Cybersex in Roleplaying Games Made Me Who I Am

Kate Sloan

Content notes: This essay discusses some of my early experiences with cybersex. I was underage at the time (probably 12-14 in most cases). All of this was consensual on my part (personally, if not legally), but if underage sexuality squicks you out, that’s understandable and please feel free to skip this one! There are also mentions of master/slave language.

 

Cybersex in online roleplaying games made me feel like an adult for one of the first times in my life. In some ways, no other online sexual experiences I’ve had since then have quite scratched the same itch.

I was always a sexually precocious kid, scribbling anatomically uninformed erotica in my journals and googling for lists of masturbation techniques to marvel over. Porn didn’t particularly interest me – there were few safe porn sites at the time that would neither load a virus onto our shared family computer nor crash it with pop-up ads blaring autoplay moans – but I loved to read about sex. That’s still largely how my sexuality works to this day: although I’ve gained an appreciation for some types of porn, in many cases I’d rather read someone’s detailed cunnilingus guide or a well-crafted erotic fanfiction story than ogle cumshots and gangbangs.

Massively multiplayer online roleplaying games (MMORPGs) were some of my first online social spaces, after early forays into ICQ chatrooms and TeenOpenDiary blogging. My two favorite games in this genre were Furcadia, a highly user-customizable world where everyone was an anthropomorphized animal and you had to learn a basic coding language to craft your own private rooms, and Runescape, a vast medieval fantasy world involving quests, guilds, mining, and magic. It was in these two strange universes that I began to understand the massive implications the internet had for people like me, people who were shy and reserved in the “real world” but came alive online, making friends and having adventures.

I was surely too young to be having cybersex, legally speaking. That’s the detail of this story that makes me cringe to type out. Sometimes I told other users my real age – and many of them were, or at least were pretending to be, teens as well – but sometimes I didn’t. Young people’s burgeoning sexuality is a highly controversial and fraught topic I’m probably not qualified to make any definitive statements about. But I can tell you that in my case, everything I pursued in these mediums was something I had consented to and was not traumatized by, and any time anyone made me feel at all uncomfortable, I had no qualms about closing the window or teleporting to a different corner of the virtual world I was navigating.

In Furcadia, as I mentioned, you could create your own areas – called “dreams” – by coding them yourself and then uploading them to a communal space, where others could visit them if they so chose. I have always been profoundly nerdy and was immediately interested in this aspect of the game, for the huge amount of freedom it provided. It wasn’t long before I started building myself elaborate mansions with big, ornate bedrooms, complete with doors that locked at the flip of a lever due to my careful coding. It delighted me to build secret entrances, hidden teleportation pads, dim dank dungeons no one would know about unless I showed them.

There was an 18+ area in Furcadia, where, of course, I spent a good deal of time long before turning 18. Within that area was a place called The Slave Auction. (I must note here that the language of slavery is no longer something I’m comfy playing with, in kink or otherwise, due to, y’know, centuries of systemic white supremacy and horrific violence against enslaved Black people. I’m white so that language isn’t mine to reclaim or subvert.) In that area, you could line up to be “auctioned off” to a buyer in the crowd. No money was exchanged, actual or virtual; this was all fantasy. I find it telling that this was probably the communal space where I spent the most time in my years as a Furcadia user, despite believing until about a decade later that I was vanilla and had no kinks. (Oh, precious baby Kate, there is so much you didn’t know.)

When someone “bought” me, typically I would take them back to my “dream,” lead them to the ostentatious bedroom I’d hand-coded for the occasion, and commence having cybersex.

Much like sexting today, different people had different ways of approaching cybersex. I would always click on potential partners to see the bio they’d written for themselves, and if it was a long paragraph full of big words and impeccably-employed punctuation, I knew I’d get the type of cyber-fuck I liked best: articulate, loquacious, and seductive. When I had them in my virtual bed, we’d start describing – in walls of text that took so long to type, you could be waiting 3-5 minutes between missives – removing each other’s clothes, kissing, touching, and whatever came next. My replies were probably fairly generic and naïve. I was much more interested in what the other person typed.

It’s telling, too, that I tended to guide the conversation toward cunnilingus. Being a person who’d learned to masturbate via only clitoral stimulation, and had rarely – if ever – done anything else, I found descriptions of penetrative sex boring and hard to relate to. Instead I would prompt my pixelated paramour to craft strings of sentences about going down on me, and would reply with paragraph-length descriptions of my own moaning and writhing. A pillow princess in the extreme.

There were people who, upon noticing these limitations of my lust, would vanish to another realm, leaving me alone in my abandoned dream. That is fair enough. But there were also people who would stick around the whole time, giving me what I obviously wanted, and those people shaped my sexuality in ways they’ll never know. These were some of the first instances of me ever formulating a clear sexual desire and asking someone else (albeit indirectly) to fulfill it. The skills I took away from these interactions (including typing fast one-handed) would serve me for many years to come.

While some therapists and friends of mine, in the years since, have sometimes (very reasonably) expressed concern upon hearing about these youthful dalliances, for me, cybersex was never a site of victimization or violation. I know many people have had a different experience. I’m lucky enough to be able to credit those late nights of furtive typing with making me into the sexually fulfilled, adventurous, and communicative person I am today.

 

This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Rest is Crucial, Sacred, & Sexy

Kate Sloan

I recently quit my part-time social media job after 4 years of working there. I’ve long called this gig my “dayjob” because it did the thing for me that dayjobs do for creative types: it gave me a steady, reliable income that tethered me to the working world and afforded me the time, money, and brainspace to do my passion projects on the side. But in recent months, my “dayjob” had begun to bring in only about 7% of my total income, while taking up about a quarter of my working hours – and with book deadlines and health issues weighing heavily on me, I decided it was time to move on.

This was a challenging decision for me, in no small part because I have loved working at that company and with the people there, albeit remotely, these past 4 years. I had other resistances to leaving, though, and spent a whole hour discussing them with my therapist recently. I worried that my other projects would dry up, leaving me regretful to have quit – although there’s no evidence that will happen. I worried that without time-sensitive morning tasks to complete each weekday, I’d let my depression get the better of me, lazing about in bed into the afternoon. I worried that firm daily deadlines were the glue holding my life together, and that without them, I’d lack the conviction and self-direction to manage my time effectively.

But as my therapist reminded me, this is internalized ableism, internalized capitalism. The discourse around “laziness” is too often aimed at people whose systemic struggles and marginalizations are framed as personal failures. The freelancer community’s obsession with “hustling” is borne of capitalistic imperatives. A person’s “hustle,” or lack thereof, says nothing about their inherent value as a human being. Not all people have the same abilities; we can’t all hustle as hard as we think we “should.”

It feels shameful to admit that one of the reasons I quit my job was so I could rest more. I feel like I already rest a great deal, certainly more than my friends who work long hours at cafés or retail stores. But this mindset comes from holding myself to able-bodied standards despite being increasingly, invisibly disabled. My chronic pain and chronic fatigue are worse and more frequent than they’ve ever been. I often need a 3-hour nap just to get through the day, or to “catch up on sleep” into the luxuriant afternoon hours on weekends. The simple fact of living in a pain-wracked body is uniquely exhausting. I can’t pretend that away.

I have to banish culture-borne ideas of “laziness” in order to plan a schedule that actually works for my body and my brain. Now that I’ll soon be fully self-employed, with most of my deadlines being self-imposed or flexible, I can rearrange my schedule as needed to fit with my lifestyle and desires – something I’ve longed for my entire adult life. I’ve been fantasizing about “Weekend Wednesdays” and impromptu staycations and “the 4-hour work week.” It feels blissful, in the truest possible sense of that word, to envision the freedom my self-employment will now afford. And I know it is an enormous privilege, one that comes from my position in society as an educated white person as well as my many years of hard work to establish this lifestyle for myself. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s wrong somehow to rest as much as I do, or as much as I want to. That I “should” work more, to “earn” the happiness I get from having a career that genuinely delights me.

My therapist told me, “You’re working as much as you comfortably can, and you’re earning enough money to live on. That’s all that matters here.” I felt my body relax when she said this. It’s so wild that capitalism instills in us, from birth, the belief that our work, our productivity, and our output are what define our value as human beings. Even sworn anti-capitalists sometimes still struggle to unlearn this. It’s as if we’ve forgotten that “jobs” and “careers,” as they are defined in modern times, did not always exist and do not need to exist. If human didn’t need to work in order to survive, what would we do instead? Would we make art, socialize, have sex, eat, drink, sleep, think? Would we feel fulfilled then? Would we feel we had done “enough” at the end of each day?

It’s impossible to say. But I’m working on accepting that my rest time is every bit as valid and important as my work time. When my achy, sleepy body demands a 1 p.m. nap, I need not admonish it or deny it. When my inner child pipes up to say that Wednesdays should be days off for playing in the sunshine, I can and should listen. When all I want, at a bone-deep level, is to stay in bed all day playing Pokémon games and listening to comedy podcasts, that’s likely a signal I should heed. This feels sinful and embarrassing to even type out. But that’s because it’s a new belief system for me, one that butts up against bullshit I’ve been inundated with my whole life.

We need rest to survive. That’s especially true for disabled folks. I feel no sensuality and sexiness in my body when my nose is constantly pressed to the grindstone. I get precious little joy from life when my every waking minute is mired in work and worry. I have no time or energy left over for the fun things, or even the necessary things, when work swallows me whole.

Rest is crucial. Not all of us have the ability, or the privilege, to honor that fact and live it out fully. But don’t let anyone tell you it’s not. You deserve the rest you need – and the rest you want.

Kinky Cuties & Their Book-Spurred Adventures

Kate Sloan

As an author, it’s hard not to imagine the people who’ll read your words as you’re writing them. When I was writing 101 Kinky Things Even You Can Do – which is coming out on October 12th and available for preorder now! – I thought a lot about who I hoped would read it.

It’s geared toward vanilla people and total beginners to kink, although I think there’s still plenty in it that more advanced kinksters will find interesting and illuminating, by sheer virtue of the fact that it really does contain one hundred and one different kinks. You’re sure to find something in it that you’ve never tried before, and that’s really thrilling to me!

Here are 3 totally fictional people I imagine would read my book, and the stories of how they found it…

 

Jess stuffs 101 Kinky Things into their backpack as they leave the bookstore, and starts their walk back to their apartment, already rehearsing the speech they plan to bust out when they arrive home.

Hey Kyla? You know that lipstick you wear sometimes? The red one?

Their sneaker soles hit the sidewalk pavement with sharp snapping noises, their pace picking up. Jess is more terrified by the conversation that awaits them than they are by anything they’ve encountered in their sports journalism dayjob; live post-game interviews with towering basketball players are way less intimidating than telling your girlfriend about your secret fetish.

Well, uh, I found this book that talks about how lipstick can be a kink for some people… and I was wondering…

Making quick work of the downhill trek, Jess lets their mind wander to the last time they had sex with Kyla. Her soft mewls and pillowy curves under Jess’s muscled body. Her kisses and caresses becoming steadily more desperate as Jess slammed into her with their blue silicone cock. The way her wavy crimson hair frizzed up from all the sweat. Jess’s clit throbs in their boxer-briefs at the thought.

I thought maybe it would be cool if you gave me a blowjob in lipstick, so I could… see whether it’s really something I’m interested in… maybe?

Jess’s key seems way too loud in their apartment door as they let themself in. Kyla’s sprawled on the couch, munching a salad and watching Top Chef. “Hey, babe!” she calls. “How was work?”

“It was okay,” Jess hedges, and tugs the book from their backpack. “Um, I wanna talk to you about something but I’m kinda embarrassed.” Kyla mutes the TV show and quirks an eyebrow. Ruffling their short dark hair, Jess checks the book’s table of contents and adds, “Can you flip to page 159 and let me know what you think?” Despite all their practicing, they just can’t quite bring themselves to say the words.

Kyla takes the book from Jess, a quizzical look in her eyes, and finds the page in question. As she reads, her eyes don’t widen in fear or narrow in disgust; instead, they light up, delight gradually filling them like the dawn of a new day. When she’s done, she lifts her head to look at Jess, who’s taken a seat beside her on the couch. “Shall I go get my tube of ‘Lucky Red’?” she asks mischievously. Jess bites their lip and nods, already hard and throbbing.

Anna was tired of the pitying looks her friends always gave her when she talked about her divorce over brunch. Couldn’t they see that it was something to be celebrated? Sure, she and Tom had been together for 22 years, but that didn’t mean they were destined to be together forever. In fact, she mused to herself as she walked away from the last settlement signing session at Tom’s lawyers’ office, it had been a long time since she’d felt this happy and free.

Having taken the day off from the art gallery for the occasion, she figured she’d go shopping (with some of Tom’s money, admittedly) and find herself something pretty to celebrate her newly reclaimed singlehood. But the Chanel, Gucci, and YSL shops didn’t light her fire as much as they once had. It was only when she stopped into an upscale bookshop and saw glimmering gold text proclaiming “101 Kinky Things“ that she felt a spark of something like excitement.

As she paged through the text, she couldn’t help but reflect on all the late-night arguments she and Tom had had, probably waking their neighbors with their antics. It was always some version of the same fight: she wanted sexual adventure; Tom didn’t. She wanted to go to the local sex club and try out swinging; Tom didn’t. She wanted to experiment with bondage, sensory deprivation, facesitting; Tom didn’t. She wanted him to appreciate (or even just acknowledge) the pearl-handled flogger she’d brought home from Agent Provocateur; Tom didn’t.

When Anna landed on the page titled “Dominance,” her breath caught. A blush crept onto her cheeks and she had to remind herself mentally that the bookish strangers milling around her couldn’t possibly know about the femdom porn she feverishly flipped through late at night. They couldn’t possibly know that her ex-husband’s utter disinterest in submitting to her had been the nail in the coffin of their doomed relationship. No one knew that except Anna’s leatherbound diary and her best friend Janine, truth be told. And maybe the people at PornHub.

Tucking the book under her arm, Anna sidled up to the cash register and handed her new treasure to the clerk. He swept his dark brown curls out of his eyes before scanning the book’s barcode, and Anna looked him up and down like a hungry wolf finally allowed to prowl free. His nametag said Danny. “I’ve heard good things about this one,” he said conversationally, taking her heavy gold credit card from her hands.

“Always good to learn something new,” Anna purred with a smirk, before scribbling her number on Danny’s copy of her receipt. “And to have someone to practice with.” She winked, and then strolled out into the sunshine, a new woman.

It had been 3 weeks since Sadie had been to the dungeon, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the scene she’d seen there.

Her friend Marissa had taken her along. Sadie, a notoriously shy and anxious femme, had been a wallflower at every kinky or queer event she’d ever been to. She couldn’t help it – her body just seized up with panic whenever she stepped into one of those spaces, like every moment was a matter of life and death. Far too often, she’d found herself face-to-face with some hot butch girl or charming trans boy or leather-clad enby and found she could barely get any words out. If she couldn’t even say “Hi, I’m Sadie,” she wasn’t sure how she’d ever manage to actually meet someone and ask for what she wanted in bed.

The dungeon had been different, though, because Sadie had been allowed to just observe. In fact, she’d been encouraged to do so. Marissa, a towering blonde with a staggering amount of confidence, had tugged Sadie to a leather sofa at the side of the room. “Sit here. Watch,” said Marissa, before strutting over to the St. Andrew’s cross and simply waiting. Marissa was the type of beauty who could just show up in a room and people would be drawn to her like flies. It wasn’t long before a boyish lesbian with an emerald fauxhawk strode up and started whispering to Marissa. Sadie couldn’t hear the words, but she could tell from Marissa’s sweet smile and coy body language that there was flirting going on.

What had followed was a knife play scene, something Sadie had never even heard of before, let alone witnessed. The fauxhawked girl had a thing for knives, and Marissa had a thing for adventure, so before too long she was cuffed to the cross, spread-eagle, with the blade of a cold steel knife being slowly and carefully dragged across her skin. It left dainty white marks against the pink of her breasts and belly and arms and thighs. Sadie shivered in her seat. She was so utterly rapt that when a Bettie Page-looking femme sat down beside her and tried to chat her up, all she could manage was, “Sorry, I’m watching my friend’s scene.” She was a useless flirt anyway but she’d be especially useless right then.

Sadie was pondering that fateful knife-play scene, yet again, as she walked uptown to the queer book club Marissa had invited her to. “You like nerds, right?” Marissa had said. “Book clubs are total nerd bait.” Sadie was surprised when she knocked on the door at the address she’d been given and the person who answered was that same Bettie Page lookalike who’d attempted to talk to her at the dungeon.

“I remember you!” the girl practically shouted, immediately so much more gregarious than Sadie had ever been. “Come in! I’m Lulu. Want a beer?”

As a brand-new member, Sadie hadn’t done that week’s reading, but the group was happy to fill her in. A bespectacled androgyne handed her a copy of 101 Kinky Things. “It’s new,” Lulu explained. “There’s a lot of information in there.” The others laughed in agreement.

While everyone chattered happily around her, Sadie started to flip through the book, eventually stopping on a page titled “Fear Play.” A now-familiar shiver went through her as she read the author’s suggestion to “replicate the terror of being held at knifepoint” by showing one’s partner a big, scary knife, blindfolding them, and touching them with a butter knife or credit card instead, letting their fearful mind fill in the rest. She was so absorbed in the words that she barely noticed when Lulu knelt beside her and handed her the aforementioned beer.

“Are you a pervert like me?” Lulu asked with a dark giggle. “Because I love scaring the shit out of pretty girls.”

Sadie gulped, blushed, and managed to get a word out at long last. “Yes.”

Curious? Preorder your copy and let me know what adventures you get up to once you read it! 😉

Why Are Pearl Necklaces So Damn Sexy?

Kate Sloan

Sometimes I just get obsessed with a particular fashion item and I don’t know why. It’s like being struck by a new kinky fantasy: it’ll pop into my head one day, or I’ll see it in a piece of media or hear someone talking about it, and I’ll fall down a mad rabbit hole of Googling (or Pinterest-ing). Most recently, I felt this way about pearl necklaces.

You know, the classic jewelry item worn by style icons like Jackie Kennedy Onassis and Grace Kelly? The kind of thing you see on women in period dramas like Mad Men and The Crown? Yeah, those.

I find them not only gorgeous, classy, and timeless, but also sexy somehow. At first blush, it would seem obvious why: there’s a sex act known colloquially as the “pearl necklace,” in which someone ejaculates onto someone else’s chest and décolletage, creating a pearly effect. But that’s never been a kink of mine, and I don’t even particularly like watching this act performed in porn – if the coming isn’t happening inside somebody’s orifice, I’m probably not interested! #InternalCumshots4Lyfe

So the question then becomes, what is it about pearls as a jewelry item that is so alluring to me?

In answering this, my mind goes straight to the phrase “clutching pearls.” To clutch one’s pearls is to react with shock and dismay to something, and it’s a phrase typically associated with upper-class types, or morally “superior” types, reacting to something they consider low-class or immoral. (Think: Helen Lovejoy in The Simpsons screaming “Won’t somebody please think of the children?!?”)

I am decidedly middle-class and don’t consider myself a moral authority on anything, so this isn’t an image I can directly relate to – but in some ways, that’s what makes it hot. The idea of pretending to be a certain type of woman that I definitely am not – of co-opting a classy aesthetic to conceal the mischievous mind behind it all.

Pearls’ associations with 1950s housewives also appeal to me. A standard string of pearls isn’t super long, so you can do household chores while you’re wearing it and not worry about dropping diamonds in the dishwasher or sapphires down the sink drain. This delights my inner submissive, and fills my head with images of waiting around dutifully for my spouse to get home from a long day of work, to a clean house, a hot meal, and a hot wife.

The financial aspect of pearls also definitely adds to their charm for me. It’s not that they have to be wildly expensive – the two strings of pearls I own are from Horae and Kay’s, and cost $45 and $100, respectively – but they have the air of being expensive, and for me, that’s enough. I’ve explored financial fetishism from several different angles, and my newest pearl necklace was sweetly bought for me by my partner as a financial domination task I assigned them; I can also imagine finding it deeply erotic for a sugar daddy(/sugar mama/glucose guardian) to buy me some pearls and place them around my neck before a glamorous dinner date. Like a perfectly-tailored suit or little black dress, they’re the sort of thing that can make you feel instantly richer, fancier, and more powerful (or more spoiled, as the case may be).

Notable, too, is that pearls don’t look out of place no matter what I’m wearing, and even when I’m wearing nothing. I feel very Marilyn when I spritz on a jasmine perfume, dab on some lipstick, clasp my pearls around my neck, and slink into bed completely naked. Rachel Rabbit White says she likes to have sex with her false lashes on, and I feel similarly – not only about lashes, but about lipstick and pearls, too. (And, uh, socks, but that’s neither here nor there…)

I’ve looked at a lot of pearl jewelry online these past couple months, and many such pieces are far too ostentatious, expensive, or just plain weird-looking to attract my interest. It’s only the most timeless, simple, and elegant pieces that call my name. Someday I’d perhaps like to get a triple-strand pearl necklace, as those really take fanciness to the next level. But for now, I’m thrilled with the two very straightforward single strands I own. They go with everything, they gleam under every light, and they make me feel like the world’s sexiest little minx.

An Assortment of Sexy Objects I’m Enjoying

Kate Sloan

Astroglide X Silicone Liquid

Recently Matt and I were wandering around in uptown New York, spending a staycation weekend enjoying the Central Park sunshine, when… the dreaded chub rub struck.

If you don’t know about chub rub, well, I envy you. It’s the phenomenon of body parts sliding against one another in a painful and irritating way, often exacerbated by sweat and humidity. I inevitably get at least a few really painful bouts of chub rub between my thighs every summer, because as much as I try to be careful about wearing cotton bike shorts under my dresses, you just can’t always predict when you’ll want (or need) to go for a long stroll.

That’s what happened to me during our late-spring staycation, and I didn’t want to give up and go back to the hotel – so we stopped at a CVS and went in search of silicone-based lube, an oft-recommended preventative measure against chub rub. Silicone reduces the friction between thighs (or other chub-rubbin’ body parts), so that they slide more smoothly against one another and get less irritated.

The only one I could find in the drugstore was this unostentatious purple-capped bottle from Astroglide – but notably, silicone-based lubes don’t actually differ all that much from one another. Much like Uberlube – the most widely beloved silicone lube amongst my friend group, and a noted anti-chub-rub agent – this Astroglide one is long-lasting, slick as hell, and essentially tasteless except for a very mild powdery flavor. This one is cheaper and more widely available, although its packaging certainly isn’t as glamorous as Uberlube’s. In any case, it nixed my impending chub rub and worked well for a handjob later that night, so I’m happy with my purchase!

BMS Factory Essential Bullet

Could it possibly be true? A rechargeable bullet vibrator for just $21… and it’s actually good?!?

BMS is renowned for their rumbly motors – the earthshattering Swan Wand is a prime example – and this bullet is one of its most stripped-down iterations. Seeing that it’s also USB-rechargeable, swathed in satiny silicone, and fully waterproof, this vibe could easily be viewed as a cheaper dupe of the revered We-Vibe Tango X – and at about a quarter of the price, that’s pretty astonishing.

I personally will probably continue to use my Tango X more often, though, for a few reasons: it has a higher number of steady vibration speeds (8 to the Essential Bullet’s 4), has three different buttons (as opposed to the Essential Bullet’s one button you have to click to cycle through its settings), and has a pointed/angled tip that allows for several different types/intensities of clitoral stimulation (the Essential Bullet’s classic rounded shape isn’t as versatile, though it will fit into bullet-compatible toys more easily).

That said, I’m very impressed with this toy for its price point, and the fact that it comes with a travel-friendly zippered hard storage case (which also fits its charging cable) just sweetens the deal, especially for someone in a long-distance relationship like me. If you want powerful vibrations on a budget, in a tiny package, get the Essential Bullet!

 

Zalo fox fur tickler

I’m not sure why, but this product doesn’t seem to be available anymore. Weird. Probably has something to do with the fox fur (no longer available? too expensive to acquire consistently? consumers got angry about it?) but it’s anyone’s guess. Anyway, I didn’t ask for this – and probably wouldn’t have, since it’s made with actual fur and I don’t feel great about that – but it was sent to me in a PR package of other Zalo stuff, so I thought I might as well try it out.

There’s no denying that this is a super elegant object. Its gold-toned stainless steel handle feels sexy and luxurious in my hand, and is long enough to give me good control without being cumbersome. The fur itself is cloudlike: white, soft, so gentle to the touch that you’re almost not sure it’s even there.

Ticklers are one of those items that a lot of vanilla people think kinky people would be into, but I hardly ever hear about any actual kinky people actually using them. This one is, at least, quite fancy and beautiful, unlike the cheapo ones that often find their way into sex conference swag bags and bachelorette kits along with sad buzzy fingertip vibes and papery blindfolds. I haven’t had a chance to use it in a scene yet, but I imagine it’d be fun combined with bondage and a blindfold, and perhaps contrasted with more intense sensations, like being hit with a leather strap or having a Wartenberg wheel rolled all over my body.

Real fur is an ethical line I admittedly have crossed before, but that was always with vintage furs, which IMO are in a different category morally because they’ve already been made and would likely end up in a landfill if no one bought them from consignment shops and thrift stores. I don’t feel good about recommending this product because it’s made of real fur, even though I think it’s beautiful and high-quality. Is anyone making gorgeous, luxurious faux-fur ticklers for kinky sensation play out there? I’d be curious to know!

Her Highness CBD pleasure oil

I’ve tried a few different sensation-enhancing products spiked with cannabinoids, and this one may be a top-tier fave, even after only using it a few times.

The main reason I like it: While it does contain peppermint oil like most other products of this type, the mint is quite toned-down in the formula compared to others I’ve tried. When there’s too much mint, my vulva gets so ridiculously overwhelmed by the minty intensity that all the oil’s other, more subtle effects become less noticeable. In the Her Highness version, the mint acts like a garnish in a cocktail, bringing out the sensations caused by the CBD without overpowering them.

Her Highness says this is “not a lube, it’s an orgasm enhancer.” Its two active ingredients work in tandem: CBD boosts relaxation and lubrication, while Spilanthes Acmella (had to Google that one!) is a vasorelaxant, meaning it improves circulation and prompts arousal. In my experience, the effects of CBD on the vulva, clitoris, and labia are fairly subtle – I definitely get aroused more easily, and my partner observes that it’s easier to get me off when we use CBD products, but it’s not, like, a whole new sensation or anything. I like that this oil allows me to appreciate those nuanced effects without proverbially drowning my genitals in peppermint oil.

As with all oils, don’t use this with condoms because it’ll degrade the latex. And as with all sexy CBD products, this one absorbs best if you massage it into mucous membranes, like the inner labia and inside of the vagina, which is why they don’t typically have much of an effect on penises (bummer!). But I like it and will continue to use it when I need a little help getting turned on!

 

Personal Fav Whet plant-based sex serum

The name of this product makes me laugh, especially when contrasted with its deeply elegant packaging.

This is a water-based lube with deliciously design-y branding. It lacks all the nasties you don’t want in your lube (glycerine, propylene glycol, parabens, etc.) and contains some active ingredients ideal for sex: hemp extract to amp up sensations, chamomile to calm any irritation, ginseng to enhance arousal, aloe vera to soothe your skin, and horny goat weed to increase desire. I haven’t really noticed these effects, to be honest, but it’s a good list of ingredients nonetheless!

This lube has basically no scent and a very mildly sweet taste, making it great for oral sex if you need some extra wetness. Like most water-based lubes, it dries out within a few minutes, but can easily be rehydrated by adding a little water (or, if you’re lazy/if you’re me, saliva or vaginal lubrication). It’s on the thinner side – I find most aloe lubes are – so it’s not ideal for activities that need a lot of lubrication and a lot of cushioning, like anal sex or fisting. As with many lubes of its ilk, I find it works best for vaginal penetration, because my vag getting wetter over time helps the lube stay wet the whole time I’m using it.

Frankly, though, one of my favorite things about this lube is its packaging! The matte black bottle is hard and won’t get squished in your handbag or suitcase; it’s also slim and space-effective. The shiny black plastic cap doesn’t fall off easily like so many other lube bottle caps. And it has a pump top, making it great for heat-of-the-moment lubin’. I can’t say the formula is my “personal fav” – it lacks the thick, luxurious glide of something like Sutil Rich – but it’s perfectly serviceable, and the durable, travel-friendly packaging means I’ll grab it more often than a lot of my other, better-formulated but less convenient lubes.

 

Zalo & Upko Doll Designer Collection silicone rose ballgag

This is the prettiest ballgag I’ve ever seen!! I wanted it desperately from the first moment I saw it in a Zalo press release that landed in my inbox. Ballgags are typically pretty utilitarian in appearance; this one is unapologetically fancy and (for my sensibilities, at least) glamorously femme.

The gag part is made of silky red silicone with no noticeable smell or taste. Metal snaps connect it to leather straps; I love being able to disconnect the straps so I can wash the gag without messing up the leather. You can also remove the rose part, leaving a simple red silicone ball with a hole through it, so this toy is a 2-in-1: you can use it on this “breathable setting” if you’re still getting used to ballgags, and then add in the rose when you want a more ~aesthetic~ vibe. (Zalo also notes that if you wanted to, you could poke a finger underneath the rose, through the hole, and into your partner’s mouth as a “finger tease,” but fingers in my mouth is a hard limit for me, so, nope. I know lots of people are into it though.)

I’ve only tried a couple of ballgags (I think?! I dunno, I’ve been doing this a long time) so I can’t compare this one to many others in its genre, but I will say that it’s quite comfortable but still produces the requisite amounts of powerlessness and drooling that gag aficionacos seem to adore. I’m not a frequent gag user at all, but I love the glamour of this one and I’m sure I’ll use it a lot in the fullness of time!

 

Thanks to Zalo, Her Highness, and Personal Fav for sending me these products to try! The first two in this post (Astroglide + Essential Bullet) were purchased with my own money.