spon

5 Reasons I’d Totally Hire an Escort

Kate Sloan

Sex workers are awesome. In the past few years, I’ve befriended several, and have come to realize just how profoundly vital and healing their services can be for their clients. Far from the emotionless sleaze rampant in media depictions of sex work, these encounters can fill holes both physical and emotional!

With that in mind, here are five reasons I’d gladly hire an escort, assuming I had the dosh…

To try out a new kink activity I’m nervous about. If I wanted to learn how to climb a mountain, cook a steak, or wire a circuit, I wouldn’t ask a random friend to try to figure it out with me; I’d consult a professional! Same goes for certain skill-heavy kink acts: you can do your due diligence in terms of internet research, sure, but it’s no match for actually seeing the activity performed in person.

Perth independent escorts experienced in kink would likely know, for example, how to safely approach wax play, rope bondage, and heavy caning. This is, of course, the kind of thing you’d want to discuss with a provider in advance of a session, to make sure the two of you are a good fit and that they actually have the know-how you’re seeking. But if they do, they’ll be a much better introduction to whatever kink activity is piquing your interest than a random ill-prepared partner would be!

For a no-strings attached skilful spanking. Speaking of kink… Sometimes I crave a spanking so intensely that nothing else will satisfy. I could reach out to a partner or a friend, but they may or may not have the spanking-top skills I want them to – plus I might not be able to relax fully into a scene with someone if we have that much nonsexual history together.

Hiring Adelaide independent escorts for a scene would give me the freedom to actually relax into the spanking. I could explain my expectations and preferences beforehand, and rest assured I’d get exactly the experience I’d been craving. And there would be no social weirdness, because we might not ever even see each other again!

For an extra-satisfying massage. This is actually the only sexual service I have paid for before (unless you count porn and cam shows), and it was so blissful that I’d gladly do it again! Massages often turn me on and make me crave sexual stimulation, which isn’t appropriate in a standard massage. But Melbourne independent escorts who offer massages would also likely offer a “happy ending” if I wanted one. Best of all, I could specify the exact type of stimulation I wanted – as opposed to when a sexual partner massages me and I sort of feel like I should just be grateful and accept whatever kind of touch they give me.

To make a partner’s threesome fantasy come true. I’ve never had a shortage of enthusiastic threesome partners available to fulfill this scenario, but I can definitely see the advantages of hiring a professional. Threesomes can be emotionally messy, potentially fanning the flames of any existing jealousies or resentments in your relationship(s) or even creating new rifts. An escort can help you enact a threesome fantasy in exactly the way you’ve envisioned it, and with much less drama than you might unintentionally incite by enlisting a friend instead.

For guilt-free oral service. Look, sometimes I just wanna be a pillow princess and not have to feel bad about it. Like, for example, at the end of a long work day when I barely have the energy to lift a vibrator onto my bits, let alone reciprocate oral sex. (I love giving head… when I have the zeal to actually get ‘er done!) Sex workers are the ideal solution to this problem, because the financial nature of the agreement would take away any feelings of obligation or guilt. Just orgasms and pure relaxation, baby!

What would you love to hire an escort for?

 

 

This post was sponsored, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

The Departed Dominant & the Jilted Submissive

Kate Sloan

My collar is too tight. I keep tugging at it, loosening it, shifting it against my sweat-slick throat. It doesn’t feel quite right, because my submission doesn’t feel quite right. It’s been five weeks since my dominant dumped me and my submissiveness still doesn’t feel quite right. I’m simultaneously sympathetic to my own cause and furious I’m not over this shit already.

“This is the first time I’ve worn a collar since my breakup,” I tell my best friend, realizing only as I say it out loud that it’s true.

“How are you doing with that?” Bex says, their brow furrowing because they understand the gravity of what I have just said, in a way a vanilla friend might not.

“I’m doing okay,” I respond. Still tugging on the collar even as I try to let it lie.

Whenever someone breaks my heart, I become outraged I let them touch so many things in my life I cared about. Like a bad apple in a barrel, cruel lovers ruin whatever they come into contact with. I can’t watch Steven Universe or listen to DVSN anymore; I can’t order from that one Thai place we used to frequent; I can’t even enjoy media featuring characters who share his first name. It’s all painful and I’m furious it’s painful.

But what hurts even worse is the places he touched that are buried deeper in me, more central to my heart than my entertainment preferences: my sexuality, my sensuality, my submissiveness. I let him own me while he was my dominant; it’s unfair he still gets to own part of me now that he’s gone. I want those parts of me back, but that’s like trying to make dirt-trampled slush back into clean white snow.

I miss my bruises. I miss my bite marks, scratches, and hickeys. For the first several days after the breakup, I think this thought at least once an hour and cry every time.

Holding my ghost-white forearm out in front of me while sitting on my friend’s bed, I splutter, “There’s a bite mark here. You can barely see it. Soon it will be gone, and I’ll have none left.” My friend is listening but I might as well be monologuing to myself; I’m so absorbed in my own internal drama these days.

Later, I tell Bex the same thing via text. I’m repetitive when I’m heartbroken. “You’ll get more,” Bex suggests.

“I don’t want more from anyone else.” It feels true when I type it. It feels like it will always be true.

“You will one day,” Bex replies. “Or not. And that’s okay too.”

My heart folds in on itself then, crumpled and dissolute. What if they’re right? What if this prophesied nightmare comes true and I never find my way back to my submission? What if I left my kink in that man’s hands and he still has it and he’ll never give it back?

I bend over in front of a mirror and stare at my ass, dappled with bruises from a scene with a one-off hookup last week. I stare and stare at the wine-dark marks and feel blindingly angry that these meaningless splotches still linger while that bite mark, that one last precious vestige, is nearly gone.

Relationship psychology fascinates me, and so do sex toys, and one intersection between the two is the intriguing question: who keeps the sex toys the two of you shared when you break up?

My toys are mostly mine, purchased with my own dollars or acquired with my professional clout. But them being technically mine and mine alone does not stop them soaking up meaning from past relationships. There’s the metal hanger rail I can’t bring myself to use with anyone but the man who pried it out of a hotel closet for me; the silicone dick extender I got to fulfill a specific partner’s fantasy and likely won’t use again; and now, the multitude of kink implements that remind me only of the dom who debuted them on me.

How long will it be until my favorite paddles no longer feel like his? How long until I can use my shiny new wand vibe without thinking of how he, at my request, tied me down and held it against me until I squirmed and screamed? Will I ever be able to repurpose the wooden dowel he bought for me at a hardware store, sawed and sanded down to size, and used to smack stripes onto my skin?

A week after the breakup, he drops by to return the nipple clamps I forgot at his house. I’m filled with bitter rage – Yeah! He SHOULD give those back to me! I bought them with my own money, dammit! – while also knowing it might be a long, long time before I want to use them again. I hold the clinking clamps in my sweaty palm and tear up, thinking: You damn fool. Crying over nipple clamps.

I move into his neighborhood – not on purpose, just a cruel coincidence – and develop a crippling fear of running into him. I won’t leave my building without first slipping on a low-key disguise: sunglasses, headphones, modern shields against creeping invaders. I add extra blocks to my walks so I won’t have to take streets I know he frequents.

What am I so afraid of? He did this, he fucked this up; I don’t have to be ashamed. But I’m scared that if I see him, he’ll still feel like my Daddy. Or worse, I’m scared that he won’t.

I pass by his house and (insanely) want to knock on the door. My phone beeps a text tone and (insanely) I wonder if it’s him, wanting me back; wonder if I should text to ask. A distant ex sends me a long-overdue apology out of the blue, and (insanely) I consider seeing him again. I don’t do any of it, and (insanely) I very, very much want to.

I try to make everyone into my dom, because I feel unmoored without one. I say self-effacing shit until friends have to command me to shape up; I pretend my to-do list is a written decree from a bossy babe; I spend more time around my parents because there is no one else now to make me feel small and cared for. When texting with casual beaux and Tinder randos, my once-flirty banter tricks like “Is that an order?” and “Make me!” become, instead, thinly-veiled desperate pleas.

But just as a tree falling in the forest is inaudible if there’s no one there to hear it, a bratty submissive is just an aimless failure if there’s no one there to rein her in. When I make silly decisions, like skipping meals, forgetting my iron supplement, and putting off my work until late at night, no one scolds me or spanks me or throws me a stern look. No one tells me to straighten up and fly right. I am neither punished nor rewarded for anything I do. I must be a Goddamn Adult and supply my own motivation. I can barely remember how.

In navigating this sudden crisis, I am reminded of the existentialist philosophy classes I took in high school and university. When existentialists came to the ultimate conclusion that there is no God, no watchful deity, no inherent meaning or purpose to life, at first they felt deeply anxious and upset. It was like being cast out of an airplane with no parachute, reeling, not even certain where the ground lay. But soon, they came to realize: one can make meaning out of one’s own life. One can select a purpose, a direction, a vision for oneself, instead of waiting for some distant God or Divine Right Order to do it. What was terrifying at first becomes empowering as you sit with it and think it through.

I have to make my own meaning. I have to be my own dom. I know this. And one day I will figure out how to do it.

 

This post was sponsored by the amazingly generous folks at SheVibe. As always, all writing and opinions are my own. Check out their selection of restraints, spanking implements, fetish wear, and other kink products!

5 Times Kink Helped Me Love My Body

Kate Sloan

One of kink’s many magical qualities: you have to keep talking about it. All the time. There are no assumptions, no scripts, nothing for which consent is presupposed. At least, not the way I prefer to do it.

My first dominant fuckbuddy teaches me this. Our sext exchanges have consent conversations built right in. “I like restraining partners with chains,” he says. “I’m not a fan of being choked,” I say. “Teach me how to make you come with a toy,” he pleads. “I think I want to sit on your face,” I hypothesize.

I get good at asking for what I want. In the throes of subspace during my BDSM hookups, sometimes I lose my words, unable to form sentences longer than “Yes,” “No,” or “Harder” – but the more I try, the easier it gets. Though power exchange often leaves me literally gagged and silenced, it also makes me better at speaking up when I need to.

So after my fuckpal makes one too many vagina-shaming comments in my presence, I decide I don’t want to see him anymore. He’s not into period sex, he’s not into “excessive” wetness, he’s not into falling asleep next to me unshowered after sex – and while it’s fine for him to have his boundaries, it’s also fine for me to have mine. I want sex while I’m bleeding, wet, and/or dirty. My sexual menu just doesn’t feel complete without those things. A partner who can’t unabashedly adore my body in all its various weird states is not a partner I want to give myself over to.

So I tell him. “I don’t think I want to do sex/kink things with you anymore. I’d still like to be friends, though.”

He’s a little taken aback, but fine with it. My sigh of relief is immediately followed by a rush of pride: I identified an unmet need in my life and did something about it. I owned my desires and asserted them. And now I’ll no longer have to bang someone who makes me feel, in the smallest and saddest of ways, like my body is to be tolerated and not to be devoured.

I’m wearing nothing but lingerie in front of a crowd at a sex club. A photographer is snapping pictures. It’s terrifying – but I’m less scared than I thought I’d be, because a hot, brassy babe is bossing me around.

“Bend over and show the crowd your ass,” she barks. “There you go. Good girl. Doesn’t she have a great ass, folks?!”

The crowd bursts into applause, whoops, and yells of affirmation. Apparently they agree with her. I grin and laugh and blush and laugh some more.

I’m midway through a blowjob when my one-night stand starts to get antsy. “Come here,” he growls. My eyes flick upward, quizzical. Can’t I just… stay down here?

I climb up his body to kiss him. “No. Higher.” I straddle his belly. Is he really asking me to…? “Higher,” he commands again. Yep, I guess we’re doing this. I slide over his chest until my vulva is settled over his mouth. He wraps his big strong hands around my thighs and hips and pulls me toward him. My clit has no choice but to tangle with his tongue. I gasp and clutch at the headboard. Fuck, he’s good at that.

I’ve never sat on someone’s face on a first date before. Usually I date someone for months before I let them invite me onto their face. It’s just a lot: they get a mouthful and noseful of pussy, plus an eyeful of belly and underboob and double chin. I worry I’ll crush them with my chubby body, drown them in my juices, embarrass myself with unladylike sounds. I need to believe someone 100% wants me, in all my weird and overwhelming glory, before I’ll feel comfortable giving them that. This requires at least a few months of dating… or, apparently, a well-placed command from a one-off hookup.

See, when you command me to do something, I have to assume you want that thing. Maybe this is part of why I’m submissive: my irksome sexual anxiety insists I’m unattractive, unless and until someone cute is there to insist on the opposite. So, while “I love your body and find you gorgeous” is a highly effective line, “Come here and sit on my face immediately” achieves more-or-less the same purpose.

Sometimes there’s no time to worry about whether I’m “attractive enough,” because I’ve been given an order and I have to do what I’ve been told immediately. It’s important, after all, that I be a good girl.

We’re hours deep into our second date, lying on his bed in the hazy afternoon sun, stoned as fuck. The weed, as per usual, is working its magic: I am craving pain, knowing it will permute into pleasure. I turn to this boy I only met three days earlier and say, slyly: “I want you to spank me.”

I see his reaction in slow motion, because weed does that. He bites his lip, smirks, breaks into a grin. And then he says it: “With what?”

Everything else is slow and so too is the spread of goosebumps over my entire body, from my shoulders down my arms and all down my back. His question outs him as a true kinkster, one experienced with impact play and potentially owning a collection of implements. But what really excites me about this question is the tone of voice in which he said it: dark, rough, and absolutely dripping with want. I can tell he cannot fucking wait until I’m over his lap. And I don’t want to wait, either.

“Your hand, please,” I reply, and hitch up my skirt.

I’ve always hated my butt. The jiggly cellulite, the amorphous shape. I grew up on a steady diet of SuicideGirls and vintage pinups, and coveted those perfect, round butts. Mine did not look like theirs.

I didn’t know, when I got pretty pink bows and the words “good girl” tattooed on my upper thighs, that they would unravel years’ worth of insecurities in one fell swoop. Overnight, I went from trying to orient my body so partners couldn’t see my butt during sex, to openly showing it off and asking gleefully, “Do you like my tattoos?!” It felt odd to go back and look at photos of my backside pre-tattoos – not only did I dislike how it looked, but it also simply didn’t seem like it was mine.

One summer evening, I’m hanging out in an upscale Toronto sex shop with my friend Taylor. He’s teaching an impact play class, and I am the demo bottom. After the introductory preamble, it comes time for me to get spanked. “Should I take my dress off now?” I ask, and Taylor nods. I pull my simple cotton dress off over my head, revealing a matching set of lingerie underneath, and bend over the shop’s grey sofa to show off my ass to the crowd. Taylor explains how to wield a paddle, and then demonstrates. I smile through my grimace of pain, because I know I can handle this.

“You looked so confident tonight,” my boyfriend tells me later when I’m tucked into his bed, “just wearing lingerie in front of all those people.” He’s running his hands all over me and it’s hard to focus on his words, but when I do clue in to what he’s said, I feel proud.

“It wasn’t hard,” I say with a nonchalant shrug. It would’ve been, five years ago, or even one year ago. It would’ve made me cringe and blush and doubt myself. But tonight it was easy. Because I love my body and don’t care if other people don’t.

Just as long as the people I’m dating/kissing/fucking think I’m hot. And judging by the way my boyfriend is groping my ass and nibbling my neck, I would say that he does.

 

This post was sponsored, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

8 Ways to Explore a Sexual Fantasy (Without Actually Doing It)

Kate Sloan

Sex can be scary! I find straight-up vanilla sex intimidating sometimes – bodies and expectations and insecurities, oh my! – and kink can be even moreso. Especially when I’m thinking about introducing a brand-new activity into the equation.

It’s often easier to introduce a new kink act to a partner, I find, if you’ve previously explored that act in other ways. It’s a bit like how you’d probably practice a striptease in the mirror a few times before debuting it for your partner: you want to get comfortable with it yourself before exposing it to the eyes of others.

With that in mind, here are 8 ways you can explore that new fantasy that’s been bouncing around your brain – without actually going whole-hog and doing the damn thing. You can always get to that part later, if you want!

Fantasize about it. This is, of course, a common way to flesh out any new ambition, sexual or otherwise. Some science suggests fantasizing even helps you actualize your desires, like how some athletes visualize winning before they even get on the field, and have noticeably better results when they do. Play with your new kink in your mind while you masturbate, and see how it feels. If it turns you on as much as you had hoped, that might be a green light for you to bring it up with your partner(s)!

Journal about it. Whenever I’m considering making a change in my life, I find it helpful to write out all my thoughts about it. If you’re intrigued by a kink that’s new to you, you might want to spend some time unpacking why this kink intrigues you. You could also make a pros and cons list, write a script for how you’ll bring up this desire to your partner, or even write some spicy erotica featuring your kink of choice. All these approaches will help acclimatize you to a scary new sexual ambition.

Talk to someone about it. If you have a non-judgmental friend who’d be willing to hear you out, you might find it comforting and clarifying to discuss your new desire with them. You could also call a service like Peachbooth (which is free!), where a dirty-minded professional will talk out your fantasy with you or even roleplay the scenario of your dreams. You know a pro won’t judge your kink or rebuff you for bringing it up, so this can be a safe and comfortable first step into your new kink.

Listen to someone else talk about it. Search for Peachbooth clips about your kink of choice, and you’ll get to hear other people discussing it like it’s no big deal – not to mention hot. This can help normalize your new desire in your mind, so you won’t feel so scared to bring it up “in real life.” There are also tons of sex podcasts (look ’em up on iTunes or another fave podcatcher) which can serve the same purpose.

Read instructional books about it. There are so many great kink books out there. Type the name of your new kink – or some adjacent search terms – into Amazon or another bookseller, and see what comes up. Books are helpful not only for fantasy purposes but also for general safety and preparedness: if you’re pursuing a potentially dangerous kink like fireplay or knifeplay, you’ll want to know what the risks and best practices are before you attempt it!

Watch porn about it. We live in the era of internet porn – might as well take advantage of that! As per the infamous Rule 34, if you can conceive of a subject, there exists porn about it. Get on Google, or your favorite porn site, and do a search for whatever naughty notion is occupying your mind. You might learn something new about the activity you’re looking to explore – or about yourself!

Read erotic literature about it. Flip through erotica anthologies at the bookstore, do a search on Literotica, or even browse a fanfiction site like Archive of Our Own. Text-based erotic media can be more illuminating than traditional porn because you get a glimpse into the characters’ minds and motivations, which might help you understand your newfound desires more deeply. (Plus, how fun is it to read about Sherlock Holmes getting pegged or flogged or fucked by tentacles or whatever?!)

Talk dirty about it during sex. Even if you’re not brave enough yet to put on that schoolgirl costume and hand your partner a wooden ruler (for example), you can still weave pieces of that fantasy into your sex life together. You could gasp “Have I been a bad girl?” in between kisses, or drop a “Sir” into your dialogue and see how your beau reacts. This is a lower-pressure approach than rolling out a detailed script and storyline for the fantasy you hope to enact.

How do you like to explore a new kink before you try it out in real life?

 

This post was generously sponsored by the folks at Peachbooth. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

3 Sexual Fantasies I Hope to Act Out Someday

Kate Sloan

One of the best things about working in sex media: you’re constantly exposed to new kinks and scenarios, and therefore, if you’re lucky, you’re constantly coming up with new sexual fantasies to lust after.

I know what my main kinks are – the basic building blocks of my psychosexual makeup – but I’m always adding new things to my peripheral list of “hmm, maybe someday” kinds of kinks. Whether I’m reading fanfiction or classy erotica, watching art porn or raunchy amateur clips, discussing friends’ recent sexploits or telling them about mine, I’m always filling my head with new ideas for my “fucket list.”

Here are 3 fantasies I’m slightly fixated on lately…

An MFM threesome. I’ve had several threesomes, but all were with a man + either a non-binary person or another woman. They were all absolutely delightful, but gosh, I’d love to be the focus of two dudes’ focus at once. Maybe a dominant guy would tell a submissive guy what to do to me; maybe one dude would worshipfully go down on me while the other fucked my face; maybe we’d even work our way up to double penetration. (Ambitious!) Whatever the situation, I bet I’d love being the centre of attention.

Professor/schoolgirl roleplay. Maybe I’ve watched too much dialogue-heavy situational European porn, or maybe it’s just my inner teacher’s pet showing, but I’ve always had a thing for sexy teacher/student dynamics. I fetishize red apples used as ballgags and wooden rulers thwacked against nubile butts. I feel sexiest and sassiest in short thigh-baring skirts, and I get a little weak in the knees for tweed blazers with elbow patches. Someday I hope a well-dressed domly person (consensually) bends me over a wooden desk, tells me I’ve been a bad girl, and gives me an opportunity to earn some extra credit…!

Erotic massage. For as long as I can remember, I’ve eroticized the idea of someone deftly and expertly getting me off, like it’s their fuckin’ job – and in this fantasy, it is. Depending on my mood, sometimes I picture the masseuse actually finding me attractive and getting turned on in a highly unprofessional way – or sometimes I just want them to be stony and stoic, stroking me on autopilot until I fall apart. Either way, it’s a fantasy so hot that I tense up from arousal… and probably need a good massage to work out those kinks, if you know what I’m sayin’.

What fantasies are haunting your sex-brain recently?

 

This post was generously sponsored by the folks at PornDoe, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!