Fave Fuckbuddy

“Every Feminist’s Ideal Boyfriend…”

Kate Sloan

image

During the shitstorm of anti-feminist trolls I faced after the publication of my Establishment article, the funniest criticism I received was this: “Every feminist’s ideal boyfriend is a Hitachi Magic Wand.”

A conservative blogger had written about me and my degenerate sex toy collection, and I clicked the link while at a party with a bunch of friends. When a concerned pal saw what I was reading, he cooed, “Aw, don’t look at that,” and tried to take my phone from me so it wouldn’t ruin my night. But I wasn’t sad or angry; I was giggling my ass off.

It struck me (and still strikes me) as so funny that these anti-feminist, anti-woman, anti-pleasure curmudgeons think sex toys are incompatible with the presence of a real-life partner. These people honestly believe that by sheer virtue of owning dozens of vibrators and dildos, I am scaring away anyone who might want to bang me. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

I’m throwing clothes and toiletries into a backpack, getting ready for a weekend at my boyfriend’s place. It’s a rarity: he has the house to himself, with his family being out of town. We are going to fuck on every available surface.

My eyes land on my sex toy drawers and I realize some important decisions need to be made. “What toys should I bring?” I text my love. While waiting for him to respond, I idly graze my fingers over my Tango, Orchid, and Wahl.

The reply comes back: “Your Eroscillator. Duh.”

I should have known. He loves how hard that toy makes me come, while his cock is deep inside me or his fingers probe my G-spot. Sometimes he even hands it to me during sex without me needing to ask – a non-verbal assertion that, yes, he values my pleasure, it’s important to him, it turns him on, and he can’t wait to feel me clenching around him.

I wrap the Eroscillator’s cord carefully around its body and slide it into my bag, then skip off toward the subway station.

27 percent of the people I’ve banged have owned their own Magic Wand (to my knowledge, anyway). That’s no small number. That’s 1.3 in 5. Those odds are pretty good, compared to the world at large. I have excellent taste in partners.

Though self-pleasure is obviously an important ideal to me, I’m especially charmed by cis men who own a Magic Wand purely for the usage of the women they bone.

These are usually men to whom their partners’ pleasure matters a great deal. They’re the type of men who want you to come, but who will back the fuck off if you tell them it’s probably not gonna happen tonight and you’re okay with that. The type of men who will patiently offer up their fingers, mouths, dicks, and talented toy-wielding hands if it means they get to watch you writhe and convulse beneath them. The type of men who will never judge you for getting sweaty, red-faced, breathless, loud, and incoherent during and after your orgasm, because to them, that’s not unattractive – it’s the whole point.

When I’m flirting with someone new and sex toys come up in conversation, sometimes I learn that my flirtee owns their own Hitachi. It’s usually mentioned so casually and offhandedly, I could miss it if I zoned out for just a moment. But it’s info that perks my ears right up, because I know what it’s likely to mean.

“I bought it for an ex-girlfriend, but she didn’t want it,” he says with a shrug as he plugs it in.

“Lucky for me,” I fire back, unwrapping a condom to pull over the thing’s unwieldy, porous head.

I’m already wet from his deft fingers, so he can push them right into me again once the Hitachi is settled on my clit. I turn it on just as he finds my A-spot and have to bite down on my own hand to keep my moans at a reasonable decibel level. The deep vibrations rocking my entire clit combine with his sweetly insistent fingers, and I zoom right into “about to come” territory within seconds.

It doesn’t take much. I’m just thinking that I wish he would say something nurturing and domly to me to push me over the edge, when he leans in and mutters, “Does that feel good? Yeah? Like that?” And then I’m coming all over his fingers, sinking my teeth even deeper into my own skin. The vibrator rattles noisily against my sudden wetness and I leave it there until I can’t stand it anymore.

“Man, I love that thing,” I breathe. He laughs and says, “Yeah, I could tell.” We curl up to sleep: him spooning me, and me spooning the Hitachi.

image

The way I use sex toys with partners, it’s a way they can prove to me that they trust and respect my authority over my own body.

I rarely just hand a partner a toy and let ’em go wild with it. Usually I’ll hand it to them while listing some very specific instructions. “Push it all the way into me, tilt the tip up toward my belly, and move in and out in small motions. Yeah, like that. A little bit faster, please.”

Or sometimes I’ll just hold the damn thing myself. I’ll press a vibrator against my clit or external G-spot while my partner fucks me with fingers, a toy, or his dick. Since my clit is a total princess, it’s often easier if I handle that part myself, freeing him up to do other things.

I don’t attract the type of person who’d pridefully try to control my toys against my wishes. I wouldn’t want to bang that type of person, anyway. I only want to be with people who respect my autonomy, my knowledge of my own body, my pleasure preferences. And when a partner hands me a vibe without getting butthurt about it, without sulking in disappointment, without seeming to feel devalued or unneeded, it just proves he trusts me to know what’s best for me.

It’s a feminist act, in some ways. It’s a man saying-without-saying, “Your body is yours, you’re smart and experienced, and your pleasure matters. I’d love to be a part of that, if you’ll let me. And if not, that’s fine too.”

He’s got one hand on my chest and the other inside me. My Tango is wedged against my clit, thrumming helpfully, but I’m just not quite getting there.

I see a look come over his face that I can’t decipher, and then he says, “I don’t think this is strong enough. Do you wanna switch to the Hitachi?”

My appreciation for this man, in this moment, is grander than I can translate into words. My heart melts, and so does my vagina. Far from being scared or put off by vibrators, he’s getting annoyed with the one in my hand for being too small, not strong enough, not giving me enough pleasure. He wants more for me, because my enjoyment is paramount to him. And not in some selfless, detached way: me getting off is a direct turn-on for him. And I know that’s why he shuts off my Tango, retrieves my Magic Wand from the bedside table, and places it in my hands.

A few diligent minutes later, I come so hard that I’m babbling, sweating, lost in rumbly reverie. I’m vaguely aware that he takes the vibe from me once I’m totally done coming, and I hear him set it on the table before climbing back into bed with me.

Maybe it’s the orgasmic neurotransmitters talking, but I’ve rarely felt so cared for, respected, safe, and seen during sex as I do now. He knew what I needed and delivered it not with complaints but with extreme enthusiasm. It wasn’t even a big deal to him. He wanted me to come, so, duh, he made sure there was a suitable vibrator in my hands. It was the obvious thing to do, and he did it because he cares about me.

I drift off to sleep in his arms. His hands still smell like me.

When Sex Nerds Plan a Threesome

Kate Sloan

image

This weekend, I’ll hop on a bus and ride it for 10 hours, into another country, where I’ll have my first out-of-homeland threesome. We’ve been planning it for six weeks. Those weeks have felt like years.

See, both of my previous threesomes were impromptu – happy accidents of timing and circumstance. This one was deliberate, chosen, considered. I can see the merits of both approaches: spontaneous sex gives my anxiety less time to take root and psych me out, while long-haul schemin’ allows for excitement to build like a pre-record-launch hype campaign.

Any activity is more fun if you’re doing it with people who love it. That’s true of sex, and it’s also true of planning sex. Both of my threesome co-conspirators in this case – Bex and a gentleman friend of ours – are as nerdy about sex as I am. This made our brainstorming, scheduling and co-ordinating into a delightful process, like planning a party… except with more sexting.

image

The Negotiations

When you think about sex critically and deeply on a regular basis, you become more aware of what you want, what you like, what turns you on – and what doesn’t. Once you know what you want, the next step is to ask for it. That can be scary sometimes: our carnal cravings are so close to our hearts and entrenched in cultural shame that often our inclination is to downplay our desires. But I’m lucky enough to be having a threesome with two people I deeply trust, who I know would never shame me for articulating what I want.

In weeks of chatting and spitballing, we came up with some mutually exciting activities to include in our threesome docket. And the best part of it is, all three of us are so easygoing and invested in each other’s enthusiastic consent that we know we can abandon anything on the list if it feels wrong on the day of. “We’ll just be like a bunch of little puppies,” dude said to me in one of our many excited exchanges about threesome logistics. “We’ll try stuff out.”

Bex and I are solely-platonic friends who engage with each other sexually on a very limited basis, so part of our negotiations involved setting boundaries for what we will and won’t do to each other. Fortunately, we were on the same page about everything we discussed: we’re cool with doing a double BJ, making out, and some boob stuff, but below-the-belt action is off the table except for maybe manoeuvring dildos.

image

The Feelz

Sex nerds understand that sometimes sex stirs up feelings, and the best defense against icky feelz is to talk them out, before, during and after your experience of them. Good communication where everyone feels respected, heard, and valued = good sex, with minimal drama.

The dude in our trio is someone with whom I have sexual history. He also gives me hella heart-eyes feelings, and I sometimes struggle with jealousy when I really like someone. Both he and Bex repeatedly made sure I was okay with “sharing him,” before and during the planning of our ménage. Though I might have felt gross if he’d jumped into the three-way headfirst without regard for my feelings, the amount of care he took with me put me at ease. As of right now, I’m not feeling a shred of jealousy – but I know that if I do feel strange on the day itself, I’ll have two friends there to talk it out with.

If you find yourself dealing with similar jealousies leading up to a threesome, think about what kinds of accommodations might help with that. I asked Bex if I could be the one to swallow dude’s cum after we blow him together, because being “rewarded” with jizz at the end of a beej feels satisfyingly intimate to me and I think I’d be sad if I missed out on it. Bex said yes, ’cause they’re an angel.

Bex has also recently started using they/them pronouns full-time and publicly identifying as non-binary, and that entered into our pre-threesome talks as well. Dude was amenable to learning about gender stuff, especially since he knows getting it wrong could kill the moment – so we talked about what pronouns, names and titles were and weren’t okay. Yay, respect and correctness!

image

The Gear

I know all you sex toy nerds are curious about what I’m bringing, so here’s a rundown:

• Pegging may or may not happen, depending on the Whims of the Butthole. I’ve packed my pink Aslan Jaguar harness. Assuming we get the go-ahead, it could either be me or Bex who’ll do the fucking; we’ll see how we feel. I’ve also packed my bright blue Happy Valley Perk, because it feels the most like “my cock,” though I’m open to strapping on other dildos too.

• Dude likes using toys on people, and has proven his prowess at doing so. Bex and I think it’s hilarious to imagine him fucking us each simultaneously with our own Eleven or Double Trouble, so I’ve packed both of mine. Dual-wielding!!

• Vibe-wise, I’m bringing my Magic Wand Rechargeable and maybe my Tango. I just need something reliable to hold on my clit while dude finger-bangs me or pounds me with a toy or fucks me… Um, no, I’m not blushing! Why would you say that?!

• Bex and I like when I spank them, so that’ll probably happen during this threesome. They own all our favorite implements (including the almighty Pelt), so the only impact toy I’m bringing is my Maddie’s Dungeon wooden paddle, ’cause it’s cool.

• I threw my Ryder in there because last time I slept with this dude, he liked how tight my vag felt when the Ryder was in my butt. I am always eager to please.

• Like a Boy Scout, I am prepared as hell: my sex toy bag is topped off with dude’s favorite condoms, some lube samples, and black latex gloves.

Have you ever planned a threesome? What was the process like for you? (And what toys did you bring?!)

How to Have Anal Sex For the First Time (If You Are Me)

Kate Sloan

image

Begin innocuously enough. Go out for dinner with the crush/bang-buddy/friend to whom you’ve just given a blowjob. Get a little drunk with him, on big pints of locally-brewed beer, and laugh at all the jokes he’s making because weed and BJs make him cheerful.

While talking about your sexual goals for the year, suddenly have a brilliant idea – but the kind of idea that maybe only seems brilliant because you’re drunk. Start to tell him, but think better of it. Cover your mouth with your hand. Blush a lot. Shake your head. Let him pry it out of you, because the more that you keep it inside, the better an idea it seems. Finally: ask him if he wants to be the first person to fuck you in the ass. Because you want it. Because you trust him. Because he’s been on both sides of butt stuff plenty of times before and knows what he’s doing.

Be pleasantly surprised when he immediately agrees, and yet also not surprised at all, because he’s sweet and chill and adventurous and seems to genuinely like you. Concoct a plan with him, involving a hotel room and hours of slow, luxurious warm-up. Nod sagely when he tells you, “Let’s sleep on it and decide tomorrow,” while knowing in your heart of hearts and butt of butts that you’ve already decided and the answer is yes. Pay the cheque and tipsily stumble back to his place together. Give him one more BJ for good measure before saying goodnight.

The day before, text all your friends and tweet to all your followers about your sodomous plans and get their advice. Put your favorite butt plug in and leave it in for hours on end, to re-acclimatize your ass to penetration after a long stretch of none whatsoever. Masturbate idly while the plug is inside you, savoring that weird mix of pleasure and unfamiliarity. Wonder idly if you should’ve invested in an anal thruster for a more realistic warm-up.

Send dude a link to a cheap hotel listing, which is your indirect-and-yet-very-direct way of saying, “Yes, I still want you to fuck my ass.”

Pack a bag full – and I do mean full – of toys and other sexual accoutrements. Two Pure Plugs, the Ryder, and the large Ripple. Two bottles of lube. Black latex gloves. A zillion condoms. A tightly-folded Throe. The Pelt, incase of spanking. Salsa, Tango, and Hitachi. Put the Uncut #1 in there because you’ll want something roughly the same size as the dick that’ll be going in your ass, and when you put the Uncut in your mouth to test its size, you think, “Yeah, that feels about right.” Start getting real fucking excited.

While tipsy at a Valentine’s Day party, hide in the bathroom and sext the dude: “Very much looking forward to doing things to you with my mouth tomorrow.” Because you’re slightly obsessed with blowing him. Squeal when he texts back, “Bring toys.” Later, actually scream, at a totally inappropriate moment during the Valentine’s party, when he sends you a picture of a woman getting DP‘ed with toys. Because, holy shit, he’s going to DP you. Go home and add the Eleven and Double Trouble to your already-bulging toy bag because you suddenly want him to ram you with something big and heavy.

The morning of, do what you usually do when you’re anxious: journal a lot, listen to soothing music, and worry disproportionately about how to do your makeup. Have a breakfast of 3 Oreos and a cup of coffee, because you’re too nervous to eat real food and also because coffee will help clear out your system. Go about your day, running errands and writing and doing chores, while inevitably unable to focus on any of it.

As the sun starts to set, glaze your body in coconut oil so you’ll be nice and soft for him. Get in the shower and shave your legs, your armpits, your vulva, your butt. Like most lengthy femme rituals, this is more about the way it makes you feel than the way it makes you look: eliminate some of your anxiety by eliminating all of your body hair. Wash your body with Lush’s “The Comforter” shower cream, because smelling like berry candy makes you feel like the hottest, beautifulest babe. Fill a bulb syringe with lukewarm water, squirt it into your ass, jump up and down a bit, then let the water flow out of you. Do this a few times, until you feel confident and clean.

Put on some cute underwear, a comfortable outfit that’s easy to remove, and minimal makeup that won’t flake off if you end up face-down on a bed. Take deep, calming breaths and then dance your ass off (no pun intended) to energizing songs for a last-minute burst of confidence.

Walk to the streetcar stop, carrying your heavy-as-fuck toy bag. Ride the streetcar and wonder what the other patrons would think if the bag accidentally spilled open and they saw all your butt plugs and fancy dildos. Get off where Google Maps tells you to, and walk toward the hotel. Start feeling intensely dizzy, partly from anxiety and partly from the exertion of toting sixteen pounds of sex toys through snowy city streets.

Arrive at the hotel, which is small and strange and reminds you of The Shining if it was shot on no budget. Schlep your stuff up to the second floor and find the room number that the dude texted you. Smile when he opens the door for you, because he’s cute and you like him and you’re happy you’re gonna do this with him of all people.

Tell him you’re anxious. He is too. Assuage your nervous hearts with weed for him, gin and chocolate for you, and giggly makeouts for both of you. This is a never-fail prescription.

Give him a beej. For two reasons. One: his dick is excellent, and having it in your mouth turns you on faster than just about anything else. And two: if you get nervous and back out of your buttsex plans, you won’t feel as bad about it if he’s already come. This move is strategic. Or… strabeejic, if you will.

Lube up a Pure Plug and slide it into your ass, while he gives you sage advice on technique and angle, like some kind of butt sherpa. Laugh a lot, because he’s doing silly impressions and voices for your amusement, and think: yeah, I definitely chose the right person to do this with.

Let him do stuff to your nipples and clit and G-spot, because holy fuck, he has talented hands. Do your best to give directions, because sometimes you get too shy to boss people around but you know you’ll need to be a top-notch communicator tonight if he’s gonna fuck your ass. Don’t come yet – you wanna save that for later.

Bend over and let him take out your Pure Plug and switch it for the Ryder. Recall when you first bought your Ryder, years ago, and tried to put it in with no warm-up and not enough lube, and how goddamn awful and stupid that was. Enjoy the contrast between that moment and this one: the slick way he slathers lube on the plug and lines it up just right. The utter ease of taking a big toy when you’re really ready for it. The encouraging words in your ear as you back up onto it and it slides in, pop, no pain, no problem.

Make out some more. Touch each other. Giggle. Play. This isn’t a race. There’s no schedule. No marks to hit. No obligation to follow through. Just do what you feel like. Teach him how to spank you. Show him how you like your clit touched. Tug on his chest hair. Kiss his cute face.

Recognize your readiness by how relaxed you feel. Anxiety dissolved and apprehension bested, grab a condom and some lube and get him hard in your mouth. Pull the plug out, slowly. Bend over the edge of the bed with a Hitachi pinned between your clit and the mattress. Smile against the sheets, because this feels like a game.

As he slides into you, breathe deep, cleansing breaths of calm focus, and then fast, heavy breaths of unexpected pleasure. Moan, writhe, bite your lip, grind against the Hitachi. Think about how easy it was for him to push into you. How hot, hard and slippery he feels inside you. How good this is, how much better it is than you even expected. Feel completely safe, and taken care of, and respected, and filled, and fucked.

Stop him after a couple minutes, because the sensation is… a lot. Curl up beside him and high-five him when he announces, “So, you’ve officially had anal sex now!”

When he asks how he can get you off, let him choose between the Eleven and the Double Trouble. Smile as he weighs each in his hands, taking the decision as seriously as you knew he would. And then lay back and let him fuck you so perfectly with the DT while the Hitachi’s mashed against your clit, until you come in the long and loud and wild way that you only ever come with partners who make you feel unashamed. Kiss his big lubey hands when he wraps his arms around you afterward and says, “That was hot.”

Once you’ve come back to earth, put your clothes on and go out for celebratory dinner and drinks at a nearby pub. Because, hell yeah, good sex is worth celebrating.

 

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

A Dick Worth Sucking

Kate Sloan

image

A friend once told me that in her ideal life, she would give a blowjob every day. Her partner would get home from work in the evening, he’d drop his pants, she’d suck him off, and then they’d go about the rest of their night. She considers giving head as important to her emotional well-being as the other self-care routines in her life, like skincare, yoga, and long leisurely baths.

I think about this often, and my opinion on it seems to change from week to week. There are times when the thought of a daily blowjob is so unappealing, I want to keep my mouth closed for the rest of my goddamn life. And then there are times – like now, for instance – when even just the mental image of a cock resting on my tongue is enough to get me going. And I think: a blowjob a day? Every day? For the foreseeable future? Yes please.

But why does my attitude about BJs flip-flop so drastically? I think it comes down to the dicks that I have at my disposal at any given time. Because if there’s not a dick worth sucking in my life, I barely think about blowjobs. But as soon as I find a cock that makes my mouth happy, it’s all I can think about. I’ve got BJs on the brain. Like, nonstop.

My idea of the Perfect Blowjob Recipient is multi-faceted. Partly, it’s about technical specs. Is the dick shaped and sized in such a way that it won’t make my jaw ache after thirty seconds or curve up into my uvula? Is it clean, well-groomed, and pleasant to the touch? Does it harden in my mouth satisfyingly when I’m doing a good job?

But what makes or breaks any kind of sex for me, what takes a cock from “aesthetically pleasing” to “incredibly fun to suck,” is really the personality of my partner. More than the physical sensations of sex, what makes an encounter memorable for me is how much fun it was, how excited I felt, how my emotions and psychology got looped into the experience. And with that in mind, I have some tips for folks who want to be a good blowjob recipient. Or at least, my ideal blowjob recipient.

Firstly and most importantly: make me feel comfortable. Set me at ease. Prioritize my safety and emotional well-being above your pleasure at all times. Maybe that sounds like a lot of work, but it’s really just a chain reaction you can set up once and it’ll domino the rest of the way with only occasional nudges from you. Say things like: “You look gorgeous doing that.” “Is this okay?” “Your mouth feels so good.” “Let me know if you get tired and want to stop; that’s totally fine.”

My anxieties and insecurities are what kept me from loving blowjobs for a damn long time. I was so distracted by thoughts of my own inadequacy that I missed out on the actual sensual pleasure of having a cock in my mouth. If you front-load enough of these assurances into our first few BJs together, you’ll imbue me with the confidence and calm to keep giving you stellar head without getting nervous about it. It doesn’t take a lot of effort and the payoff is enormous.

Secondly: fucking appreciate what I am doing. And I don’t just mean privately feel grateful for my blowjobs inside your own head. I mean express your appreciation. Tell me when something feels good. Bring it up not only during, but after the fact: “That blowjob last night was amazing.” “That thing you did with your tongue made me come so hard.” “I loved the way you touched my balls.”

Make some noise. In talking to other women about sex with men, one of our main complaints – and that’s not an exaggeration – is that men don’t make enough noise. Performing oral sex on a silent partner is unsatisfying in the same way that it’s unsatisfying to flip a light switch when the bulb has burned out. In past relationships, when my blowjob enthusiasm has dwindled, it’s been because I got tired of pouring my heart and soul into a dick that might as well have been a banana for all the response I was getting. It can take some time to train yourself into making noise in bed if it doesn’t come naturally to you, but it’s worth doing: your sounds guide me, fuel me and reward me. And that means you get more BJs.

Thirdly: cultivate the skill of giving direction that doesn’t feel like a rejection. I love the process of teaching someone how to get me off, and I love being on the receiving end of those lessons as well. But this requires a careful balance of correction and compassion, and it’s easy to fuck that up.

Never tell me that I’m doing something wrong; show me how to do it right, instead. Never imply that the way you like your dick sucked is the only way, the best way, or the way I should have learned long ago; acknowledge that it’s just the way you like it, so it might take me a while to learn. Encourage me when I do what you want, with pleasure noises, words of affirmation, and physical touch. God, if I could learn everything in my life by having a hot person stroke my hair and call me “good girl” when I got it right, I’d be way better at volleyball and piano and CSS than I am.

Our culture teaches men that their sexual pleasure is a foregone conclusion, that they should be reserved and stoic in bed, and that all women should love giving blowjobs for their own sake. Not all of these beliefs are necessarily evil, but they do add up to a whole lot of men who don’t adequately appreciate, thank and reward the people who blow them. And I know my experience isn’t universal by any means, but when I feel unappreciated and unacknowledged, I feel unsexy. It’s your enthusiasm that will get you laid, and laid well.

This month brought the first time in my life when I actively craved giving a BJ the same way I crave having sexual things done to me. My lips and tongue and throat ached for it, the way my clit can ache for pressure or my cunt can ache for fullness. And it was because the particular person I was fantasizing about is indeed my Ideal Blowjob Recipient. His dick is on-point, sure, but it’s his behavior, his attitude, his whole approach to receiving head that makes me want to drop to my knees in front of him literally whenever he asks.

My mouth-lust for him got so bad that I did something I could have never predicted I’d do. “Hey, I’m sorry if this comes across as totally crass or un-‘chill,'” I wrote to him, “but I can’t stop thinking about going down on you and I’d really like to do it again soon.”

And, what do you know? He took me up on my offer. See? I told you enthusiasm will get you laid.

A Tale of Three Blowjobs: Getting Over Penis Terror, Continued

Kate Sloan

My very first post on this blog was about something I termed “penis terror.” Maybe that doesn’t bode especially well as a kick-off to a sex blog… but at the time, it was the main sexual issue occupying my mind.

See, when I was a youngin (by which I mean age 15–18), penises – and men in general – made me very, very nervous. I had a plethora of anxieties and neuroses about male sexuality. I believed men were hard-wired to be sexually aggressive, to put their own sexual desires above women’s, and to judge women’s sexual performance against impossible pornographic standards. And that shit terrified me.

It’s so embarrassing and strange to recount this now, but in my first sexual relationship with a cis guy, I literally cried the first several times his penis was brought up in sexual conversation. I was so fucking nervous and I can’t even explicitly identify, in retrospect, what was making me so nervous. It was just a fear of the unknown, I guess.

I worried I would be bad at pleasing penises, and that my boyfriend would judge me or leave me for it; I worried that touching penises would somehow make me “slutty” or “tainted,” even though I intellectually knew these are bullshit concepts; and, maybe most frighteningly of all, I worried I wouldn’t like penises. I was petrified that I’d turn out to be biromantic but homosexual – because I knew I wanted to date and kiss and cuddle with men most of the time, but I didn’t know if I also wanted to fuck them. And that was a scary, dicey question hanging in the air.

 

But my feelings about penises have transformed monumentally over the years. I crave them, I appreciate them, I write them love songs and gratitude missives. They’re kind of one of my favorite things.

There’s no clearer barometer of my penis-comfort than my attitude about performing oral sex on them. So, for your amusement: a tale of three blowjobs.

 

1.

My journal entry for July 5th, 2011 begins: “Today will go down in history as the first time I ever put a penis in my mouth.” A tad dramatic, perhaps, but it really did feel that significant to me.

I was nineteen years old. My very non-scientific Twitter poll indicates that this makes me a relatively late bloomer. What can I say? Willies gave me the willies. But when I did finally get around to it (with some very gentle prompting from my then-boyfriend), it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be.

Granted, he didn’t come in my mouth that first time, which definitely made it easier to handle. But, overall, I considered it a huge step forward and an even huger relief. I had a major fear reference; I felt invincible.

“Throughout all of this penis stuff,” I wrote in my journal, “I have learned that there are two things I need in order to comfortably jump into a fear: a supportive, loving, respectful environment, and a little push.”

 

2.

After the aforementioned First Penis In My Mouth (and its owner) exited my life, I started to wonder if the same fears would rear their head again when I got another dude into my bed.

I broke a long dry spell by romancing a cute guy from the internet. During the proceedings, he very politely asked if I’d go down on him, and I immediately did, and it was good.

It wasn’t until a couple days later that it occurred to me: Huh. What took me literal months of waffling and wailing with my first serious boyfriend only took one respectful request with a hook-up. I guess I really am over that fear at long last.

The one fellatio-related anxiety that lingered for me, though, was being watched while going down. Maybe it’s linked to my fanaticism over blowjob porn and some shitty internalized ideas about “sluttiness,” or maybe it’s just insecurity about the way I look, but I’ve always hated being watched while giving a BJ.

I explained this to Adorable Internet Hook-up and he seemed to have no problem with it whatsoever. We turned off the light and all was fine and good. But, well, you hear a lot of things about how the visual of a BJ is almost as important for men as the actual sensations. Obviously preferences vary from person to person, but as someone who loves watching, say, Heather Harmon inhale a dick, I totally get the appeal. And I was bummed I still couldn’t be looked at while my mouth was full of cock.

 

3.

Shortly thereafter, I had sex with a… uh, how do I even put this? A friend who I also now like to kiss and have sex with? (Um, obviously I am new to this whole sex-outside-of-relationships thing, but, semantic difficulties aside, it is fucking great.)

When a blowjob became imminent, he grabbed his glasses off the nightstand where he had set them during our makeouts. I asked him what he was doing and he said, “I want to watch.”

For some reason I didn’t even think twice about this. I guess I was preoccupied by the prospect of a cock in my mouth. (Cocks!!!) As before, it took a day or two for my brain to properly process the magnitude of what had happened. I had let someone watch me blow him! And this had previously been one of my biggest sexual insecurities!

As we were putting our clothes back on afterward and getting ready to leave, the guy even said to me that he thought I’d look hot giving him a beej on my knees, and instead of reacting with terror, I just giggled with delight. Because, yes, this is a thing that I would like to do…

 

Did you have any anxieties or insecurities to deal with when you first started giving oral sex? How did you overcome them?