using a vibrating (or oscillating) toy during sex presents an advantage over using my hand, which is this: I don’t have to think when I’m Eroscillating my clit. I just have to turn it on and hold it there, and maybe increase the speed after a while. This makes it ideal for trying to induce internal orgasms because it allows me to focus all my attention on my G-spot.

And focus, I did. As the Eroscillator trembled faithfully against my clit, I directed all my awareness onto the feeling of my man’s cock sliding over my G-spot again and again (he is very, very good at locating my spot, and seems to only get better as time goes on). I was in another world; normally I’m mentally present enough to be aware of how I’m moving, the sounds I’m making, the way my boyfriend might be experiencing the interaction, but this time, the pleasure was so great and so deep that I didn’t notice any of that stuff. I probably looked like a total lunatic, but who cares?

After less than five minutes (very uncharacteristic for me when there’s no foreplay involved, and especially when I’m tired), I was suddenly hit with a super-strong, profound, internal, indescribable tidal wave of an orgasm. I let out a cry which my boyfriend later told me was loud enough to make him worry it’d wake the neighbors.

It was a different quality of orgasm than I’ve ever experienced before. Not only was it deeper and stronger, but it left me with a feeling of utter exhaustion and satisfaction that I only very rarely get from clitoral-only orgasms (after an hour-long cunnilingus session, for example). It was so all-consuming that I felt like I could barely move afterward. It was difficult to even sit up in bed for long enough to put my menstrual cup back in. And I fell asleep seemingly within seconds after lying back down.

We’re going to experiment more with this combination of techniques to see if it’s a reliable way to give me these splendiferous blended orgasms. I’m going to attempt to lower the amount of clitoral stimulation (for example, by keeping the Eroscillator on its lowest setting) so I’ll be forced to rely more and more on the G-spot stim to get off. I think this could be a very important step toward my eventual ability to get off with my G-spot alone. (And honestly, if that never fully happens, I won’t even care. Just let me have more of those glorious orgasms!)

Readers: If you can have G-spot orgasms, how did you first learn to do so? Any tips for a n00b like me? If you haven’t yet mastered your G-spot, what methods have you tried? What methods have you yet to try?

Review: PicoBong Kaya

Lelo is one of my very favorite sex toy companies. They make beautiful, rechargeable vibrators that could satisfy any luxury-loving vibration fan. In their efforts to expand, they released a cheaper, lower-end line of toys, marketed toward younger people with less money to spend on “luxury erotic lifestyle objects” – people like me, I suppose. The line is called PicoBong and it’s been effectively torn apart by the sex toy reviewers of the world.

Judging by the awful-to-middling descriptions of PicoBong’s toys, which cite flaws ranging from insufficient vibrations to badly-placed seams, I wasn’t expecting much when I received my bright turquoise Kaya in the mail. But I soon learned that Kaya is from PicoBong’s newer line of products, and is therefore a significant improvement on the items reviewers were rightfully complaining about. Still, though, it’s far from perfect.

If I could design my ideal rabbit, it would look similar to the Kaya – slim-to-average shaft, flexible curved clitoral arm, body-safe silicone, simple controls (up, down, change mode) – but my rabbit would have a twirling shaft, not a vibrating one. Why? Because most G-spots, including mine, respond better to stroking and pressure than they do to vibration. I think a vibrating rabbit shaft is something of a cop-out: an easy way to design a toy, but not the most effective design for the majority of users, at least from what I can tell.

Kaya’s power is far better than I was expecting, given how many people lamented the pitiful vibration strength of the previous PicoBong products. Turned all the way up, it’s comparable to the upper speeds of my Lelo Mona – strong enough to get off the average user, but not enough for a power queen. The clitoral arm thrums impressively, and as ambivalent as I feel about the internal motor, it’s not bad, either.

Kaya is waterproof. I successfully used it in the bath without any problems. It’s not the quietest of toys, but it’s certainly not the loudest – a bedmate would hear you using it, but someone down the hall probably wouldn’t.

The Kaya really shines when you start cycling through its vibration modes. Most of them just switch back and forth between the two motors, but they do so in varied and creative ways. There’s one pattern in particular that I really like, where the clitoral arm hums steadily while the internal motor goes up and down in a roller-coaster-like way, feeling almost like it’s stroking my G-spot. Sadly, this mode is useless to me when I want to reach orgasm, because the up-and-down buttons control the internal motor in this mode, while the external motor stays at the same medium level no matter what I do. If I want to get off with this mode, I have to press the outer arm into my clit or rub it up and down – and that sort of defeats the purpose of using a sex toy, doesn’t it?

The Kaya’s shape is good, its vibrations are adequate, and it’s easy to use. However, I can’t give it my seal of approval, because it costs $89.95. For a battery-powered vibe that will only work for some users, that’s way too much money. I’d be willing to say this toy was worth the price if it was rechargeable, or if the shaft rotated, or if each motor could be controlled independently, but that’s not the case.

Get Kaya if you really, really want a cute-looking, battery-powered, waterproof, dual-stimulation vibrator with cool modes and a medium amount of power. But if that doesn’t sound like exactly what you’re looking for, I’d recommend that you spend a few extra dollars and spring for a toy from Lelo proper, or get a cheaper rabbit vibe from a different brand instead (as long as it’s made of a nonporous material). The Kaya is good, but not nearly good enough to warrant its high price tag.

The “Cis” Issue

I created this blog as a place to discuss sex toys and sexuality. However, I knew there would be other tangential topics covered here, because, for anyone who cares strongly about sex, it is inevitably bound up with politics. Fighting for what you want in bed is connected to fighting for how you want the world to view sex: it’s all about bringing down walls and destroying shame in any way you can.

For the past nine months, I’ve been volunteering at an LGBTQ organization, and for the two years before that, I volunteered in a trans-and-genderqueer-specific space (I’m not trans, myself, but have dated a trans person, been friends with trans people, and consider myself an ally). In all that time, my knowledge and understanding of trans issues has steadily grown, and I wanted to talk a bit about that today.

I’ve recently gotten into two different debates with two different people online about the term “cis.” Incase you don’t know, cis (shortened from cissexual or cisgender) simply means “not trans” – i.e. born with a body that matches one’s gender identity. I’m a cis female, for example, because my body indicated that I was female when I was born, and I have grown up to feel that I am, indeed, female.

The people I got into debates with had two different points to make, but they were essentially the same thing, because they came from a similar place of ignorant cis privilege:
1. “Though my body has always matched my gender identity, I hate being called cis because it has a negative connotation. If someone called me cis, I would correct them.”
2. “The term cis is unnecessary. Why not just differentiate people as ‘trans’ or ‘not trans’?”

These arguments made me so angry because the people who made them were totally unwilling to listen to reason. Having never experienced trans-ness or apparently been around trans people, they couldn’t understand the hurtfulness, political incorrectness, and ignorance of what they were saying. So I’d like to respond to these two points here, maybe so I can clear up these issues for cis people who may be wondering about the same things, but want to be more conscientious about their stance.

In response to the first argument: First off, if your body has always matched your gender identity, you are cis. It is a factual descriptor of your identity, every bit as much as “Canadian” describes my identity because I was born in Canada and remain a Canadian citizen. While you, yourself, don’t necessarily have to use the term “cis” in reference to yourself if you don’t want to, people are going to refer to you by it when it becomes relevant, just as someone with solely opposite-sex attractions might be referred to as straight if they were hanging out in queer spaces. It’s just a way to differentiate.

Next, the idea that “cis” has a negative connotation… Well, yes, in some spaces, it might. For trans or genderqueer people who feel that they’ve been wronged by cissexism and use extremist phrases like “die, cis scum,” the word cis may exist in a negative light. But for the vast majority of us, it doesn’t – as I said before, it’s simply an objective descriptor.

Frankly, you can’t choose to reject a descriptor just because you don’t like the connotation it occasionally comes with. I can’t tell people I’m not white, just because I feel like my whiteness makes me come off as “privileged.” My whiteness does privilege me – this is a fact I cannot ignore or pretend away – but it’s what I do with myself that decides whether or not I’m a privileged asshat. No sane and intelligent person is ever going to call me rude things just for being white, but they might if I do shit that only an ignorant privileged person would do.

Bottom line: If you don’t like the term cis, don’t use it to describe yourself, fine, but other people are going to use it when it becomes important to make that distinction. And if you don’t like the so-called “negative connotation” that comes with being cis, you better get out there and do shit that proves that cis people can be helpful trans allies, rather than just perpetuating that negative image of cis people by being ignorant and needlessly irate.

In response to the second argument: People who argue that the term “cis” is unnecessary are overwhelmingly almost always ignorant cis people, so of course they don’t understand why the term is necessary – they’ve gone through life assuming everyone is cis unless told otherwise, and so they don’t see a reason why it would ever be important to have a word to describe “normal,” non-trans folks.

When trying to explain why the term is needed, I always refer back to a story I was told by a wonderful trans woman who came to teach my volunteer group about trans issues. She was at a psychiatric consultation in a queer-friendly health centre. The psychiatrist was asking her various questions about her mental health situation and her life. The woman said she was attracted primarily to other women, and the psychiatrist said, “So are you mostly attracted to trans women, or real women?”

Obviously, as a trans woman, the term “real women” used to describe cis women can be not only deeply offensive, but also horrifically triggering in some cases. Trans people have spent their entire lives being told they “aren’t really” their gender, even though they’ve usually known their true gender since they were old enough to understand such things. There is no reason whatsoever for anyone to dredge up those horrible memories and feelings by using offensive terms like “real man” or “real woman,” which is why the word “cis” is proposed as a respectful alternative to those kinds of phrases.

Bottom line: “Real” is a point of debate – the world may never agree on whether it’s a penis or a mental perception that makes a man a “real man” – but “cis” and “trans” are not. They are inoffensive, objective terms, designed to differentiate between two groups of people without hurting anyone in either group, and for the most part, they do this very well, so we should use them.

Readers: Do you hear the word “cis” being used in your circles? What are your thoughts on its validity, connotations, and usage? Do you identify as cis? Why or why not?

My New Lover: NobEssence Fling

Just LOOK at this motherfucker! Drink in its insane beauty!

I bought my NobEssence Fling on buyout from Eden Fantasys to offset its high cost, so my full review of it is located on their website. But I still felt that you needed to hear me extol its virtues. Because this thing is a G-spotting boss.

When I was contemplating NobEssence toys, I asked Epiphora what she thought of the Fling, since it was the one that was calling out to my G-spot. She said, “Haven’t tried it but my gut says your money’s better spent on the Seduction or Tryst.” I trust her opinion on most things, but the more that I looked at those toys and their measurements, the more I became convinced that they probably wouldn’t work for me. I’ve learned that my G-spot likes big bulbs, but that my vagina can only rarely take toys wider than 1 ½". So I defied Epiphora (!) and went with the Fling.

I ordered my Fling in what EF calls “burgundy,” which turned out to be a dark red wood called Padauk that lights up bright red when held up to light. It’s hand-carved, and sealed in a coating called Lubrosity that keeps it safe from me juicing all over it (and also, you know, makes it washable and bleachable and stuff).

It is a very near-perfect toy. My EF review of it is titled “Nature’s Answer to the Pure Wand,” and if you know sex toys, you know what a huge compliment that is. The Fling causes that immediate, intense, “whoa boy” kind of G-spot sensation that only the Pure Wand and Amethyst have really been able to create in me before – and it does it without straining my wrist or requiring weird angling to happen. I just lube it up, slide it in, and my G-spot practically shrieks in ecstasy.

One of the very strange things about the Fling is that its diameter is apparently the same as the dildo that conquered my vagina, and yet the Fling actually fits inside me. It’s a little bit painful upon initial insertion, especially if I haven’t warmed up with a smaller toy first, but once I get it past the opening, it slips straight in and there’s no pain involved. I’m convinced that this toy is magic.

I’m very glad that my first NobEssence toy is the Fling, and I’m not even sure that I’ll want another one, to be honest with you. This dildo is so perfect that I can’t even imagine wanting it to have a sibling in my toybox.