How to Connect with Other Kinksters on Dating Apps

Kate Sloan

One of the hardest things about being kinky (IMO) is meeting people you’re compatible with. Kinky interests tend to narrow your dating pool, especially kinks that are unusual or highly specific. It’s already hard enough to meet someone you get along with on a personality level – factor in the added complexity of sex and kink, and dating can be an intimidating task.

But there is hope! You can infuse a bit o’ kink into your early interactions with dating app matches, to get a sense of whether you’ll be a good fit. Here are some tips on how to do just that…

 

Image via Flure

Pick the right app

Certain dating apps attract kinkier demographics than others – which can, of course, affect how many cute perverts you’re able to connect with. You could try asking your local kinky friends what they’ve used, or you could check out an app that specifically aims to be sex-positive and kink-friendly, like Flure. Other kinksters are out there, hoping to find people like you – you just have to know where to look for them!

 

Put it in your bio

Okay, admittedly, not everyone reads bios. (This is one of my top complaints about dating apps, honestly!) But for those who do, you can leave a cute little clue about your kinks in there – or just straight-up say what you’re into, if that’s more your style.

I’ve gone back and forth over the years about how much detail to include. At times, I’ve simply described myself as kinky, or even just included a kink-adjacent photo amongst my other pictures – like me in a leather chest harness, or me wearing a 101 Kinky Things snapback hat.

At other times, though, I’ve mentioned specific kinks, e.g. that I’m submissive or that I’m into being spanked. Being explicit about sexual desires can lead people to assume you’re DTF right out of the gate, though – and I’m not, due to being demisexual – which is why I often end up deleting these kink disclosures not long after adding them in…

Image via Flure

Play a game

I used to like to play questions-based games with matches on apps sometimes, like “Let’s alternate asking each other questions about our lives,” or “What are your top 3 favorite ____ and why?” These conversations can be illuminating and fun, and also give you an opportunity to ask about the things you’re really curious about, like kink. Of course, you should ideally ease into this kind of thing; many people are put off by someone suddenly taking the conversation in a more sexual direction without building enough rapport first.

The Flure app has a built-in game called Sparks; it’s a chat-based icebreaker game that helps you and your matches get to know each other better. I love to see dating apps incorporating features that make dating more fun; it doesn’t have to be a slog! It can feel like play, and I think the best connections arise from that headspace anyway.

 

Test the waters with sexts

Okay, I’m not an expert on this one, because I don’t really like sexting with people I haven’t already established in-person chemistry with. (There’s that pesky demisexuality again!) It can make me feel uncomfortable, objectified, and pressured – which, by the way, is why I think it’s awesome that the Flure app has a “Safe Mode” where you’re prevented from seeing any explicit messages/photos someone else might send.

That being said – I know a lot of people do like to sext with strangers, or may at least want to exchange a few dirty texts prior to meeting, to feel out the vibe. If the rapport is there and things head in that direction, it could be the perfect moment to float your kink(s). “You’ve got a great ass – do you like having it spanked?” “Can’t stop thinking about you being on top of me, holding me down so I can’t move.” “Can I massage your feet before I go down on you?”

If the other person is amenable, fantastic! If not, well, at least you know now, and not three dates in.

 

Take good care of yourself if things go south

Dating and hooking up are always risky and vulnerable to some degree, but they can be especially so for people whose sexuality veers from the beaten path. When you tell someone you’re kinky – or even just hint at it – you are risking getting rejected, mocked, or flat-out ghosted. It’s just a fact of life, unfortunately.

But the good news is that dating apps make it easier to screen out the people who would do these things before you actually meet in-person, which can help keep you safer (physically and emotionally) when you make these kinds of disclosures. Dating is a numbers game, and the more people you filter out of your dating pool due to incompatibility, the closer you’ll get to finding the person/people you are compatible with.

That being said, it is totally okay to feel bummed out when someone reacts poorly to you sharing such an intimate part of yourself with them. Let yourself feel those feelings, and take care of yourself throughout that process as best you can – whether that means ordering delivery from your favorite restaurant, watching five episodes in a row of your favorite comfort sitcom, or complaining to your friend over the phone about how much kink-shamers suck. It’ll be okay. Eventually, this too shall pass, and you’ll be ready to get back on that horse – or back on that St. Andrew’s cross, as the case may be.

 

What tips have you found most helpful in connecting with other kinksters on dating apps?

 

This post was sponsored by the lovely folks at the Flure dating app! They’re all about prioritizing your comfort, safety, and freedom to explore your sexuality – check ’em out! As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

The Internet: A Haven for Fetishists & Sex Nerds

Kate Sloan

This quote is about the universe, not the internet, but it feels like you could replace one word with the other and it would be just as true:

“In the beginning, the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.”

-Douglas Adams, The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

Was the internet a bad idea? Did it make every human impulse worse? Is it speeding us toward our doom, entwining us in a web of capitalism and fascism that we’ll never escape? I don’t know.

But what I do know is, the internet has allowed sexual weirdos to connect with other sexual weirdos around the world, and I think that’s a goddamn beautiful thing.

“What did you all do before the Internet?” I asked a woman in an online forum.

“The brave ones looked for personal ads,” she replied. “The rest of us were lonely.”

-Jillian Keenan writing about the spanking fetish community

I truly believe that sexual shame is an evil force, largely created to control the masses. And like many forms of evil, shame grows best in darkness. We are most prone to sexual shame when we are disconnected from other people, or when we feel unable to discuss our true sexuality with the people we are connected to.

In that way, the internet can be a wonderful balm for those of us who’ve grown up with secret kinks rattling around in the backs of our brains. If you’d had a foot fetish all your life, for instance, but had never heard anyone talk about feet IRL as anything other than a practical (or perhaps gross) body part, I can imagine it would feel deeply freeing to log on and discover foot fetish porn sites, foot fetish erotica, and articles with titles like “how to sell feet pics” and “how to give an erotic pedicure.” The whole world would open up to you, before your very eyes. And hopefully, as part of that process, some shame would lift, all because you found out that some other people feel the same way you do.

I didn’t grow up with fetishes per se, so this isn’t an experience I had – but on a related note, I’d been interested in sexuality on a nerdy level for as long as I’d known it existed, and it blew my mind to discover that there were other sex nerds on the internet. Even at a time when I barely felt comfortable admitting to my best friend that I masturbated, I could read sex forums and listen to sex podcasts, where (sometimes) level-headed adults would discuss such topics as “how to negotiate a threesome” or “how to be a good kisser” or, indeed, “where do fetishes come from?” It bolstered my nerdy little heart to know that I wasn’t the only freak reading encyclopedia entries about famous sadomasochists or scientific abstracts about clitoral bloodflow.

Obviously, with this personal history in mind, it’s troubling for me to see how the pendulum of sexual shame has, in many ways, swung back the other direction now. These days, the internet is just as likely to instill sexual shame as it is to alleviate it, what with all the zillions of social media posts and forum threads falsely asserting that queer and trans people are “groomers,” or that sex work is inherently degrading, or that having a consensual non-consent fantasy means you’re psychologically broken. It’s almost impossible to avoid developing sexual shame of some kind, in a world that’s still so hellbent on propagating sexual puritanism.

It’s hard to know what the solution is, or whether there even is one. I don’t think it’ll be possible to cure the world of sexual conservatism entirely, at least not in my lifetime. But in the meantime, I think it does a lot of good to build community with other sexual weirdos of various kinds, and to model sexual self-compassion. I’ve heard from many people that my public openness about my kinks helped them feel more comfortable with their own. It’s an honor to be what the empathy educator Kate Kenfield calls a “beacon of permission” for people to be themselves, and it’s also a huge responsibility I have to take seriously. My sexual shame or lack thereof is no longer just a personal issue; it can affect how others view their own sexuality, because I have a platform and some influence.

So, while the internet hasn’t turned out to be the shame-free sexual utopia I dreamed it might be when I first got online, I think there are pockets here and there that feel utopia-adjacent. It’s up to us to keep building the world we want to see.

 

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

Review: Arosum QueerBind harness & FlexDong dildo

Kate Sloan

I don’t wear a strap-on all that often, but when I do, I want it to look hot and feel good, for both me and the person I’m fucking. I’ve tried a few different strap-on setups in my life, and tend to stick to what I know – but I was intrigued when sex toy company Arosum asked if they could send me their QueerBind lace-embellished harness and FlexDong vibrating dildo to review. A new harness or dildo can change your strap game entirely, so I was excited to give ’em a shot!

 

Things I like about the QueerBind harness

  • It’s very adjustable, fitting hips from 26″ to 57″ around. My hip measurement is right in the middle of that range, at 42″, so this fit me just fine.
  • Getting into the harness, and adjusting it to fit, is quick and easy compared to some of the more complex designs I’ve tried. The harness also came pre-assembled right out of the box, so I was able to get started with it immediately upon opening it.
  • It comes with 2 different-sized O-rings (1.19″ and 1.57″ in diameter, respectively), which gives you a lot of leeway in what sizes of dildo you can pair with it. You could also swap out these O-rings for some that are even smaller or larger if need be, though you’ll have to buy those separately (I’d recommend the Tantus O-ring set).
  • The nylon straps have basically no stretch, which means that once the harness has been adjusted to fit, it’s pretty stable. The dildo doesn’t bounce around chaotically, the way it sometimes does with harnesses made of stretchy materials, so I get more control when thrusting.
  • The front and back sections of the harness offer a little bit of spongey cushioning, which I found helpful when thrusting. I didn’t have as much pelvic discomfort after using this harness, because the dildo wasn’t able to directly mash into my mons/vulva due to that cushioning.
  • I like the lacy, boudoir-y aesthetic, including the corset-inspired lacing in the back. It won’t be to everyone’s taste, of course, but I appreciate that it’s cute and decorative without sacrificing practicality.
  • Depending on how I adjust the straps and the front part, I can get a decent amount of vulva access, which would allow me to do things like hold a wand vibrator on my clit, or ride a dildo, while fucking my partner. However, I was also able to adjust the harness in such a way that the dildo sits closer to my clit, which allows me to get some clit stim on each thrust – probably not enough to get me off, but then, I’ve never gotten off while strap-on topping.
  • It only costs $37.95! My previous favorite budget harness pick, the briefs-style one from RodeoH, will typically run you $50-60, so I appreciate that the QueerBind is cheaper and nonetheless works really well.

 

Things I don’t like about the QueerBind harness

  • There’s not an easy way to wedge a vibrator into the harness, so that the wearer can enjoy the vibrations while thrusting. A lot of harnesses have a small pocket or sleeve for this purpose, but this one lacks such a feature, and I’d worry about trying to jam a bullet vibe behind the dildo, as it likely wouldn’t stay put for very long, but YMMV. (The FlexDong dildo vibrates, but its vibrations are concentrated in the head, not the base, so the wearer doesn’t feel much.)
  • Naturally, the nylon and polyester material of this harness don’t feel as sexy and smooth as something like leather, but I wouldn’t expect a high-end feel at this price point. I sometimes found that the nylon straps dug into the soft bits of my hips after a while, but it wasn’t that bothersome.
  • I would recommend changing out the O-ring while you’re not wearing the harness. The waist straps of the harness go through slits in the front part of the harness and snap directly onto the O-ring, so whenever I tried to change the O-ring while wearing the harness, the whole thing fell apart on me and had to be reassembled 😂

 

Things I like about the FlexDong dildo

  • Most importantly, it’s got a great curve for G-spot/prostate play. The silicone is moderately squishy/bendy, which should make it more comfortable for most people to use.
  • It vibrates! But you can also use it without the vibration and it works just fine as a dildo. The vibrations are on the buzzy side of the spectrum, but are nonetheless rumbly enough that they feel good to me, rather than annoying. They’re relatively quiet, too, especially when the dildo is inside somebody.
  • On that note, the button to turn the vibration on or off is located near the base of the toy and is helpful as a visual cue to make sure I’ve got the dildo oriented correctly (i.e. so that it curves into the G-spot/prostate).
  • It has a suction-cup base, so if you want to use it separately from the harness, you can do so hands-free!
  • The silicone is matte, and very silky and sexy to the touch. It can get linty/staticky, which I don’t love, but it’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make for how sensual the surface of this toy feels.
  • While I’m not personally wild about the almost Creamsicle-orange color of this toy, I do appreciate that it’s gender-neutral and not a flesh tone. I wish more companies would branch out color-wise in this way. (That being said, obviously if you want a super realistic-looking dildo, this ain’t the one.)
  • It’s waterproof! Yay!

 

Things I don’t like about the FlexDong dildo

  • The rounded head, while it feels great once it’s actually in you, might pose a problem for some people during insertion (especially anal insertion) since it’s not tapered. You may need to warm up with fingers or a smaller toy first.
  • For myself personally, as a receiver, I prefer a firmer dildo than this. I found that the silicone had a bit too much squish/bend to really give my G-spot the pounding it tends to want.
  • I wish the vibrations were rumblier and stronger, and that it wasn’t necessary to cycle through all 10 of the toy’s modes (3 steady modes + 7 patterns) to get back to the beginning.

 

Final thoughts

It’s always nice to have more strap-on options in my arsenal, and the QueerBind harness is a perfectly serviceable option for its reasonable price point. It pairs well with the FlexDong dildo, among others.

My main complaint about this combo is that I wish it were easier for the wearer to get pleasure (or even get off) from fucking someone with it, which is made difficult by the lack of a bullet vibe pocket and the fact that the dildo’s vibrations are concentrated in its head, not its base.

But I’d happily recommend this combo to strap-on newbies, or anyone shopping for a strap on a budget, especially since the harness’s quality exceeds what I’d expect for this price point.

 

Thanks to Arosum for sending me these products to review! This post was sponsored, meaning I was paid to write a fair and honest review. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

Vibrators Are For Everyone

Kate Sloan

How did vibrators develop a reputation as being “for women,” when in fact they can feel good for anyone, regardless of gender or genitals?

I think there are several answers to this question, but one of them is the fact that vulvovaginal orgasms are usually seen as more “complex” and “elusive” than penile orgasms. However, this is a misconception; people with vaginas reach orgasms less frequently and less reliably than people with penises because our culture frames penetrative intercourse as the main/best/only “real” sex act, and it’s a sex act that happens to stimulate the penis directly, while largely ignoring vulva-owners’ main sexual pleasure organ, the clitoris. (This is why, for instance, Kinsey found that women take an average of four minutes to reach orgasm during masturbation, and lesbian women orgasm more often than straight women.)

By their very nature, vibrators provide more intense sensations than any part of the human body can. So it makes sense that a lot of people with vulvas, now and in the past, turn to vibrators to get themselves off. The sex act we’re supposed to find most satisfying usually isn’t, and our partners may be unaware or indifferent to that fact – not to mention, many of us receive inadequate sex education which leaves out crucial information about sexual pleasure – so of course we often use mechanical tools to help us close the gap between our real sex lives and what we wish they were. There are many other reasons people use vibrators, of course, but I think this has been a big one historically, and it partly explains why vibrators are seen as being for vulvas primarily.

That being said, vibrators can feel good for anyone. They function by stimulating sensitive nerves, which we’ve all got plenty of. Vibrators have been shown to help with sexual dysfunctions like erectile dysfunction and anorgasmia, too. To think of vibrators as being “only for women” (by which people usually mean “only for cis women,” sigh) is not only limiting, but also plainly false.

There are lots of benefits to using vibrators on penises, besides just “they feel good” (duh). This masturbation method can be physically easier to achieve than a traditional stroking motion, so it’s a good option for people with disabilities or chronic pain, or just people who feel like jerking off in a slightly lazier way sometimes (#relatable). Vibrators can also be enjoyable for many transfeminine folks, including those who experience genital dysphoria – several of the transfems I know are especially enamored with the Magic Wand and/or the Hot Octopuss Pulse. Vibrations also feel really different from any other type of stimulation, so if you’re ever bored of your masturbation routine or just feel like trying something new, they’re a great addition to your nightstand drawer.

As the partner of someone with a penis, I also really enjoy using vibes on them. It can be easier on my chronically sore hands than giving a handjob (or a blowjob, for that matter), and it allows me to snuggle up close to my partner and watch their reactions. I can utilize my many years of experience using vibrators on myself to inform my technique when using them on a partner, and the results are often explosive.

The clitoris (left) and penis (right), including the parts that are located inside the body. Image via Anatomy of Sex.

On that note, one of the things I like best about using vibrators on penises is that it really demonstrates how similar our genitals are to each other. Clits and dicks are formed from the same tissues in utero, and respond similarly to stimulation. While there are some toys which are specifically shaped to suit one or the other, many vibes can easily be used on all kinds of genitals, with wand vibrators being a prime example. I think this is heart-warming, in that it shows us we’re all more alike than we realize – but it’s also practical from an economic standpoint, in that you don’t have to buy multiple vibrators if you and your partner are able to share the same one (possibly even at the same time!).

When I took a 2-week break from vibrators recently, the main thing I noticed was that my orgasms without vibrators are much weaker than those with vibrators. Contrary to sex-negative discourse which claims that vibrators cheapen sex or make it less “real,” incorporating vibrators into my sex life has only ever improved its quality, and the intimacy I feel with my partner(s), because those earth-shattering vibrator orgasms make sex more fun for both of us. I wish that everyone who wants that magnitude of pleasure could experience it – and I think one way to help create that world is to further normalize the idea that anyone can use a vibrator. Yes, even you.

 

This post was sponsored by the folks at The Haus of Shag, who carry some of my all-time favorite vibrator brands, like Fun Factory, Magic Wand, and Dame. Feel free to check ’em out! As always, all writing and opinions are my own.

What Does It Really Mean to Be “Good in Bed”?

Kate Sloan

Sexual self-doubt is an epidemic. As if we haven’t already had sex-related shame heaped onto us since birth, a lot of sexual discourse online lumps people into a binary of “good at sex” versus “bad at sex.” Many of us are not given clear benchmarks of what these terms even mean, which makes it even more difficult to put the worry out of one’s mind: Am I a terrible lay?

 

Technique vs. approach

If worries about being bad in bed weren’t so prevalent, my industry – sex writing – would not exist as we know it. Articles abound, online and in print, that claim they’ll teach you “techniques” that will make you into some kind of sex god. Stroke the clit in a circular motion, tap the frenulum to a steady rhythm, finger-blast the G-spot hard, press a vibrator into the perineum. This type of advice is largely well-intentioned, but I think it misses the point: Being good in bed is more about your approach than your technique.

There are exceptions, of course. Sex professionals, for instance, tend to have better technique than many laypeople (pun not intended) – so I’d expect that the beauties at the Discreet Elite VIP escort agency have better blowjob skills than your average cocksucker, and pro dom(me)s are more skilled at flogging than your average kinkster. Often these people are being sought out for their skills specifically (among other things), so it makes sense that they’d have to hone their technique.

But I think, for the average person, it’s better to have a good approach to sex (which, naturally, a lot of sex professionals also have!). By that I mean: Do you pay attention to partners’ verbal and non-verbal cues in figuring out what’s working or not working during sex? Do you ask questions or invite feedback as needed, if you’re having trouble making someone feel good? Do you co-create an environment where you both(/all) feel safe to communicate openly and honestly? Do you have good psychological tools for handling difficult feelings that may come up when someone gives you constructive sexual feedback, and can you implement those tools when you need to?

I think these things matter much more than physical technique, especially since everyone likes different things in bed. Why try to navigate new territory with an old map? I think it makes more sense to learn the skills that will enable you to create new “maps” on the fly when you need to.

 

A or B?

Okay, if there’s one sexual skill you really need (aside from ascertaining consent, duh), I think this is it. Some sex educators call it the “optometrist” approach, because – like an optometrist during an eye exam – you’re going to ask your partner, “Does this work better for you, or this?”

Try it with anything; just remember to phrase it as an “either/or” question, because those are often easiest for people to answer in the heat of the moment. “Do you want it harder or softer?” “Faster or slower?” “Deeper or shallower?”

While actual verbal feedback can be super helpful, especially with a newer partner, you can also use this technique silently in your own mind to try stuff out and discover what works best. Try licking softer, and then harder, and see which gets a bigger reaction. Thrust a little deeper, then a little shallower, and stick with whichever one seems most appreciated. This might sound simple and self-explanatory, but it’s amazing how many people get so wrapped up in their own nervousness (or pleasure) during sex that they forget to pay full attention to their partner, thereby missing crucial cues that could help them get better at fucking that particular person.

 

Compassion is king

Sex is a very, very personal thing for many of us. One’s sexuality can feel core to one’s identity – so judgments on one’s sexuality can feel like judgments on one’s very existence. Those judgments, and the feelings of shame they provoke, can stay with you for months. For years. For a lifetime, in some cases.

With that in mind, I think it’s really important to foreground compassion in all of the sex we have. That doesn’t mean you have to let people steamroll your boundaries, but it does mean you should tread carefully so as not to step on any emotional landmines. Never make critical comments about someone’s body during sex, unless they’ve explicitly asked you to do so. Never laugh maliciously at a partner during sex; strive to only laugh with them, about things you both find funny or silly. If you have to criticize someone’s technique, focus moreso on “Here’s what I prefer” than on “You’re doing it wrong,” because – as ever – they’re not actually doing it wrong, they’re just not doing it the way you like it (yet).

I strongly believe that part of being good in bed is knowing how to create a safe environment for pleasure. No one can fully lean into their pleasure in your presence if they feel it’s unsafe to do so. One way to establish that safety, and to build that trust over time, is to make compassion the baseline ethic with which you approach sex. And I don’t just mean for romantic partners, either – even casual or short-lived hookups deserve the dignity of your respect and compassion. And I’d hope it would go without saying, but incase it doesn’t: You deserve partners who treat you that way too, and it’s completely fine to keep looking until you find one.

 

I’ve only been sexually active for 16 years or so; I’m sure my views on this will change even more as I grow older, and they’ve already undergone many transformations. But at this moment in time, these are the main things that I think make someone “good in bed.” Approach is everything, in my view, because a good approach helps you find the right technique(s) for the person you’re sleeping with, and helps you make them comfortable enough that they can enjoy your technique(s). How does that old saying go? “Give a man a fuck, and you satisfy him for a day. Teach a man to fuck, and he’ll satisfy his partners for a lifetime.” Something like that.

What do you think makes someone good in bed? Sound off in the comments; I wanna know!

 

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