spon

On Being a Sex Doll

Kate Sloan

Content note: this post deals with consensual objectification and erotic hypnosis. It also mentions dissociation during sex.

 

For many people, sex is about being intensely immersed in the moment. Synapses fire, nerve endings sparkle, lungs undulate, hearts hammer. You’re hyper-aware of every feeling, every word. Your mind records the memory in technicolor and real-time.

But what about sex where you lose focus, drift away inside your brain, and zone out? That can be wonderful, too, in its own way.

Let me be clear: I am not talking about dissociation, the likes of which one might experience during a trauma or a mental health episode. That’s a big issue for many people during sex, for various reasons, and usually characterized as something unwanted. What I am talking about is a wanted thing, a consensual thing: sex while deliciously mindless.

This type of sex is mostly what I think of now when I look at pictures of sex dolls. I don’t have a penis, and I’m not usually attracted to feminine people (or their silicone facsimiles), so I don’t think about fucking these dolls so much as being one. Being a toy made for someone else’s pleasure, a receptacle for release, an outlet for the stresses and tensions of the day.

Girl on the Net, a fellow submissive and rough-sex aficionado, put it thusly: “Fuck me like you’re wanking.” I nodded along when I read her post, recognizing in her fantasy my own long-held desire to be used. This isn’t the type of sex I want all the time, or even most of the time – I usually prefer to be treasured, adored, doted upon – but sometimes I just need to turn off my brain and my own needs and wants and be someone’s fucktoy.

More pieces of this fantasy clicked into place when I started dating a hypnosis kinkster. There’s a lot of crossover between hypnokink and fantasies like “dollification” and “bimbofication”: reducing a usually competent, articulate person to a static, dim-witted version of themselves. At first, I didn’t understand this fantasy – who would want to feel unintelligent, especially in a situation where seeming attractive is important to most of us? – but, in deeper subsequent explorations of subspace, I’ve come to understand why someone might want to feel… not lesser-than, but… blank.

It’s nice to have a quiet, calm mind sometimes, especially for those of us with anxiety disorders that keep our thoughts racing at breakneck speeds toward nothing in particular – and especially in situations like sex, where thoughts of inadequacy and insecurity can quickly blossom.

I can imagine my partner taking me down into a deep trance and telling me, in his serene baritone, that I am a doll. A sex toy for his use and enjoyment. Maybe he’d describe my attributes to me, to paint a clearer picture in my mind; I’d want to be blonde and busty, like the Christa sex doll. He’d help me empty my brain out, leaving behind nothing but silicone skin and a blank stare. And then I’d be ready for him to fuck me, use me, take out his stresses on me.

You might be wondering what I would get out of fulfilling a fantasy I wouldn’t even be mentally present for. It would thrill me and please me, in retrospect, to feel the signs of having been consensually used without having a clear memory of what exactly was done to me. But the abyss of trance is its own pleasure, in a way. Imagine times you’ve zoned out while staring out a car window or waiting in line; perhaps you couldn’t fully remember, once you came back, where you’d been or what you’d been thinking about – because, quite likely, it was nothing at all. That blank state, when accessed with purpose and care, can feel like a warm blanket thrown over your brain: safe, cozy, and lovely in and of itself.

And since my partner has a massive hypnosis fetish, and gets off on seeing me in trance, the vacant look in my eyes would make me an even better sex toy for him.

 

Thanks so much to the folks at SexDolls.com for sponsoring this post!

Love and Lust: The Universal Language?

Kate Sloan
At the top of the Palatino in Rome.

Where did the fantasy first arise in my life of having sex with someone who doesn’t speak English and whose language I do not speak? Was it the Love Actually subplot where a British befuddled Colin Firth has an awkward-yet-romantic dalliance with his Portuguese housekeeper Aurélia? Was it the lesbian erotica story I read in some anthology whose name has been lost to time, where an English-speaking tourist meets and seduces an exclusively Spanish-speaking woman at a nightclub while on vacation? Did I see it in porn somewhere and internalize it? How did this become one of my formative ideas of the magical heights of romance?

Though the lingual disconnect is played for laughs in Love Actually and spun into lusty wonder in the erotica story, it obviously poses many real-life logistical issues that could prove unsurmountable. These romanticizing tales want us to believe love (or lust) is the ultimate human “language,” that it can overcome cultural barriers and connect us even in the face of communication obstacles. This narrative erases and harms asexual and aromantic people, and it isn’t even accurate. Humans developed language for a reason: we need it. Sex and romance are nebulous enough already, even when you do speak the same language, because often these feelings are difficult to put into words, even for yourself. Being reduced to gestures and facial expressions when trying to explain your feelings to someone seems like hell, especially for someone like me who thrives on words of affirmation.

Not to mention: in our recent (and less recent) cultural conversations about consent, it’s become clear that verbal consent is the gold standard for ensuring a sexual encounter is on the up-and-up. There are certainly ways to acquire and give consent non-verbally, and arguably most consent is given and gotten in this way, but I think it only works because it’s usually combined with some verbal element. Sure, you can read someone’s body terrifically, but at some point you’re probably gonna ask, “Is this okay?” or “You like that?” or “You want more?” and it’s hard for me to imagine navigating sex safely and responsibly without the ability to even do that.

That said, I’d be lying if I claimed this fantasy never crosses my mind anymore. Like many fantasies, it’s unfettered by logistical considerations when I ponder it in private moments. I can imagine that me and this other person can read each other’s bodies perfectly, almost like we’re reading each other’s minds, without needing a common language to know each other’s most intimate wishes. Afflicted by anxiety, my brain often floods with worrying words during sex – the very activity that’s said to steal your words away and quiet your mind – so it’s, in some ways, a comfort to consider sex wholly without words. Who would I be, and what would I feel, if I could quiet my mind and focus only on my body and someone else’s?

I think another movie, Before Sunrise, fanned the flames of this fantasy for me. In it, two travelers – who are from different continents but both speak English – have a chance meeting on a train zooming through Europe and embark on an impulsive all-night adventure in Vienna. I’ve longed to go to Vienna since seeing this film; the landscapes and locations strike me as achingly romantic. And because I’m a perv, I imagine that if I met an attractive German-speaking local there, we’d somehow flirt non-verbally, kiss under an Austrian sunset, and wander into a sex shop or Fleshlight store together to look at the “mini vibratoren” that we would then use in a majestically-lit hotel room later on.

Verbal communication is pretty much the only type I’m good at – and sometimes not even that – but somehow, in my fantasy, I get by just fine without it. And there’s a lot of kissing and orgasms and maybe some giggling atop a giant Ferris wheel.

Do you have any fantasies that you know wouldn’t work in reality?

 

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

5 Myths About Sex Work

Kate Sloan

It’s disheartening that sex work is still so stigmatized in 2018, even after the groundbreaking work of so many sex workers’ rights advocates throughout history. Whorephobic language is commonplace in our media and even our everyday conversations. Stigma against sex workers literally endangers their livelihood and their lives. This has to stop!

I’m not a sex worker (more on that later in the post), but my friends and internet acquaintances in the industry seem to encounter a lot of the same frustrations over and over again. I’ve quoted some of them here, since they would know better than I would, obviously! Here are some common myths about sex work that really need to be busted…

Sex workers are “selling their bodies.”

I mean, in a sense, we’re all “selling our bodies” – or at least renting them out – because our bodies are involved in the labor we do. Coal miners, retail workers, teachers, lawyers, doctors… All of these people use their bodies to do their work. I’m using mine right now, typing this! Sexual labor is labor; there is no moral law that somehow makes sex work worse than any other kind of work.

Sex work is inherently demeaning.

Someone like Marx might argue that all work is inherently demeaning, since you’re exchanging your labor for the human-invented construct that is money… In any case, people who choose sex work often have excellent (and even empowering) reasons for doing so, not that their reasoning is anyone else’s business anyway! If you don’t think working construction or retail (for example) are demeaning, then it doesn’t make any sense to think that about sex work, either. There’s no reason a brothel would necessarily be a worse workplace than, say, McDonald’s or the Gap. And if you do think those other kinds of work are demeaning, maybe your problem is with work in general, in which case you should go lobby for better employment rights and/or basic income instead of yelling at sex workers!

“Cleos on Nile in Brisbane, the capitol of Queensland, is very pro-sex workers’ rights. They provide everything for the ladies to work independently within the venue. The women work for themselves (no pimping) and can refuse service to any client they like. The venue provides everything for the service providers to work in comfort, from cable TV and internet to food and private smoking areas. Condoms, etc. are also provided free of charge, as only safe sex practices are permitted for everyone’s safety. The brothel is owned by an ex-worker who worked for herself for 25 years before saving enough to buy what has become the most successful brothel in the state.” –Lynette Black, owner of Cleos On Nile

Sex work is easy money.

Hahaha, no. I’ve barely dipped my toe into sex work and even I know this one is bullshit. As with any kind of work that relies on building a clientele, maintaining a career in sex work can take a lot of time and energy. Whether you’re crafting and posting ads for your services, filming and editing content for a clip store, promoting the hell out of yourself on social media, or perhaps all three and more, there’s no doubt that sex work is an effortful enterprise. That effort deserves to be recognized and acknowledged!

There’s only one way to do it.

A lot of different activities can be classified as sex work, not just full-service work like what goes on at Brisbane brothels. Cam performers, dominatrixes, phone sex operators, strippers, and porn performers are just a few examples of different types of sex workers. The World Health Organization defines sex work as “the provision of sexual services for money or goods,” which, of course, covers a broad range of transactions. While I have done certain forms of sex work – camming, selling nudes, selling panties, paid sexting and phone sex, and being a sugar baby – I don’t typically call myself a sex worker because I don’t experience sex work-related stigma or oppression to the same degree as many people who do this work on a more full-time basis and/or for survival. All this to say: sex work takes many forms and all of them come with their own challenges.

All sex workers have STIs.

Oh my god, so much to unpack here. So, first of all, having an STI isn’t something we should stigmatize. Many, many, many people have STIs, and many of those people prioritize disclosure, treatment/management, and transmission prevention. But on top of that, remember: sex workers’ sexual health is their livelihood, so of course they take it seriously, and some research has even found sex workers have lower STI rates than the general population (makes sense, if you ask me!). This is particularly true in places where sex work is decriminalized or legalized (just ask escorts in Brisbane) – demonstrating that making something illegal and/or difficult to do just makes it more difficult to do safely and healthily.

What myths about sex work do you wish would just go away?

 

Heads up: this post was sponsored; however, as always, I support and agree with all of the sentiments therein!

Can a Sex Doll Replace a Human?

Kate Sloan

I’ve been writing about sex toys online for over six years, and in that time, I’ve come up against the same mostly-male, mostly-hetero anxiety countless times: “If my partner gets a sex toy, will it render me obsolete?!”

Though I’m bored to death of answering this question, I also understand where it stems from. For a lot of us, our confidence in relationships is at least partly connected to our sexual prowess, and so, if an object can give your partner great pleasure, I guess it makes sense to worry about how that’ll affect your standing in that relationship… assuming you think sexual pleasure is the only thing you think you offer your partner!

Spoiler alert: relationships – even casual, mostly- or exclusively-sexual ones – are about more than just getting off. Sex toys and sex dolls are incredible tools, but there are so many things they don’t provide that human partners do, such as…

Seduction and flirting. True, some advanced sex robots allow you to “seduce” them through words and foreplay, but I would imagine it’s a bit like playing a car-racing video game when you’re actually craving a drive on the open road. There is nothing quite like the slowly-unfolding mystery of a dinner date or even a Netflix-and-chill night. Double entendres and witty repartée abound as you try to discern whether this person might want to kiss you tonight – or more.

Learning a partner’s tastes, and them learning yours. Presumably sex robots will eventually reach a level of advancement that allows for this, but right now, this phenomenon is fairly limited. There is immense gratification in mastering someone’s anatomy and kinks, so you can turn them on with both your body and your brilliant mind.

Smells, tastes, and textures. Products like the Loli sex doll tend to be made of realistic-feeling materials like TPE and silicone, but they’re not quite able to replicate the effect of human skin against yours. Then again, if you’ve had bad experiences with past partners’ questionable hygiene, maybe this is a plus for you!

Feeling desired. Nothing quite compares to the knowledge that another human likes you, wants you, and wants to fuck you. Sex toys are definitely DTF, but they’re not exactly enthusiastic about it, you know?

Laughing during sex. Look, let’s be real. SEXO loverealdolls probably aren’t going to get your weird puns. You can still make yourself laugh, though, so that’s something, I guess.

Cuddling and pillow talk. Sometimes the end of sex can leave you with a hollow feeling, as your neurotransmitters sort themselves out. This is easily combated when you’ve got a cute person to snuggle and talk to, but sometimes lying in bed with a silent sex toy can just exacerbate that lonely feeling. Maybe you and the sex doll could listen to a podcast together or something…

What would you miss most about sex with humans if you switched to only fucking sex dolls, robots, toys, etc.?

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

What’s It Like to Be Little?

Kate Sloan
“Babygirl” crop top from Delirium Toys

Content note for this post: ageplay and Daddy Dom/little girl roleplay between consenting adults; a brief mention of pedophilia.

The first time I encountered the term “little space” was, I believe, in the ageplay episode of the Why Are People Into That? podcast. Journalist and sex workers’ rights advocate Siouxsie Q opened up about (among other things) performing in a “Little Ms. Little” pageant, and how weird it was to sing and dance for strangers from a kinky headspace she normally reserves for private, intimate interactions.

Despite never having encountered the concepts of “Daddy dom/little girl” roleplay or “little space” before listening to this podcast, they resonated in my body and brain immediately. I knew what it felt like to be “little,” and had experienced momentary glimpses of it before. Playing a little girl in improv scenes. Descending into giggly juvenility after too many drinks or tokes. Being goofy around friends and partners I knew wouldn’t judge me. I wouldn’t have known to refer to these moods as a separate headspace, one with its own name and attributes, but when I examined them through this new lens, I realized I had always enjoyed feeling young and small. It was a welcome respite from the pressures and terrors of adulthood.

As a person with depression and anxiety, navigating a career that relies on my constant vigilance and self-directed action to stay afloat, it is an immense relief sometimes to give up control to someone else. This explains why I enjoy subspace, but as for specifically little space, I think it returns me to a time in my life when everything felt hopeful, comfortable, and safe. I was a precocious kid, always getting good grades and impressing adults, and it didn’t feel difficult; I amassed compliments without even having to try. Those moments got less and less frequent as I grew up, because intellect and ambition are less remarkable in a teenager or an adult than they are in a child, but I continued craving them nonetheless.

That feeling of “Yay, I did a good job and someone noticed!” began to get compounded in murkily sexual ways when the compliment came from attractive older masculine people – professors, mentors, friends of the family – and what was once a purely intellectual motivation became a somewhat carnal one too. I craved a relationship in which I could go fully into the headspace that mildly patronizing compliments put me into, without tempering the blushing and giggling that those kind words provoked in me. I wanted it to be a mutually consensual delight, a two-way street: I wanted someone who loved giving me that kind of focused attention and encouragement as much as I loved to receive it.

Subsequent DD/lg dalliances taught me even more about what little space felt like to me, what helped bring it on, and why I liked it. A particularly kink-positive friend-with-benefits once asked me if I’d like to leave a stuffed animal at his place to cuddle during aftercare, and while I appreciated the thoughtfulness of the offer, I realized that my inner little girl wasn’t really interested in those kinds of toys. Maybe I wanted my comfort to come, instead, from being “daddy’s girl” and having that deep, intimate connection with someone I admired who wanted to take care of me.

I learned from that FWB, too, that not just anyone could be my daddy. Not even all masculine dominant types could be a daddy to me. In tentatively exploring my newly-uncovered kink, he called me “little one” and “little girl” fairly regularly, but when he mentioned that I could try calling him “daddy” if I wanted to, I clammed up. As comfortable as I felt with him, I just didn’t quite have the attraction to and intimacy with him that I realized I needed for someone to feel like my daddy. Each time I slipped partway into little space around him, from a thorough paddling or caning while being called “babygirl” in oaky tones, I got self-conscious and sometimes even panicked. The silliness of my “little” self felt too vulnerable to share with this person I had only a casual relationship with. I worried he’d think it was weird or inappropriate if I wanted to nuzzle my face into his chest like a kitten or roll around giggling when we watched cartoons as aftercare. I just couldn’t fully relax into authentic little space with him because he wasn’t the right daddy for me.

Going into that space with new partners still feels vulnerable, even though I’ve done it in a few other relationships since then. Even if I know the person is into D/s, or DD/lg specifically, I still front-load these encounters with excessive explanations – “I get pretty goofy when I’m subspacey sometimes,” or “Sometimes I act weird and make no sense when I’m in scenes” – because I want to know my partners are not only okay with this but also hopefully into it. Just as it takes me a while to feel confident that a new partner actually finds me attractive and isn’t planning to break up with me at any moment (#AnxietyLyfe, am I right), it also takes me some time to trust that they’re just as attracted to Little Kate as they are to Adult Kate. I need to hear them say – repeatedly, continually – that they find it hot when I regress into a wee little whirlwind of whimsy. This can require my partners to confront deeply-held shame, in some cases, as with my ex-daddy who grew concerned that his interest in DD/lg somehow made him a pedophile, even though he only ever wanted to be romantic and sexual with adults.

Once we’ve relaxed into a functioning dynamic, however, little space can be a refuge and a gift for both of us. When in its thrall, I’m able to let go of my anxiety and sadness to a remarkable extent, and delight once again in small amusements, like bad puns and winding stories told in wacky voices. I become innocent and excitable, sloughing off my adult cynicism for the duration of a scene. I don’t deflect or deny compliments like my insecurities tell me I should, but instead, actually hear and absorb them, believing somehow that daddy knows best. I get more immersed in the moment; life’s petty dramas and complications temporarily melt away. I’m easier to tease and torment and tickle, easier to overpower and overjoy. My arousal ramps up more readily because my adult anxieties are no longer holding my boner hostage. Little space is like a cheat code that buys me some time to be effortlessly happy, relaxed, and turned on, even in the face of grown-up factors which make these moods difficult to access.

Little space has superficial effects, too: my eyes get wider, my voice gets higher, my vocabulary gets simpler. I’m easier to manipulate, both psychologically and physically. I’m more prone to dancing, singing, and giggling. Most amazingly, it’s not like I consciously choose to “put on” these affectations; they rush at me straight from my youth, full-force and fully-formed, like a day hasn’t passed since I was 12. I perceive myself as being smaller and younger – and while not all partners join me fully in this perception, that just makes it all the more satisfying to be with those that do. When my current daddy calls me his little one, and talks about how small I am and how much I need and deserve his protection, I know that’s not just lip service; it’s how he really sees me. And that feels just as good now as it did the very first time an authority figure called me a clever little girl.

 

Thank you to Delirium Toys for sponsoring this post! I’m so excited to tell you that they have a brand-new DD/lg section on their site, containing coloring books, stuffed animals, collars, and other treats to help you get into little space. They also sent me the “babygirl” crop tops I’m rocking in the photos for this post. Soooo cute! You can use the coupon code GIRLYJUICE30OFF to get 30% off anything from their DD/lg section!