body image

Body “Imperfections” Are Part of What Makes Sex Hot

Kate Sloan

Content note: body image, internalized fatphobia, etc.

 

When I was younger, I was often horribly self-conscious about how I looked during sex. I’m sure many of you can relate.

I was terrified of my belly or thighs looking “too chubby” during sex, and paranoid about certain angles emphasizing a double chin. I fretted about lighting, preferring to be seen as little as possible during the act. I shaved almost every part of my body, very carefully, before every date that I thought might end in sex – and if I later noticed a patch of hair I’d missed, I felt deeply embarrassed about it, like my sexual partner du jour would definitely have noticed this oversight and would have thus judged me as having failed at femininity.

I know a lot of people feel this way, especially women. Porn is often blamed for the high standards we hold ourselves to, but I think the entire media apparatus is really at fault here – from women’s magazines that rate celebrities’ “beach bodies,” to airbrushed and gorgeously-lit sex scenes in movies and TV. There’s a lot of messaging out there which seems to suggest that only conventionally attractive people deserve sex (a standard that often ends up being fatphobic, racist, transphobic, and ableist in its execution). It’s no wonder so many of us are nervous about being seen naked.

And sure, not all of us have Kardashian curves, a J. Lo butt, or Emma Hix feet, but it ultimately doesn’t matter, because imperfections are part of what make sex feel so exciting, so raw, so human.

I love tracing my fingers along a partner’s body and feeling their softness, moles, hairs. I love being able to kiss and compliment parts of a partner’s body that they’ve felt insecure or uncertain about. I love feeling someone relax when they truly absorb the idea that they are safe – that I’m not going to make some snide comment about their shape, or criticize their grooming habits, or walk out in disgust. And I also love when partners take the time to ensure that I, too, can relax in that way. Relaxation is really important for arousal – read Emily Nagoski’s excellent book Come As You Are for more on why stress is the ultimate libido-killer – so anything we can do to help each other chill out will make the ensuing sex much better for everyone involved.

 

I may not be able to erase all your insecurities in one fell swoop (trust me, I wish I could!), but I do want to offer some actionable advice for those of you who are often distracted and derailed by bad body image thoughts during sex. Here goes…

Ask for the reassurance you need. This is easier to do with established partners than new or one-off partners, but it can be really helpful either way. Try saying something like, “Hey, I’m feeling kind of self-conscious about my [belly/thighs/hips/etc.] today – can you give them a little extra love?” I have been lucky enough to have several partners who would take this kind of request as an opportunity to convey their desire for me both verbally and physically (e.g. by kissing the area[s] in question), which has really helped me.

Reflect on how you feel about your partner’s body (or how you have felt about past partners’ bodies). Odds are good you weren’t obsessively cataloguing and judging their every flaw. In fact, in many cases their so-called “flaws” may have been super hot to you. Well, other people may feel that way about your body, too!

Wear something you feel sexy in. There’s no rule that says you have to get naked whenever you have sex. There’s lots of hot lingerie and loungewear out there, for instance, that you can easily wear while fucking (although you may need to get creative in order to do so, like by pulling the gusset of your underwear to the side). In some cases this can be even hotter than being naked!

Consume different media if your current “media diet” contains a lot of conventionally perfect bodies, which, odds are, it does. Seek out porn and other sexy media from creators whose bodies look more like yours. Over time, this can shift the way you see your own body.

Seek therapy if you can. You deserve a life of wild, unabashed joy, in and out of the bedroom, and unpacking your body image issues with a professional might just be the way to achieve that. I know it’s helped me a lot.

 

Have you ever struggled with body insecurities during sex? How do you deal with it?

 

This post contains a sponsored link. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

A Penis Size FAQ

Kate Sloan

 

Does penis size matter?

The short answer: It matters to some people, and less so (or not at all) to others. Whatever your size, the important thing is to find a partner (or partners) who enjoy it. Those people exist, regardless of what size you are, I promise.

Longer answer: Anyone who tells you penis size universally doesn’t matter is lying to you, but anyone who tells you penis size always matters, or that bigger is always better, is lying to you too. The truth is that different people have different preferences. I know you want a simple answer, but there isn’t one, because human sexuality is infinitely vast and variable, and so are human bodies.

There are “size queens” out there, yes. There are people who are shitty and judgmental about penis size out there, yes. However, there are also people who prefer smaller dicks because they find them more comfortable, less painful, easier to accommodate orally or anally, more aesthetically pleasing, or any number of other things. As with literally everything sexuality-related, we’re all different and it’s just a matter of finding the person/people you’re compatible with.

Keep in mind, too, that the vast majority of people with vaginas don’t orgasm from vaginal penetration alone. The clitoris, not the vagina, is the pleasure equivalent of the penis – meaning that pleasure and orgasm without clitoral stimulation are about as rare and as difficult as pleasure and orgasm without any penile stimulation (i.e. certainly not unheard of, but not the default for most people). Penises aren’t generally magic orgasm-producing machines for the people you fuck them with, and that’s true regardless of their size.

 

Does penis size matter to you, personally?

Sure, in that I have a different experience with different penis sizes, in much the same way that a huge dildo feels different from a smaller one. Neither is inherently better than the other. It depends entirely on my mood, where I am in my cycle, any health issues I’m going through at the moment, which erogenous zone(s) I’m hoping to target, what fantasies I’m enjoying recently, and other such variables.

 

What does “average-sized” mean in the context of penis size? / What “counts” as big or small?

Studies generally find that the average penis size is in the neighborhood of 5 to 5.5 inches long. I would personally define a big dick as being 7” long or more, and a small dick as being 3.5” or less, but keep in mind that a) there’s nothing inherently wrong with having a small or large dick, as discussed, b) that doesn’t take girth into account and it can be a pretty huge factor (so to speak), and c) different people will define these terms differently depending on their preferences and amount of experience.

If you’re wondering if your penis is “normal,” 1) it probably is, and 2) a doctor can answer that question for you better than I can if you’re really worried.

 

Can I change my dick size?

There are surgeries for this, but I wouldn’t recommend them. They seem risky and not all that necessary. There are also pills/supplements whose makers claim they can alter your dick size, but I’ve seen zero evidence that this is at all accurate.

In my experience, usually body-related insecurities are more about your preconceptions and perceptions than your actual body (barring certain potential exceptions like gender dysphoria), so if you’re worried your dick isn’t pleasurable enough, you’d be better off upping your oral sex game and getting really good at wielding dildos than getting a dangerous procedure to alter your most sensitive organ based on your limited notion of what partners might find pleasurable.

Penis pumps enlarge the penis temporarily, and are sometimes used regularly over time to encourage penile growth, especially for transmasculine folks’ dicks after going on testosterone. I also know that there are stretching devices that can lengthen your dick when used in the long-term, sort of like braces for your penis. But again, personally, I don’t consider these measures worthwhile when there are so many other ways you can work on your sexual skill and sexual confidence.

Aside from surgery, I don’t know of any way to make your penis smaller.

 

What if my partner doesn’t find my dick size satisfying?

Well, first off, if they’re expressing that to you in a way that feels hurtful and mean, that’s a red flag. Body-shaming of any kind in a relationship is almost always a bad sign about your partner’s attitudes on bodies and their ability to be tactful and polite.

Beyond that, if you want to give your partner the sensation of getting fucked with a larger cock, you can use silicone penis extenders, fuck your partner with a dildo (possibly one that is strapped onto your body with a harness), use your fingers/hand, or use a penis pump immediately prior to sex. Check out the /r/SmallDickProblems subreddit for more advice.

If your dick is too big for your partner, you can try using an Ohnut to limit the amount of length you can fuck them with, use smaller dildos/strap-ons on them, use your fingers, use a hell of a lot more lube, do more “foreplay,” or just do non-penetrative sexual activities. (As noted above, most people with vulvas get off most readily from clitoral stimulation anyway.) The /r/BigDickProblems subreddit also contains lots of advice on this.

Presumably, your partner is attracted to you because of who you are, not just what your dick can do. If that’s not the case, you may not be in a healthy and emotionally safe relationship.

 

What’s more important: length or girth?

Again, depends entirely on the person, and may change from day to day or from moment to moment. There isn’t just one “right answer” to this question, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you, probably to make you feel insecure and/or sell you something.

Length may be important if your partner likes A-spot stimulation or cervix stimulation, for example, while girth may be important if they like intense G-spot or prostate contact. Some people may want a shorter or skinnier dick for comfort reasons, or because those can hit their spots more easily.

Hell, I’m a sex toy reviewer and thus intimately familiar with my own preferences, and even I can’t say definitively whether I care more about length or girth, because it depends on the day, the sensations I’m seeking, any health issues I’m going through, etc. Luckily, sex toys exist, so I don’t have to rely on a partner’s penis to provide any and all penetrative sensations I might be craving at any given time. (Sensing a theme here?)

 

How big does a penis have to be to hit the G-spot or prostate?

Usually about 2-3″ long, ideally with a curve (either upward or downward will work, depending on the position). However, again, sex toys are great for this. In many cases they’re better than dicks at hitting these spots. (I recommend the Pure Wand and Seduction.)

 

How big does a penis have to be to hit the A-spot?

I think a lot of people assume I am a hardcore size queen because I like A-spot stimulation, but… nah. Many partners of mine have been able to reach my A-spot easily with their fingers, including those with shorter/smaller fingers. It’s all about angling and positioning. Have the receptive partner pull their knees closer to their chest to shorten the vagina’s length, and you’ll have an easier time reaching the A-spot with your dick, your fingers, or a toy. Anything upwards of about 5″ can hit my spot just fine, and sex toys exist anyway so it’s not like a penis is the only option here.

 

Will using a dildo that’s larger than my penis make my partner leave me/like my dick less?

Unless your partner is literally only dating you for the usage of your penis, no, it’s unlikely that anything like this will happen. I know that it’s easy in a phallocentric culture to feel like your penis is the only thing tethering you to social and sexual success (whatever the hell that means), but there is more to a relationship – and more to sex – than the size of your cock, I promise.

A dildo cannot pay attention to your partner’s signs and speed up or slow down or fuck harder or softer as needed, the way you can. A dildo cannot whisper filthy shit in your partner’s ear or roleplay their favorite fantasy with them like you can. A dildo cannot hold them close after they come and make them feel safe and loved the way you can. You are so much more than a dildo, and you can do so much more than a dildo can. If you don’t know/believe that, consider working through your self-esteem issues with a therapist – you deserve to recognize your own value as a human being beyond your genitals!

 

What condom is best for my penis size?

Many people don’t know that condom fit can have an enormous impact on how pleasurable and comfortable sex is for you. I would suggest checking out the Find Your Size page on LuckyBloke for an introduction to this.

Keep in mind, when shopping for condoms, that many are labeled in misleading ways (e.g. Trojan Magnum condoms are the same size as some other brands’ standard/medium size), so looking at the measurements will give you a better idea of potential fit than the product’s branding will.

If you want a super custom fit, One makes a condom line called MyONE that seems to be the best option for people who chronically struggle with condom sizing. My partner got to try some in their size recently and really liked them; they said it felt like wearing a perfectly tailored suit.

 

If you’re accustomed to a particular penis size, is it normal to have trouble adjusting to/enjoying a different-sized one?

Sure, especially if you have very particular preferences (which isn’t morally wrong or anything, and is nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you’re not shitty about it).

Sex toys are your friends. They can help you access sensations you’re not otherwise able to access, including the sensations of being penetrated by something smaller or larger than your current partner’s penis. Don’t frame this as a shaming thing if/when you bring it up; you don’t want to give your partner a traumatic complex about their dick. Size is just one variable of sexual sensation, and there doesn’t have to be a value judgment attached to the idea of wanting to be fucked by something smaller or larger.

As mentioned above, silicone dick extenders and strap-ons can help if you really want to feel like your partner is fucking you with a dick that’s a different size from their own.

 

Does ball size matter?

To some people, yeah. Everything you can think of matters to someone. I have never really cared about this or even noticed variances in ball size all that much, personally, though.

 

Will dick size affect my experience with a stroker?

Potentially, yes. While many of these toys are at least partially flexible/squishy, some have less give than others. If you’re on the larger side, I’d suggest searching the names of any potential purchases in the /r/BigDickProblems subreddit to see if anyone there has reviewed that toy for their particular dimensions. If you’re on the smaller side, I’d recommend toys by Tenga, which tend to be snugger-fitting than, say, Fleshlights. It’s always a good idea to read sex toy review blogs, too; some reviewers mention their dick size, so you can more easily compare their anatomy to your own and find out whether the toy they liked would work for you too.

 

Do big dicks stretch out vaginas/anuses?

Temporarily? Yes. Permanently? No. These orifices are made of tissue that can expand as needed to accommodate various sizes of penetrating objects, but reverts to its original position/size in due time afterward. Anything you’ve ever heard about loose, stretched-out pussies or butts is a medically misinformed myth, usually propagated with the intention of discrediting and dehumanizing anyone perceived as being a “slut.” I know you don’t want to participate in a practice as vile and demeaning as systemic slut-shaming, so I know you’re not going to perpetuate this myth anymore. Right?

 

How does transitioning affect penis size for trans and non-binary people?

I’m cis and don’t have firsthand experience with this, but would recommend anything written by Ana Valens on the subject (for transfeminine people). As for transmasculine folks, here’s an episode of the Dildorks where I talked with Bex about his T-dick growth (among other things), and this article by Oak is also great.

 

Is there any equivalent insecurity to penis size that people with vaginas have?

You know, every time I’ve been asked this, I’ve immediately thought that for cis women (the only gender group I’ve been a part of, and thus the only gendered experience I can directly speak to), our entire bodies are scrutinized and criticized in similar ways to how penis size is discussed for cis men. Our overall body size, boob size, vaginal tightness, vaginal scent and taste, and capacity for vaginal lubrication are some more specific areas where we’re encouraged to be desperately insecure and self-hating. I don’t think these things are directly comparable because they manifest somewhat differently, but, short answer: yes. People with penises don’t have a monopoly on feeling shockingly profound shame and self-doubt about the sexual attractiveness and viability of their bodies. That widespread shame sucks, and it needs to change – for everyone, of every gender and body type.

 

What questions do you hear a lot about penis size?

Selling Nudes Scares Me, But I Do It Anyway

Kate Sloan

The first time I ever sold a nude photo wasn’t like a first kiss or a first fuck; it didn’t stick in my memory that concretely, a fully-fledged moment recalled with multidimensional sensory details. It was much plainer than that. Probably some random person sent me a DM, I pulled a list of rates out of my ass, they picked what they wanted and sent a payment, and I scrambled to snap some nervous nudes in my attic bedroom. Not exactly an auspicious start, but hey, it’s something.

Looking through amateur porn galleries always wows me. These people are so brave. I know sometimes “You’re so brave!” is slung condescendingly at people who have chosen unconventional paths, even when they’ve chosen those paths out of necessity rather than courageousness – but I really do think anyone who makes porn of themselves and puts it on the internet is braver than most of their fans will ever even realize.

I know this because my own nudes are available for purchase and it is simultaneously one of the most empowering things I’ve ever done and one of the scariest. Most laypeople’s main worry, when I mention that there is porn of me on the internet, is how it might affect my future employment opportunities, but I feel pretty firmly that that ship has sailed: I’m not going to go into childcare or politics, and I’m not trying to write for conservative publications, so on that level it doesn’t really matter that you can find pics of my genitals online.

No, the thing that still scares me most about being publicly naked is the sheer vulnerability of nudity itself. The likelihood of people saying (or thinking) mean things about my body. The way that internet commentators sometimes speak with such unearned authority that their criticisms creep coldly into my brain and stay lodged there, overriding any calming compliments from loved ones.

But as prevalent and understandable as these fears are, I also know that I have overcome them before, and I can do it again.

When I went quasi-viral a few years ago for writing an article about how some abusive men twist feminist rhetoric to get women to trust them, I was hounded by misogynistic trolls for weeks. They sent me death threats, told me to kill myself, left cruel comments for me across multiple platforms. I was scared for my physical safety. But one of the things that snapped me out of my fight-or-flight daze was seeing these men mock photos of me in a strap-on. They spoke as if this was an inherently disgusting sight, like they didn’t even need to explain why it was grotesque to see a chubby woman looking happy and confident while strapped into pink leather and wielding a glittery dildo. And I laughed and laughed, because… I looked hot in those photos. People whose opinions I actually cared about had told me so, and I thought so myself.

If this was really the best they could do – telling me I looked stupid and gross in a photo where I looked verifiably happy and hot – then they had no real power over me. They had tried to humiliate me and had failed. The spell was broken.

I was reminded of the famous Eleanor Roosevelt quote, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” I have a lot of problems with this quote, most notably that it contributes to victim-blaming rhetoric when survivors get understandably upset about being objectified or harassed or assaulted. But, I do still think that your attitude about your own victimization can contribute to (but isn’t at all solely responsible for) how you end up feeling about that victimization. And since these trolls were sad weirdos whose rage toward me was probably borne from resentments they held toward women they actually knew in their actual lives, rather than being due to anything I’d really done or said, it felt relatively easy to shrug off their bad-faith attacks once I’d seen that they really had no ammo.

I was proud of the things they wanted to shame me for. I loved the things about myself that they claimed were worth hating. My life was full of love and sex, despite their projected insistence that someone like me could neither deserve nor acquire either of those things. Their arguments had no teeth, no real impact, no basis in reality. What they were saying was far more about them than it was about me, and that had been true the whole time.

It still makes me nervous every time I hit “publish” on a new batch of nudes. But it helps to know that all the arguments I’ve ever heard for why I shouldn’t post them are essentially meaningless. I’m not trying to get an office job. I don’t give a shit about impressing misogynist trolls. No decent partner of mine would ever be threatened by me being naked in public. And most crucially of all, although I have my bad body image days like everyone else, I know ultimately – in my heart of hearts and pussy of pussies – that my body is beautiful and worth celebrating. The “someone just bought your nudes!” notifications that show up in my inbox are just one of the many pieces of evidence proving that to be so.

 

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

I Have Psoriasis… and I’m Still Hot

Kate Sloan

When my dermatologist diagnosed me with psoriasis, she stared sadly into my eyes and intoned, “There is no cure. This is a lifelong condition.”

Her grave demeanor made this skin condition seem like a death sentence – and indeed, for many psoriasis sufferers, managing symptoms is a daily struggle, as is managing people’s feelings about those symptoms, as well as your own. But my own case was relatively mild. I had a flaky scalp, some red and irritated spots on my face, and a handful of other unsightly zones scattered around my body. I wasn’t sad to receive my diagnosis – I was glad I finally had an answer, and some potential treatment routes to take.

In the years since, my psoriasis has gotten a bit worse but mostly stayed the same. My scalp still plaques and flakes; there’s a seemingly permanent red spot between my eyebrows that I cover with concealer when I can be bothered; my ears and butt and nose and hands all occasionally flare up with flaky bits. I use medicated shampoo and prescription ointments and they help, a little, sometimes. I’m doing okay.

For me, the worst thing about having psoriasis is the way it makes me feel like people are judging me and think my flakes are gross. I have no idea if they actually are thinking that, and no sexual partners have ever even said anything to me about it, except to occasionally point out an errant piece of dead skin I needed to pull out of my hair. But even the idea that they might think it’s gross is enough to make me want to stay clothed and celibate forever, sometimes.

For years, I’ve stopped partners from kissing or otherwise touching my ears, one of my grossest zones. Having my scalp scratched or massaged is a no-go for me, even though I like the way it feels, because I get too self-conscious about cascading flakes. I sometimes decline spankings (I love being spanked!) because I don’t want a partner to look at my butt. It’s sad, all the various ways this condition has impacted my sense of my own desirability.

It’s only really in my current relationship that I’ve begun to loosen that shame’s stranglehold on my sex life. I once asked Matt if they still think I’m cute when I’m flaky, and they said, “Of course! You know what else is flaky? Croissants. And everyone loves those.” It was a funny joke, but nonetheless, I cried when I heard it, because no one had ever said anything positive to me about my psoriasis before. I stopped instinctively tensing up when they would kiss close to my ears or hairline; I stopped needing to keep my underwear on during spankings. I just… let them see my body. Let them see me.

Around this time, I also began reading the writer Clementine Morrigan’s musings on her own psoriasis. She wrote about her own feelings of shame and worthlessness, and the ways to chose to combat them, including by incorporating her psoriasis into sex. She describes watching a partner kiss her reddened skin, and hearing another partner gasp, “Your psoriasis! It’s beautiful!” I was, and am, grateful as ever to people who share the stories of their struggles in an effort to make others feel less alone. That’s what I’m trying to do right here, right now.

I haven’t yet figured out how to make my psoriasis sexy for myself, the way Clementine has. But I’m luxuriating in the love I feel from my partner whether I’m flaring up or fleetingly flakeless. While I don’t believe in the concept of “unconditional love” – you are allowed to have conditions, to set boundaries, to maintain standards! – this is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling that from a romantic partner. I know now that when they flip me over and see my scaly skin, they’re not going to leave me – they’re just going to love me harder.

Should You Be Able to Rate & Review Sexual Partners?

Kate Sloan
I wrote this in high school but lots of it still rings true…

In 2013, a new app called Lulu was released which allowed female users to anonymously rate and review their male acquaintances, including friends, exes, and past hookups. The men were rated on a 10-point scale, for criteria like humor, manners, ambition, and willingness to commit.

There was immediately a media panic about it, with outlets referring to Lulu as “Sex Yelp” and speculating on what it portended about human relationships in the 21st century. Dating-app giant Badoo later acquired Lulu and shut down the ratings component of the app, but the question remained: is rating and reviewing sexual partners useful? And perhaps even more pressingly: is it ethical?

I’m sorry about the cissexism. We were young and shitty.

I thought about this again years later when a friend and I devised a rating scheme for penises we had known, featuring criteria like “hygiene,” “soft skin,” “taste of cum,” “testicular perkiness,” and so on. It seemed harmless to me at the time, a hilarious joke perpetrated while tipsy, but upon reviewing it in the light of day, I realized how objectifying it was. What I’d originally conceptualized as a tool for discussing sexploits with friends (“The dick I sucked last night was an 86 out of 100, can you believe?!”) now seemed like a process as cruel and dismissive as swiping through Hot or Not or scoring selfie-submitters on the “Am I Ugly?” subreddit. How could I call myself sex-positive and body-positive if I was literally assigning numerical scores to people’s anatomy? I couldn’t.

There are some cases where rating sexual partners seems fine, or even prudent. Sometimes clients offer public feedback about sex workers they’ve seen (check out USASexGuide for more on that), which can inform prospective johns’ decisions and drive clientele to service providers. There are also always backchannels where women and other marginalized people exchange notes on their dates and hookups with others in their community, warning friends away from abusers and boundary-crossers. These discussions are crucial for keeping people safe who would otherwise have trouble staying safe, because of the unfortunate ways our dating culture and sex work laws are set up. I don’t begrudge anyone for sharing info about “bad dates” and reading other people’s info of the same sort; sometimes these behaviors are the only recourse you have.

But rating people’s bodies and sexual skills is a different thing entirely. Sex is deeply personal, and sometimes embarrassing, and a lot of people have a lot of hangups about it; the same things can be said about our fallible human bodies. It seems unjustifiably cruel to rate people on these criteria in a venue as public as an app or a website, unless they’ve specifically solicited that feedback, like people do on “rate me” forums. (I often wonder if these people are suffering from low self-esteem, or discovering a sublimated objectification/humiliation kink, or both.) In a culture as sex-negative and body-critical as ours, you hardly need say anything at all to fuel someone’s deepest fears and insecurities. Even the most seemingly innocuous criticism can set off a spiral of self-hatred in those of us who are susceptible to this sort of thing, which is most of us.

So I can no longer justify rating and objectifying people (or penises) in the ways I used to. Eradicating sexual shame and encouraging self-love are two of my key goals, professionally and personally, and critiquing bodies and sexualities runs counter to these objectives. This is true not only for other people but for myself: the more you cast a critical eye on how other people look and what they’re doing in bed, the more you’ll tend to judge yourself in those areas as well, perhaps without even meaning to. These mental habits are dangerous, and insidious, and must be actively fought against to be extinguished.

Tell your best friend about last night’s mediocre hookup over drinks, if you like; write in your journal about genitalia that confounded you, if you must. But sharing these judgments online doesn’t really serve anyone, in my view, and it may even contribute to society-wide shame cycles. If you want to create a better world for humans who have sex, one of the best ways to start is to view everyone’s body and sexuality with the same compassion you’d hope they would extend to you.

 

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