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Pain, Punishment, & Pretty Girls at The Ritual Chamber

Kate Sloan

My inbox is a perpetual blur of unappealing offers, but there are some propositions you just don’t ignore. Like, for example: “Would you like to come try out our funky upscale queer-positive dungeon?”

It was an email from the Headmistress of The Ritual Chamber, and I practically started salivating as I read it. Yes, of course I wanted to play around in the dungeon. The only question was: with whom?

See, I’m between partners at the moment, and you can’t exactly jump on Tinder and ask a random fuckboy, “Wanna come beat me up in a dungeon?” Well, some people probably could, but I can’t. The very idea makes me hideously nervous. Plus I wouldn’t trust a Tinder bro to know my ass from my elbow if I put a flogger in his hand, know what I’m sayin’?

But then, of course, a perfect solution floated into view: my friend Suz volunteered to be my play partner for the day. I asked our friend Taylor J. Mace to come photograph the proceedings. And just like that, we became a trio on a mission: to trek to the dungeon, bruise Suz’s ass, and get some beautiful photos in the process.

The Ritual Chamber is a gorgeous space that you can rent for you and a partner (or up to 3 partners, if you please!). It’s set up to make a broad range of fantasies come true: there’s a medical clinic room, an elegant Victorian boudoir, an ageplay room for littles and caregivers, and a traditional dungeon space. But what interested me most, when I perused The Ritual Chamber’s website, was its “school detention room.”

I have a thing about teacher/student flirtation. It’s haunted my sex-brain since the days when I was a literal student, sitting at my hard, uncomfortable desk and staring dreamily at whatever babely instructor I currently had a crush on. Of course, I wouldn’t have wanted them to respond in kind, because that’d be gross IRL, but in fantasy, it was thrilling.

So when Suz asked me what she should wear to the dungeon, I told her to “dress like a subby good girl for me.” And when we arrived at the space, the detention room was our first stop.

I had brought some impact implements of my own to use, but ended up not needing them; the dungeon is extremely well-stocked with equipment. I bent Suz over this authentically vintage-looking schoolhouse desk and selected a paddle from the collection arranged in the corner. There were several frat-style paddles like this one, as well as a few wooden rulers for that legitimate mean-teacher aesthetic.

It was fun to make Suz write lines about what she’d done wrong, and then punish her accordingly. But I must admit I got a little distracted when I realized that those lockers behind us are actual, functional lockers. Oh, the school-bully roleplay possibilities!

(By the way, if you’re wondering, my dress is by Vesper and my flower hairclip is from H&M years ago. I don’t often dress in this “businesslady femme” style, but it seemed appropriate for the domme role I was playing!)

From there, we moved on to the ageplay room, which reeeeally appealed to my inner little girl. The toys and stuffed animals everywhere would be so great for comfort during and after scenes, and the impact toys laid out on the bed were perfect for punishment in an ageplay dynamic. One of them was painted to look like a lollipop. Aaaamazing.

I continued Suz’s spanking on the adorable little pink bed in this room, alternating between a wooden hairbrush and a paddle carved in the shape of a bear. Conveniently, there was even a pink footstool for her to rest her knees on. The creators of this space have truly thought of everything!

This room is super authentic-looking, not really a sexy, tarted-up version of a child’s room but more like an actual child’s room. I felt that way about the medical clinic room, too; every detail, from the scratchy paper on the exam table to the dingy fluorescent lighting, felt pitch-perfect. Those details are crucial when you’re trying to fulfill a fantasy – you don’t want to be taken out of the moment by a pervasive sense of artifice. So I really applaud the decorator(s) of The Ritual Chamber for taking so much care in the creation of this space – it looks fantastic, and every single room made me feel dirty in the best way.

The boudoir room is stunning. It reminds me of rich people’s parlours I’ve seen in films set in the Victorian era, like Hysteria. (Which, by the way, if you – like me – have a lot of sexual feelings about Victorian doctors and hysteria, the medical clinic room would be a perfect space in which to enact that fantasy…)

There’s an actual goddamn spanking bench in the boudoir, so obviously I had Suz “assume the position” on it and made her stare at her own face in the conveniently-placed mirror while I hit her with a crop.

As you can see, there was a lot of giggling. I am not exactly a serious domme.

Our last stop was the dungeon proper – a dimly-lit room in the middle of the space, where the walls are lined with floggers, whips, paddles, restraints, and pretty much everything you’d ever need for a kink scene. Even Taylor, a seasoned kinkster, found something in the collection he’d never seen before: a pair of gloves where each finger has flogger-esque falls attached to it, so you can hit someone by swinging your open paw like some kind of werewolf.

We cuffed Suz to the Saint Andrew’s cross in this room and then proceeded to beat her up in several different evil ways. Taylor hit her chest with the aforementioned flogger gloves, I flogged and whipped her with other implements from around the room, and then I scratched “BAD GIRL” onto her pale chest with some metal talons Taylor had brought along. Hey, when you’ve got a cute sub consensually chained to a cross, you make good use of that opportunity!

While this beating was going on, I noticed that the space felt blissfully private and safe. I couldn’t hear any noise from neighbouring houses or apartments, so I could rest assured they couldn’t hear us either. We could be as loud as we wanted or needed to be, and all our cavorting was safely contained in this tidy, well-appointed little dungeon. (And yeah, we got pretty loud at times.)

Our time at The Ritual Chamber was certainly an eye-opening experience! In the past, I’ve occasionally gotten into situations where I needed a private spot to have sex but there wasn’t one immediately available to me. We could’ve dropped by our local sex club in those situations, or tried to rent a hotel room or a last-minute Airbnb, but none of those are entirely ideal: the club might be crowded, an Airbnb might leak sound to its landlord, and a hotel room won’t come equipped with kink implements galore!

If you are in need of a sex-positive, queer-positive, kink-positive space to bring a scene to life, I can’t recommend The Ritual Chamber highly enough. It has just about everything you’ll need, all carefully arranged in a clean, comfortable, private space. It’s the perfect spot for a kinky getaway into your darkest fantasies!

 

Thank you so much to The Ritual Chamber for sponsoring this post, to Taylor for taking all the photos, and to Suz for being such a good girl for me!

My Perfect First Date

Kate Sloan

Dates never quite go the way you expect them to. There is always a discord between the date you pictured before it began – whether glittering and gold or precarious and scary – and the date that actually unfolds. You can plan and play out every plausible permutation in your head and your date can still throw you a wildcard. That’s part of what makes it fun.

That being said… I still sometimes fantasize about very specific dates. I know that they’ll never happen in real life, because if they did, they’d be as boring and predictable as a rendezvous with a sex robot you programmed yourself. But they’re still fun to think about.

Whether your meet-cute happens through Tinder, OkCupid, Bumble, mutual friends, a party, a chance encounter on the street, or you just click here for sex tonight, I hope one day you get to have your ideal first date. Here’s mine…

I spend a couple hours slooowly getting femme’d up at home: prancing around my bedroom, trying on outfits, blasting upbeat tunes, texting friends selfies for their approval. The outfit I ultimately settle on is a colorful fit-and-flare dress, thigh-high socks, a leather jacket, and leather boots. I smoke a little weed to help me relax. (It’s a family tradition.)

On my way out the door, I check my lipstick in the mirror and impulsively send a selfie to the suitor I’m about to go see: “I’ll be the chick who looks like this. See ya soon!” He replies with a thumbs-up emoji followed by a heart-eyes emoji.

I get on the subway toward Ossington station, heart thudding but not as hard as it would be if I’d skipped the weed. My best friend floods my phone with encouraging messages. I listen to a funny podcast and mess around in my Scrabble app; this always calms me down.

Once at Ossington, I skip down the street to the Bad Dog Theatre, where we’ve agreed to meet. I trot up the stairs, nervous but ultimately excited. Our Tinder banter earlier was good – a rarity in the sea of bro-y dullards that is the online-dating scene – and I’m confident his charm will translate to the offline world as well. I’ve developed a pretty good sense for that, I think.

I spot him in a booth, beer in hand. He flashes me a broad, goofy grin and a wave of acknowledgment. I slide in across from him and our conversation sparks to life immediately; he’s witty, quick, and rambunctious. They say a woman decides within 30 seconds of meeting a man whether she’s going to sleep with him or not, and right now I’m feeling a magical, hard “yes.”

I get a pilsner of my own and we keep talking. He’s interested in my work, my life story, and I in his, so we talk about my writing and music and sex ed, and his various impressive creative vocations. The pre-show minutes zoom by, amid animated stories and bad puns and silly voices. (Gosh, he’s really very funny, isn’t he.) The theatre usher du jour announces that the house is open, so we shuffle in with the rest of the crowd. He wants to sit front-row centre, and so do I, and we commiserate about how other people always think it’s weird when you want to sit that close.

The show is hilarious as per usual, but more than that, I notice my date’s laugh. He has a big, generous laugh that makes every joke seem funnier, every improvised choice seem deliberate and brilliant. We keep catching each other’s eye in our periphery, sharing in mutual delight over the discovery that we both laugh like loons. One of the comedians calls us out for sounding like goofs and we just laugh harder.

After the show, Mr. Cutieface sticks around for a minute to congratulate the performers on a great set and say hi to the ones he knows (because, of course, he’s friends with half the cast). Then he asks me – a courageous veneer draped over some hidden nerves I almost don’t notice – if I’d like to stick around, have another drink, and keep talking. “I would love that,” I say, and his ensuing smile is all fireworks and disco balls. Blam, pow, zing.

He tries to buy my next beer but I don’t let him. We settle back into our booth and get into a heated discussion – not so much a debate – about inclusive comedy, consent in improv, and the importance of “punching up.” Every once in a while, when I make a particularly salient point, he goes quiet and wide-eyed for a moment and says, “Kate, you don’t even know how right you are,” or, “Kate, you genius, you should teach classes on this stuff.” I know he’s being hyperbolic but his unabashed flattery still melts me a little. And each time he says my name, my proverbial ears perk up and I feel entirely focused on, like everyone else in the bar is just a hologram but he and I are absolutely real.

When it gets late and the crowd is starting to thin out, he asks me, “What do you wanna do now?” and I’m just tipsy and comfortable enough to fire back, “I kinda wanna go somewhere and make out with you.” He doesn’t miss a beat, all wiggly eyebrows and roguish smiles. “Yeah, that sounds good. Let’s go do that,” he says, and reaches for my hand.

As we’re throwing on our jackets and scampering down the stairs, he asks if I’m more in the mood for park makeouts or alleyway makeouts. I half-joke, “Which one’s closer?” and he gives me a sidelong mischievous glance, takes my hand again, and leads me into an alley.

Moments later, I’m up against a wall and his face is heart-haltingly close to mine, but I’m a chronic punster and can’t resist the opportunity. “Making out with you would really be… up my alley,” I squeak between giggles at my own bad joke, and he rolls his smiling eyes and presses his mouth against mine.

We kiss for long minutes, slow and exploratory, like we’ve got nowhere else to be but here. He hints at an inner domliness in the way he keeps me pinned to the brick wall with his arms, his thighs, his mouth – but whenever he kicks up his fervor, he always backs off for a moment to ask me, “Is this okay?” or “Do you like that?” I always breathlessly reply in the affirmative.

Drunk people keep walking by the alley and half-spotting us in the dark, and every time it happens, we giggle – not embarrassed, just amused. Eventually he stops kissing me and says, soft and low, “Okay, Miss Sloan. I think we should call it a night pretty soon.” He’s pinging my kinks and doesn’t even know it yet. Or maybe he does.

I could invite him over to continue the evening. I could inquire about going back to his place. I could offer him a blowjob in this alley. But I don’t – not because of stigma about sex on the first date, but because I like him so much, I want to savor things as they come. (Pun only partly intended.) And I can feel how much he likes me radiating off his skin, so I know this isn’t the last night we’ll share, not by a long shot.

“Would it be weird if I texted you right away?” he asks as we walk to the subway station together. “That’s probably not very ‘chill,’ right?”

“Ehh, fuck ‘chill,'” I reply, and link my arm with his like we’re a lady and a gentleman in an old-fashioned movie.

“Okay, good, ’cause I like you a lot and will definitely want to text you right away.”

Sure enough, I get a text from him that night, after we’ve said our goodbyes and parted ways at the subway and I’ve started my walk home from the station. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fantastic kisser? Holy cannoli!!” the text says. Its brazen enthusiasm makes me giggle so loud and so suddenly that an old lady across the street gives me a stern look.

I go home and collapse into bed, visions of alleyways and loud laughs dancing in my head.

 

This post was sponsored by LocalBangs.com, and as always, all writing and opinions are my own!

The Unfortunate Truth Behind Sex Toy Gift Baskets

Kate Sloan

As a fancy femme, I’m a sucker for good presentation. So I definitely oohed and aahed when I pulled my bright-purple XRated Basket out of its shipping box. It’s such a good shade of purple, too. Swoon.

I am also partial to anything that comes with pretty-lookin’ ribbons, because I get to wear them tied in bows in my hair like the princess I am. #FemmeSexNerd

It’s too bad that the appearance of this gift box is the only good thing about it. This is XRatedBaskets’ Hers Basket. Let’s take a look at what’s inside…

Time for some real talk. Companies that make sex toy “baskets” or “boxes” usually do so by cobbling together seemingly the cheapest, lowest-quality toys they can find, packaging them up nicely, and selling them at a significant markup. This basket is no different.

I actually requested XRatedBaskets’ “S&M Basket,” because it contains some things that aren’t meant to go in or on the genitals – e.g. rope, a paddle, nipple clamps, restraints – so it seemed like a safer bet. Cheap kink toys will typically cause less damage than cheap sex toys, in my experience. But they sent me the Hers Basket instead, which is, frankly, full of stuff I can’t and won’t use.

Literally, there are eight things in this basket, and seven of them will never make contact with my genitals unless I somehow become possessed by a demon who is cool with porous, potentially toxic materials. There’s a PVC dildo, a TPR vibrating clit pump, some TPR “vibrating nipple pads,” a jelly fingertip vibe, a squishy PVC G-spot vibe, and a panty vibe shaped like a fig leaf which doesn’t specify its material but brags its “battery lasts for up to 30 minutes!”

All of these things claim to be phthalate-free, but there is no regulation in the sex toy industry which obligates companies to tell the truth about phthalate concentrations in their toys. Indeed, one toy that claimed to be phthalate-free was actually found to consist of 61% phthalates when tested in a lab. So that label is essentially meaningless, put there to fool consumers into buying cheap stuff they’re led to believe is body-safe.

The packaging of this jelly dildo boasts, “I’m body-safe: phthalate-free,” but flip it over and it warns, “Use with a condom for maximum hygiene and safety.” Condoms don’t even totally prevent leaching if a product contains toxic chemicals, though, so it’s a moot warning.

To add insult to injury, I thought I might be able to at least use the lube included in this basket, but it contains glycerin and propylene glycol, so that’s a hard nope as well.

The one and only thing in this basket that I can safely put in or around my bits is an Afterglow toy wipe – but, y’know, I usually just wash my toys when I’m done using them, and since the toys I use are nonporous and actually phthalate-free, washing them is enough to get them genuinely clean. Including the wipe is a nice gesture, but would be nicer if XRatedBaskets actually cared about your hygiene and health enough to send you toys that won’t cling onto your body’s bacteria and give you chemical burns inside your orifices.

If you want to get someone a fabulous gift box of sexy items but don’t want to spend a lot of money, you’re better off buying them stuff that isn’t for their genitals, since, as I’ve said, low-quality sex toys can cause all kinds of health problems. XRatedBaskets has an S&M Basket and a Massage Basket that mostly fit the bill: each contains at least one phthalate-ridden sex toy but mostly non-genital items.

But my honest recommendation is that you buy your amour just one or two really excellent toys instead of trying to get them a zillion things on a shoestring budget. An inexpensive body-safe vibrator and a bottle of good lube will run you less than $50 if you shop smart, and will result in more orgasms and fewer chemical burns than an $100+, jelly-laden gift set put together by a company.

 

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

Lube-Savvy Lovers and Slick Sexcapades

Kate Sloan

It’s 2011, I am at a sex shop buying lube for the first time with my first love, and I have no idea what I am even looking at. “Can I help you find anything?” asks the sweetheart of a sales associate. My boyfriend and I both jump at her approach; we’re nervous to even be inside a sex shop, let alone actually buy something. (Yes, kiddos, I am unabashedly sexual today, but in 2011, not so much.)

“Umm, we’re looking for a lube that’ll feel natural and won’t give me an infection,” I manage to squeak, through layers of debilitating shyness.

The shopkeep reaches for a bottle of Blossom Organics and hands it to me, rattling off a shpiel about its natural ingredients and vagina-friendly formulation. Then she leaves me and my boyf to peruse.

We test a little of this mysterious new substance on our hands, and exchange silent, confused glances. At last, my darling murmurs, “I like this one. It feels like your actual vag juices.” I blush, but this time it’s with glee; this soft-hearted moment between us is the most comfortable and least distressed I’ve felt since setting foot in the shop. Because I know that regardless of how much shame I might be feeling, none of it is coming from my boyfriend, and that is what really matters.

We walk up to the cash counter, bottle of lube in hand. “We’ll take this one,” I say, not quite proudly but getting there.

For years, I think of lube as a product for my comfort and pleasure alone, and therefore something I have to specifically request if I want it used. Boyfriends and hookups slide fingers, toys, and cocks into me at my behest, and lube must be applied at my behest too. One partner learns what my “Ouch, I need a little more lube” face looks like, and begins to take it upon himself – but aside from that one perceptive outlier, everyone I bang requires me to be assertive about my own lubrication needs.

I continue thinking of lube this way until, in the winter of 2016, my fave fuckbuddy becomes my fave fuckbuddy, and flips my whole concept of lube on its head with a single comment.

“I want your fingers inside me,” I purr contentedly as he strokes my clit, mid-makeouts, in my big cozy bed.

“You got it,” he replies. “Think you need any lube?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I say. It’s sometimes difficult for me to determine my juiciness level without physically checking, but based on the situation I’m in and the person I’m in it with, it seems likely that I’m soaked.

He kneels between my legs for leverage and pushes two thick fingers into me, finding my A-spot quickly and with ease. I’ve already floated halfway to the heavens when he pauses and says, “Actually, can we use some lube? I want a little more room to move around in here.”

I laugh, having never encountered this request before, and hand him a bottle of Slippery Stuff. The seconds stretch out languidly as I watch him squeeze it onto his fingers and spread it around, coating their full surface. It’s the first time I’ve ever thought of lube as sexy.

He slips his fingers back into me, and I immediately understand what he was talking about. It does feel like he has more room to move around. The slicker environment gives him more freedom for fine movements, fingers building speed in minuscule motions over the exact right spot. He is a manual maestro, a vaginal virtuoso. The sensation reminds me of how much more sensual your own skin feels in a hot bath: the damp granularity of arm hairs, the shiny squeak of wet legs tangling underwater.

I come so hard, I soak his fingers, rendering the lube superfluous. But it was the tool that got us there. The lube he asked for, and the fact that he asked for it.

I regard teaching straight men about lube as a public service I perform. It imbues my sluttiness with noble purpose. Sometimes I daydream that I school all the men of earth on the evils of glycerin and parabens, and in doing so, eradicate a broad percentage of vaginal infections worldwide.

I’ll never forget the crush who, upon getting me naked in his king-size hotel bed, pulled a bottle of lube from his suitcase and said, “It’s no Squillid, but…” Naturally, his mispronunciation of “Sliquid” made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the bed. The lube he then handed me was chock full of glycerin and propylene glycol, so I passed it back to him and said, “I’m not putting this in my vagina, but I appreciate the gesture.” We spent longer on warm-up before delving into penetration, and it was fine. Perhaps he’s upgraded his lube of choice by now.

I’ll also never forget the night last summer when I told Bex my new boyfriend didn’t own any lube. “WHAT?!” Bex shouted. “We should bring him some! Like, right now!!” They were high, and were therefore perhaps more emphatic about this subject than they would be while sober, but not by much. I brought the boyf a bottle of Sliquid Sassy the next time I saw him, and he put it to good use immediately.

Another day, another night shift at the sex shop. I’m new to the retail scene and trying to soak up as much knowledge from my coworkers as possible. I know a lot about vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, floggers… but about selling these things? Not so much.

Keeping a wide berth so as not to freak out the customer, I listen in on my babely coworker giving a lube pitch. “These lubes are the best ones on the market,” he announces with the utmost confidence, and gestures sweepingly at the Sliquid section. “They’re hypoallergenic, organic, tasteless, and fragrance-free. This one is my favorite.” I watch with scarcely-concealed glee as he picks up the Organics Gel, my all-time fave, my right-hand man, my nightstand essential.

If I could go back in time and tell my 18-year-old self that one day she’d swoon over a dude because of his taste in lube, she’d probably laugh in my face. But it makes perfect sense. Caring about lube is caring about partners’ comfort, health, and pleasure. What could possibly be sexier than that?

 

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

5 Things That Surprised Me About Making My Own Amateur Porn

Kate Sloan

Filming yourself having sex or masturbating is a laugh and a half. If you haven’t already tried it, but the idea of it piques your interest, I highly recommend it. It teaches you a lot about performativity, your own sexual response, and your tastes in the porn you consume.

Influenced and encouraged by my many friends in the indie porn scene, I’ve experimented a few times with filming my own sex and masturbation. A lot of things surprised me about my own amateur porn when I first started making it; here are a few of those things…

The noises I make. You know that thing where, you think your voice sounds fine when you talk, but then you listen to a recording of yourself and can’t stand how you sound? (As a journalist who does her own transcriptions and also co-hosts and edits a podcast: yikes, I know this feeling well.) I actually find that the opposite occurs with my sex sounds, though: in the moment, I don’t think about them much, but listening to them back, I find them rather more appealing than I expect to.

Partners have variously described my pleasure noises as “cute,” “sexy,” and “a mix between a laugh and plaintive huff.” (I fuck such articulate people!) It’s neat to be able to assess and appreciate my sounds without the pleasures of sex clouding my judgment – and to realize that yes, they are adorable!

My sex faces. Admittedly, I’m less compassionate toward myself about my faces than I am about my noises. Watching myself on video still makes me cringe: “Is that what I look like when I’m coming?!” I’ll think, slightly panicked. “Why does anyone find me attractive?!”

But then I start applying cognitive-behavioral therapeutic strategies to my thoughts. I remind myself that I’ve had many partners who’ve expressed finding me extremely attractive – not only before having sex with me but also after, when they had already become intimately familiar with the deeply human faces and sounds and fluids I produce. They must, therefore, have found those things attractive. And therefore, even if I don’t agree with them that my twisted grimace of pleasure is beautiful to behold, I can at least believe them when they express that opinion. Watching my own porn hammers that point home.

Unexpected squirting! In the funniest solo porn scene I’ve ever shot, I squirted without meaning to. This never happens to me – I always feel a telltale pressure building in my G-spot that warns me of impending waterworks. But in this particular case, I was so focused on the toy buried in me – and maybe on the video camera pointed at me – that I didn’t notice an oncoming wave of vagjaculation. So when I slid the toy out of me, squirt rained down on my floor, and I exclaimed, “Oof!”

Filming yourself in sexual situations can lead to an overly stilted, self-aware performance – but if you manage to capture your own authentic goofiness, even for a moment, it might end up being your favorite moment in the whole scene. You’ll get to see a side of yourself that usually only your partners are privileged enough to witness – and it can bring you a new appreciation for yourself in all your glorious weirdness.

My stillness. It’s funny to observe the stark differences between your inner life and how it manifests externally. When I’m masturbating, my head’s all awhirl with fantasies: submissive predicaments, dominant archetypes, partners whispering dark promises in my ear while fucking me to pieces. It feels highly dynamic – but when I watch videos of myself jerking off, I’m struck by how still I stay. Aside from the hand operating my dildo, and the increasingly erratic rise and fall of my chest, I mostly stay put, my eyes squeezed shut in concentration.

Learning this about myself got me thinking about changes I’d like to make: it might be more fun for both me and my partner(s) if I seem more physically engaged and present during sex, whether by moving around more, or keeping my eyes open more of the time, or focusing more on what’s happening in front of me than what’s happening in my head. That said, there’s something very hot to me about the idea of a partner commanding me to stay perfectly still – while they pound me with a dildo, say, in an attempt to unravel my composure. Making your own porn is so thought-provoking!

Actually finding it kinda hot. There is nothing about my own face or body that I find sexy, to be honest with you. For that reason, watching myself in porn usually makes me uncomfortable at first. But once I’ve acclimatized to the cringeyness of it, sometimes I can actually start to enjoy it. And once in a blue moon, I can even find it hot.

It’s less a “this person is attractive” kind of hotness, and more of a “sympathetic arousal” kind of hotness. As I listen to my breath hitching in my throat, my moans doubling in volume, and the slick slide of toys against my skin, I’m reminded in a Pavlovian way of all the times I’ve heard those things while sex was actually happening to me. And my body responds as if those past experiences were reoccurring in the present. I still haven’t ever actually masturbated to my own porn, but maybe one day I’ll be able to set aside my insecurities enough to do that. Maybe one day, when a partner calls me a foxy babe, I’ll be able to deeply, truly, 100% believe them.

 

This post was sponsored by Smut6.com, but as always, all thoughts and opinions are my own!