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Review: Funejoy Clitoral Sucking Egg Vibrator

Kate Sloan

People often tell me they wish they had my job, and I get it – but the truth is, it’s still a job, and a job means work, and work isn’t always fun. Sometimes I pout and groan and mope when I have to test a toy. Sometimes I flop dramatically onto my bed and announce to my spouse, “I don’t WANT to test toys today!!” Sometimes I would simply rather read a book, or play a video game, or write a sad personal essay than put a foreign object of uncertain quality onto my genitals with one hand while taking notes with the other. I know it sounds strange, but it’s true.

I was feeling similarly petulant about toy-testing the day that I first put the Funejoy Clitoral Sucking Egg Vibrator on my clit – and let me tell you, this toy changed my mind fast.

While described primarily as a suction toy, this little egg seems to also incorporate vibration into its design. I’ve tried plenty of toys that paired vibrations and pressure-waves in similar ways, but that pairing feels more seamless in this toy than in any others I’ve tried. The vibration (if indeed it is there) feels immediately way rumblier than what you’ll find on other toys of this type, and profoundly enhances the intense clitoral suction this toy can create.

“Intense” is, in fact, one of the main words I’d use to describe this toy. The suction/vibration combo makes even its lowest setting feel like a mid-range speed on a luxe rechargeable vibe (think Lelo or Jopen). While this will surely be a huge advantage for many users, for me it’s sort of a mixed bag; the “mouth” of this little egg is only really big enough to focus on the tip of my clit, the area that most vehemently dislikes overly intense stimulation. However, as with some other toys like this, I’ve found that it helps immensely to reposition the mouth so it sits on top of my clit, stimulating it through the clitoral hood. This softens the sensation substantially so that I can enjoy the toy’s intensity without tipping over into discomfort or pain. As a bonus, there’s an extra ring of silicone around the mouth that feels lovely on my labia during use.

There are 10 different modes available to you with this toy: 3 steady speeds and 7 patterns. The steady speeds aren’t as spaced-out as I would prefer, striking me instead as basically “high,” “higher,” and “highest.” Some of the patterns are too erratic and inconsistent for me to enjoy them, although they’d work well for intentional teasing, edging, or denial. A few of the patterns are uncomplicatedly pleasurable, though; I especially like the steady pulse modes, because there are almost no breaks between pulses and the pattern feels more like actual oral sex than steady stimulation does (particularly when well-lubed).

The cute egg shape of this toy has its benefits and its drawbacks. It’s aesthetically pleasing, doesn’t really “look like a sex toy,” and fits nicely in my hand. It’s probably too bulky to use while having penetrative sex in missionary position, unless you make some modifications to the position, but that same bulkiness makes it fantastic for hands-free play – just a little pressure from my thighs keeps it exactly where I need it. When using it this way, I can place one fingertip on the gently pointed end of the toy and thereby control its exact angle very precisely – and I don’t know about you, but angle of clitoral suction can make a lot of difference for me in terms of sensation, especially as I get closer to orgasm. This hands-free (or nearly-hands-free) method of using the toy also pairs especially well with cunnilingus fantasies, I find.

While it’s decently quiet while in use, this toy makes a slurpy racket when you’re positioning or repositioning it on your vulva, so it’s likely not the best choice if you need to remain nearly noiseless. That said, I wouldn’t generally expect a toy that costs $25 (!!) to be quiet anyway.

Yes, I did just say that the Funejoy Clitoral Sucking Egg Vibrator costs $25. I think that’s astonishingly reasonable, given that this toy is as powerful as some of my $120-150 vibrators and pressure wave toys, if not moreso. It’s also rechargeable and waterproof, both qualities you don’t tend to see at this price point. The main reason I’m shocked at its low price, though, is that it’s rumbly as hell. Unlike buzzy vibes, this one makes orgasm feel within reach for much of the time that I’m using it, and doesn’t seem to numb me out even after 5+ minutes of use. It makes my legs shake, and makes me feel – regardless of what mood I was in before – that testing sex toys isn’t worth moping about after all.

 

This review was sponsored, which means I was paid to write a fair and honest review of the product. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

When Sex Toy Companies Take Credit for Other Companies’ Designs

Kate Sloan

I feel passionately that plagiarism is indefensible, in the sex toy industry and outside of it. It’s one thing to garner inspiration from someone else’s work, and even to “try on” their style while figuring out what your own style is – heaven knows I’ve done that – but to steal someone’s entire idea, and (even worse) pass it off as your own? Not cool.

I suppose this staunch belief of mine stems in large part from being a creator myself. It sucks to work on something for a long time, fine-tuning the concept and its execution, making sure it’s as good as it can be – and then see that someone else has totally ripped it off. This is especially egregious in cases where the imitator ends up making a ton more money than the originator, as with big companies like Shein stealing from small, indie designers. Too often, this process ends up concentrating cash into the hands of already-wealthy, privileged people, while financially devastating the oppressed and overlooked creators who made the thing in the first place. (Many of the designers Shein has plagiarized are Black women.) I get fucking incensed thinking about it, to be honest.

The latest instance of this that I’ve heard about is a kerfuffle between sex toy companies Osuga and Biird. When the former reached out recently to offer me their flagship toy, the Osuga Cuddly Bird, to review, I got major déjà vu. “Haven’t I already reviewed this?” I wondered, and then realized the toy looked exactly like the Biird Obii, which indeed I had previously reviewed.

I asked the folks at Osuga if the two toys were one and the same, and they replied to tell me this wild story: Biird had offered their services as an overseas distributor for the Cuddly Bird, since Osuga had not gone international yet, and despite Osuga’s explicit instructions that Biird was not to misrepresent themselves as having actually created the toy, they went ahead and did exactly that.

Evidently, Osuga had worked hard on this design. It’s an elegant and simple sex toy with a millennial, Instagram-friendly sensibility. It doesn’t “look like a sex toy,” per se, which I know is an important factor for people who value discretion or aesthetics. It’s such a great design, in fact, that it won a Red Dot Design Award in 2019. The chief designer on the project was Siting Lin, an industrial designer from Shenzhen with an impressive portfolio; it appears that some (or possibly all) of the other designers are Asian women as well (yay, underrepresented groups in tech!). But sometime after Netherlands-based company Biird took over some of the Cuddly Bird’s distribution, they renamed the product the Biird Obii, and began publicly taking credit for the design.

My contact at Osuga told me that when reviews of “Biird toys” started popping up on the internet (including here on my blog, for which I’m genuinely sorry – I should’ve done more research beforehand), they reached out to Biird to ask that they change the product name back to the Cuddly Bird and stop promoting it as if it were their own creation. Biird only half-complied with this request, changing the name back but continuing to claim on their website to this day that they created the toy “after years of research and tinkering.” Enraging!!

I’ve been informed that Osuga recently notified Biird that they are terminating the working relationship between the two companies, understandably. I have to wonder what Biird will do, now that they’re no longer able to take credit for other people’s hard work. Will they launch some new sex toys of their own? Doubtful. In my experience in this industry, “once a plagiarizer, always a plagiarizer.”

If you’re wondering what you can do about this injustice, I would suggest buying an Osuga vibrator directly from them if you’re in the market for one. The toy in question, the Osuga Cuddly Bird, is a great little pressure-wave clitoral stimulator that doubles as a bedside lamp (?!). They also make a toy called the Osuga G-Spa, which pairs clit stimulation with G-spot vibration. If you use the code “girlyjuice,” you can get $40 off your order, which is a great discount on toys that are already reasonably priced for how high-quality and well-designed they are.

Another thing you can do is something I neglected to do before reviewing the toy Biird claimed was theirs: do your research on sex toy companies. Some are ethical, and many are less so – and if that’s a factor that matters to you when shopping for sex toys, it’s best to be informed so you can support the folks doing good work. When painstaking labor and cutting-edge creativity go into the making of a product, I think it’s best to support the people who actually did that work – not the people who thought it was acceptable to coast on others’ success.

 

This post was sponsored by Osuga, but to be perfectly clear: as always, I really do believe everything I wrote in this post. It really does piss me off that someone ripped off their design, and I really do think it’s a fantastic design.

“Are You Really Who You Say You Are?”: On Gatekeeping & Senseless Elitism

Kate Sloan

It’s weird when a thing that’s been a part of your life for a long time suddenly gains mainstream popularity. I remember feeling this way when the Fifty Shades novels and movies went viral, popularizing kink and BDSM among people who previously might have sneered at it or not known it existed at all. It reminded me, oddly enough, of when Pokémon Go became a hit game in 2016 and it instantly seemed as if everyone I knew was obsessed with the same game franchise I used to get bullied for liking when I was 8. Cognitive dissonance, man.

In moments like those, an internal war always erupts between the snobby, snarky part of me that loves to gatekeep, and the more mature and compassionate part of me that just wants everyone to be happy. Like, is it really that big a deal that way more people can recognize a flogger (or a Mewtwo) on sight now than they could a decade ago? Is it actually helping anyone when I roll my eyes at these people and dismiss them as “not real fans” or “not real kinksters,” or is it just enabling me to feel high and mighty, like an indie-rock snob whose old-school fave just hit the Billboard Top 50?

I feel especially conflicted about this when there are smart people making good points on both sides of the argument – as with the debates this past year about the “gentrification of OnlyFans.” Porn performers who’ve made their livings on the site for years are understandably upset that controversial celebrities like Bella Thorne and Caroline Calloway can sweep in at any moment, earning a fortune in a single day, while long-time sex workers still have to struggle against the stigma and logistical hurdles placed in their way by our sex-negative culture. On the other hand, I also understand why so many people during this pandemic went, “Wait, how much money do pornstars make?!” and created an OnlyFans page to help make ends meet during this tough time. Granted, those folks don’t have nearly as much of an economic impact on other sex workers as celebrities do, nor do they have nearly the same amount of institutional power to sway public opinion about sex work, but it can be hard nonetheless to turn off the judgmental, elitist, self-protective voice whispering in my ear about people “jumping on bandwagons.”

I’m not an OnlyFans user, as either a creator or a fan, so I can’t really speak to the politics and ethics of that site and the people on it. But I’ve been thinking about this type of gatekeeping lately because it seems to be coming up in a lot of different areas right now. I recently heard a rumor that a guy I used to know had come out as demisexual, like me, and I found myself reflexively rolling my eyes. “I don’t know if that’s true,” I scoffed derisively. “I knew him for years and he never seemed that demi to me. I think he’s just jumping onto the bandwagon.” But as soon as those words left my mouth, I could hear how horrible they sounded – and how much they actually sounded exactly like my own self-judgments when I came out as demisexual. I know, of course, that not all demisexual people “seem demisexual,” that a person’s sexual behavior doesn’t always match their sexual identity perfectly, that sexual identities can shift over time, and that people have the right to self-identify however they choose. I realized in that moment that I was 100% just projecting my own insecurity and self-doubt onto this guy who hadn’t even done anything wrong, and who is almost certainly just as demisexual as he says he is.

The farther back I peer into my own sexual history, the more of this type of gatekeeping I can remember. I was frequently gatekept when I came out as bisexual at age 15; friends and internet strangers insisted I was actually gay, or actually straight, or would grow out of my identity. My long-time volunteering gig at a queer organization became untenable when a new coordinator was hired and noticeably treated the femme queers (myself included) worse than everyone else, in a way that felt like she low-key didn’t believe we were really queer. Some random person booed me when I kissed my (queer ally) boyfriend at a Pride event, as if they’d never heard of bisexuality.

Thinking about these incidents makes me deeply sad, because each and every one of them was invalidating beyond measure. Queer and trans people are already at higher risk of social ostracization, stigmatization, and suicidality than straight cis people; is it really necessary for us to perpetuate these forces against people in our own communities? Who does it actually help when we boo a bisexual, or insist asexuals have no place at Pride, or tell a newly-out enby that they’re “not trans enough”? Aren’t we just picking up the same weapons that’ve been used on us forever, and turning them on the people who most need our love and acceptance?

Let me be clear: it’s not that I think gatekeeping is never appropriate. Those OnlyFans celebs demonstrably made life harder for sex workers on the site; likewise, I don’t think it’s always appropriate for straight cis allosexual people to be in LGBTQ+ spaces, I don’t think white folks have any right to infiltrate POC-specific events, and I don’t think anti-trans bigots get to call themselves feminists. But these are extreme cases, and most gatekeeping in the queer community seems to target people who it makes no sense to target.

Next time you find yourself thinking, “That person doesn’t seem like they belong here,” or “What a poser,” or “Are they really who they say they are?” maybe you’ll think twice, and instead ask yourself: Does it really help anybody when I gatekeep? Or does it just isolate and invalidate someone who could really use the support of a loving, accepting community?

 

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

Can Demisexuals Have Casual Sex? (& If So, How?!)

Kate Sloan

Ever since I came out as demisexual 2 years ago, people have had a lot of questions for me about that identity. Some of these include:

Q. What is demisexuality?
A. It’s an identity on the asexual spectrum, characterized by developing sexual attraction only to people with whom one has an existing emotional connection. In other words, demisexuals don’t (and indeed, can’t) become sexually attracted to strangers, or people they have just met and know nothing about; it takes some amount of intimacy, mutual trust, and/or get-to-know-ya time before a demi person can develop a sexual attraction.

Q. How is that different from just preferring sex in relationships over hookups/one-night stands?
A. What you’re describing is a preference; what I’m describing is a sexual orientation. If you don’t like hookups but nonetheless find yourself regularly feeling sexually attracted to people you don’t know or have just met – such as thinking the stranger across the bar is hot, or wishing you could fuck the cute person who just walked past you on the street – then you aren’t demisexual. Also, it’s worth noting that sexual orientation and sexual behavior do not always “match,” so just because a demisexual may not feel sexual attraction toward a person they’ve just met doesn’t automatically mean that they won’t hook up with that person, or won’t enjoy hooking up with that person.

Q. Wait, what? Why would you hook up with someone you’re not sexually attracted to?
A. Oh, gosh. So many reasons. For me personally, the main reasons I do this tend to be 1) the desire for the fun, excitement, and pleasure of the hookup itself, which can exist independently of whether or not I’m attracted to the person I’m hooking up with, and 2) the desire to use sex to get to know someone, so an attraction may develop. (It’s important to remember, too, in trying to understand this concept, that “not attracted to” is not usually the same thing as “repulsed by.”)

 

I thought today would be a good day to dive a little deeper on a question that is related to these, which is: Can demisexuals have casual sex? Or, more to the point, can they enjoy it?

I have indeed jumped onto a free sex app looking for a carnal meet-cute from time to time. I have swept my eyes over the stranger chatting me up at a sex club and thought, “Sure.” I am not immune to these temptations, though for me they are not based on sexual attraction. They’re more based on a desire for pleasure, excitement, and adventure.

In some ways, I think of sex like dancing. Some people say dancing is the most romantic, the most intimate and fun, when you do it with someone you’re in love with, or even just someone you’re attracted to. It may give you that buzzy feeling of crackling energy flowing between you, the desire to lean in close for an impulsive kiss, the sense that everyone else in the room has faded away and it’s just you and your dance partner, whirling and gyrating. But at the same time, I’m sure you can think of instances when you’ve danced with (or near) someone you weren’t in love with, weren’t even attracted to, and still had a good time. Perhaps you didn’t even know their name. Maybe the music was good, or the athleticism of the dancing got your heart rate up in an invigorating way, or you just enjoyed the fun of getting to know someone from the way they move. It may not have even mattered if you ever saw the person again; your one shared dance was a self-contained encounter that was pleasing in and of itself, and required neither a deep emotional connection nor a later reunion for more dancing. It is likely that your dance partner, or you, simply disappeared into the night sometime after the song was over, and you both moved on with your lives, not feeling pulled to reunite and reconnect, but still happy to have shared that experience with someone who seemed cool.

That’s how I feel about casual sex as a demisexual. It’s not necessarily the best version of sex I can have, or the most emotionally resonant, but that’s not really the point. It’s about fun and frivolity and feeling alive.

 

I suppose this raises the ethical question of whether your “dance partners” – by which I mean sex partners – need to know you’re not attracted to them. After all, to visit site after site and use app after app searching for a hookup can be an exhausting process; if mutual attraction is what they’re after, don’t they deserve to know upfront that it’s not an option, so they can swipe left and move on to the next?

I actually don’t think so, and here’s why. Most people don’t know what demisexuality is. Hell, most people don’t even know what asexuality is. They have not probed the concepts of sexual orientation versus sexual behavior. They have not pondered the ways a person can enjoy sex without attraction. So all they’re gonna hear, when you try to explain, is “I find you repulsive, but I’ll still have sex with you, if you want, I guess,” even if that’s not at all what you feel you’re expressing.

Should an opportunity arise in conversation, I’ll sometimes disclose something like, “I generally take a while to warm up to people,” or “I enjoy sex more when it’s with someone I’ve already had sex with a few times.” These statements have the added benefit of planting the seed in the other person’s head that you’d be open to an ongoing friends-with-benefits arrangement or similar, rather than just a one-off encounter. But they’re also a way of telling your date the truth about yourself, hopefully without making them feel like a gross gargoyle being thrown a bone (so to speak).

 

I will say, my demisexuality works more like a dimmer switch than an on/off toggle. If a deep emotional connection gets me hot, a shallower-but-still-present emotional connection gets me… warm. This – among other, more practical reasons, like my physical safety – is why I prefer to go on a date that may or may not end in a hookup, rather than just going over to a stranger’s house (or inviting them over to mine) for immediate sex. You typically can’t develop profound intimacy in the timespan of just one date, but you can develop some intimacy. I like to ask people not only basic first-date questions (job, family, hobbies) but also slightly more probing questions, that may reveal something deeper about who they are, such as:

  • What’s your passion?
  • Read any good books lately?
  • Does the climate crisis worry you?
  • Overall, are you happy with your life?
  • What’s the best thing that’s happened to you today?
  • What’s the last thing that made you laugh really, really hard?

Beyond helping make attraction possible for me (even if it’s just a mild attraction), these types of questions are also just… fun to hear people answer, even people you’ve just met. One of my favorite things about dating and hooking up is getting to know new people. Even though I’m a huge introvert and can only handle it in small doses, I find it delightful and eye-opening to chat with people from different walks of life about their experiences, opinions, hopes, and fears. Getting to learn more about humanity and get laid in the same evening? What’s not to like?!

 

Lastly, I feel it’s important to add that you can always say no to sex, for any reason you want. You can say no to the idea of casual sex altogether, and just stay home reading a book. You can say no to the random person who asks you out via Tinder, if their vibe rubs you the wrong way or you just don’t feel like going out. You can say no to staying for another drink, if by the end of the first one you’re bored to tears or just wishing you were home watching Netflix instead. You can say no when your date asks you back to their place, whether it’s a “no, but maybe next time” or a permanent kind of no. You can say no when you’re back at their place (or yours), after a nightcap or after some kisses or after some touching or whenever the hell you want. You can say no to seeing them again. You can say no at any time, for any reason or for no reason at all, and anyone who makes you feel like you can’t is someone you should get away from as soon as you possibly can. (Block their number, too. You deserve better.)

As a demisexual, I’ve found that the most likely juncture of a date when I might need to say no is when we’re paying for our drinks/dinner/whatever and have to decide whether to move to a second location. If I don’t want to have sex with them, right then or perhaps ever, but they’ve made an invitation for me to do so, I can say:

  • “Thank you, but no.”
  • “I’m not really feelin’ it.”
  • “It was nice meeting you, but I need to get some rest.”
  • “I don’t think we’re a great fit, but thanks for your time.”
  • “I’ve had a lovely time, but I think I’m just gonna head home.”
  • “I’m not really feeling sexual chemistry here, but I hope you have a good rest of your night.”

I used to feel guilty about doing this, as if I had “wasted their time” by declining sex when there was an unspoken agreement that sex would (or could) happen. But frankly, anyone who believes sex is an obligation, in any context and for any reason, is not a safe person to have sex with. This is also why I prefer to pay for my own drinks/food/transport on all first dates; I need all the help I can get convincing myself that I never owe anyone anything and am free to say no at any time. There is always a chance that someone will get angry and/or aggressive when rebuffed in this way, however gently; this is one of the many reasons it’s best to have all first dates in public, well-lit places where there are plenty of other people around.

 

Are you a demisexual person who enjoys casual sex? What are your tips and tricks for having demi-friendly hookups?

 

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

How Audio Porn Helps Me When I’m Depressed, Insecure, or Sexually Apathetic

Kate Sloan

I think I liked audio porn before I ever liked visual porn. And I don’t think this is an uncommon experience, particularly for women.

It makes sense. Much like some people prefer novels over their movie adaptations, sometimes you want to be able to visualize and fantasize inside your own head while consuming a piece of media, rather than having the visuals spelled out very literally for you.

But there are other reasons I still, to this day, often prefer audio porn over the traditional, cinematic variety. Namely:

1. Words are hot. There is not nearly enough dirty talk in most mainstream porn for my personal tastes, especially from men and masculine people, who are often nearly silent, I guess to keep from grossing out their cis-het male viewers?! As someone whose sex life has been 70%+ phone sex for the past few years, and who has spent her life writing about sex, I’m perhaps more attuned to the eroticism of words than the average porn consumer. Generally I’d rather listen to someone describing cunnilingus than watch them perform it, for example – in part because it’s a sex act where, if you’re doing it right, often nothing all that interesting will be visually apparent from the outside.

2. Sounds are hot. Moans, quickening breaths, the animalistic sound of someone desperately stroking their cock – these things are often the most exciting parts of porn to me, to the point that if a clip has been muted, or has poor sound quality, I tend to close that tab and move on to the next. In audio porn, obviously the auditory elements of eroticism are played up and focused upon, plus they tend to be rendered in higher quality because of the performers’ proximity to their (often) fancy, ASMR-quality mics.

3. It makes me less insecure and self-critical. While I reject the notion that female porn stars aren’t “real women,” because obviously they are, they tend to be a lot more conventionally gorgeous than me, which can bring up uncomfortable feelings while I’m just trying to turn myself on and get off. Some audio porn describes the characters therein, but much of it is created to be intentionally vague, so that the listener can slot themselves into any fantasy they want without having to compare themselves to the preexisting people in that fantasy.

4. It’s physically easier to consume. I didn’t always care about this, but now that I’m chronically ill, there are some days when the effort of holding up my iPad to watch porn – or orienting myself in bed so that I can comfortably see the screen – is just too much, especially if I want to have energy left over afterward for masturbation or sex. I like that with audio porn, I can put my headphones on, hit “play,” and stay perfectly still in whatever position feels comfy while I listen.

5. It’s often in the second person. I know some people hate this about audio erotica, and would be comfier if it only ever described third-person scenarios (“She took his cock into her mouth,” etc.) rather than being in the second person (“You’re going to take my cock into your mouth now, pretty girl”). But I like the second-person ones, and especially enjoyed them when I was in my early 20s and had only just admitted to myself that I might be kinky. (LOL. What an understatement.) Hearing kinky dirty talk that was from a stranger, but that still felt like it was aimed directly at me, helped me become comfortable taking on a submissive role before I ever actually acted out those fantasies with real-life partners.

6. It’s comforting. I don’t know if I’m quite an “ASMR person,” in that I don’t often experience the characteristic “brain tingles” reported by those folks upon hearing certain sounds or encountering situations that trigger them. But I do find it oddly calming to be talked through a sexy scenario by a kind-hearted stranger who requires absolutely nothing from me, in terms of participation or prettiness. It’s like the grown-up version of when you stay home sick from school and a loving parent reads aloud to you from a fantasy novel.

 

Have you listened to much audio porn? What are your thoughts on it?

 

This post was sponsored by the folks at Sofia Sins, the cool new audio-porn platform from Sofia Gray. Check ’em out if sexy audio turns you on! As always, all writing and opinions here are my own.