(Links to the presentation featured in boldfont below!)
So I’m sitting here in my newly air-conditioned bedroom looking out on the beautiful day, waiting for my Telehealth therapy session and following Teams Board Meeting for Masakhane, dirt between my toes from propping up freshly transplanted tomatoes after they endured last night’s storm. I tried hardening them as I grew them from seed, but I started with the mission that even if one tomato plant survived, I’d consider it a success. I’m sticking to that mentality regarding a lot of things right now.
The semester ended, weirdly of course. But it’s over. 3 professors suggested I apply for the doctorate program, which while flattering, I cannot afford financially or mentally. It’s time to dig into this career. I have the whole rest of my life to flirt with a PhD. Now is the time to focus on the abundance I already have.
So enough of updates. My back is my back. I finished out what ended up being a glob-awful LGBTQ+ Issues course with a highly problematic gay, white, cismale, older professor, and my classmates and I have forged a lovely trauma bond from the experience. Which happens all too often in my academic life, so I’m going to try to spring this collaboration up and out of the shitty pedagogy into some nurturing and sustainable connections.
My final project for my LGBTQ Issues MSW course was about LGBTQ+ representation in sex toy ethics, production, and social reconstruction. It includes a video Powerpoint and a YouTube show-and-tell. Should I make it my next blog post?
For my MSW final project, I had the opportunity to re-present a redux of a workshop I botched at Widener’s CareersCon in 2016. I made a downloadable PowerPoint with notes, clickable links, and transcriptions, made a captioned YouTube presentation, and included a supplemental show-and-tell video to give a different experience to the content. Take your pick, there are options!
This presentation absolutely FLOPPED. Improvements have been made, I promise.
The board meeting with Masakhane starts in an hour and I just realized how cool it would be for us to host Sex Toy “Show-and-Tell” Zoom meetings: a space for us to show our faves, share what they mean, show how they function, do flame testing, ask questions give modular ideas, riff on the knowledge we have, etc. What do you think? Would you want something like that?
So this testosterone thing is real. 4 months in and the changes are weird. I can’t think of a better word. Sometimes they’re subtle like a high note I can no longer hit in the shower, sometimes they’re more obvious like body acne, and sometimes they’re downright triggering. Everything that is happening was expected at some point. I knew my smell would change, I knew my downstairs would change, I knew I’d have different emotions and that I’d gain weight. What I didn’t expect was the rate of these changes. Nothing could have prepared me for the feelings I feel, the way I relate to my sexuality, how I carry my body now. Testosterone is just fucking weird. I used to hate pressure wave toys, now I love them. I used to love hard glass and silicone, now I can’t really tolerate rough penetration. I expected to be a horny teenager wanting to hump everything that moves, but now it’s a yearning for touch, comfort, and warmth. I definitely masturbate a LOT more frequently, typically 2-3 times a day. My redistribution of muscle mass is taking its toll on my lower back and WHERE the HELL did the carb cravings come from?
Just popping up on your feed to say bottom growth is absolutely a thing and I appreciate pressure wave stim/ sucky things so much more now.
Testosterone has flattened my affect. I still can’t cry. My ups and downs are more frequent, but less drastic. So much of my desire to write comes from manic episodes, moments of brilliance and inspiration I now fear I’ve lost. I’ve felt the urge to blog almost every day and yet I can’t craft something coherent. I never used to care about that; I’d just pound it out, edit it for grammar, and hit “Publish” with the intention of raw and unfiltered content. I see all these awesome things bloggers are doing. Going to conferences, hosting workshops, publishingamazing books, reviewing new and innovative products. It’s beautiful and makes me proud to be a part of this community but I’m also teetering into a hole of doubt. One of my fellow board members at Masakhane imparted a wonderful Theodore Roosevelt quote during our last picnic together: Comparison is the thief of joy. I think about how I navigate this worldand how comparison can be intoxicating and extremely damaging to my sense of well-being. I’ve always had a certain respect for competition, my Aries tendencies reveling in the energy competition can create. To extricate comparison from competition is so deeply rooted in my own neurodivergences and traumas, I’m not even sure where to begin. I also see this narrative amplified through the macrocosms of corporations, particularly those who claim to advocate for gender and sexual minorities. Authentic collaboration is entangled in capitalism, and that’s a reality I am sinking into more and more with age.
So clearly, my brain/body connection has been very, VERY fucky lately. I’ve seen a quote circulate Instagram lately from Jamie J. Leclair about how “Intellectualizing your trauma is not the same as working through or processing it.” For me, it rings true. Intellectualizing is my defense mechanism. And so here we are, wading through it again. I need to be more vulnerable. I need to fuck up. Cameron Gloversaid in a Disability After Dark podcast with Andrew Gurza that sometimes it’s more about getting the content out there. For me, I think I need to stop thinking in binaries. It’s not the opposite of intellectualizing that will light a fire under my ass, it’s just thinking creatively. I put together my ConCanelast week. It’s something Cameron and I came up with at the NSEC conference where I used a cane to help with my sciatic flares. I found a hollow acrylic cane with a clear Lucite handle on Etsy. For the NSEC conference I filled it with the sheds from my recently deceased snake, Princess Buttercup. I kept every one of her sheds preserved in Ziploc bags throughout her life, knowing I’d create something beautiful out of them one day. Buttercup passed away in March in the peak of her pubertal years. She was only 5 and became eggbound due to her spinal lesions. She was so severely kinked and arthritic that passing eggs was too painful for her. We tried warm baths, anti–inflammatory injections, massage, but nothing worked. Her death shook me in ways I hadn’t connected during the stress of the moment. Here is this creature, my kin, suffering with similar disabilities and chronic pain, destroyed by her capacity to reproduce. I’m still getting my fucking period on testosterone. It is wreaking havoc on my back. Hot baths,epidural injections, uterine massage…I miss you Buttercup.
I had written a lengthy post about the ConCane last Friday during a 9 hourworkshift where I was the only one in office. I thought I had saved the post via Dropbox but it turns out I had only saved about half of it. It’s not thefirst time I’ve lost a post and surely isn’t the last, but it broke me and I’ve spent the last week grieving, emotionally drained. There was so much more I had written. There was an outpour of gratitude to the companies, artists, and retailersin the field that donated minis/teenies for my cane. There was a synthesis of how this cane has come to represent my identity in the nebulous frameworks of mind, body, and soul. I am a collector. I collect stones, toys, figurines, books, ticket stubs, patches, all from different moments in my life that help me remember who I am and why I’m here. Layered on to WHAT I collect is HOW I collect these treasured identity-markers: a rotating wooden zodiac altar for my stones, a lit cabinet for my toys, a DIY converted DVD case for my figurines, myfather’s bookcase from his years at Princeton for my books, a triple goddess triptych made out of my tickets (after taking this picture of them I am now realizing I hung the waxing and waning backwards yikes), my “battle vest” for my patches and buttons…the methods are performative as vehicles of self-expression, decades of evolution with threads of consistency validating my embodied existence. As someone who frequently dissociates, these are quite often literal touchstones to keep me grounded. It resonates through my cane, a device used to brace my existence on all planes, a rod to channel my understandings of sexuality and disability, a displayfor the symbols of support within my community, a means of saying “thank you” every time I take a step.
I am rewriting the remains of this blog post on another Friday 9 hourworkshift, one where I was supposed to be at the Philadelphia Trans Wellness Conference. I’ll be there tomorrow, but I’m experiencing a dose of FOMO for missing the first two days, though I’m doing my bit here. I’m fielding phone calls, some from patients who are at the conference this very moment. I’m organizing care for my community in the ways I can. I’m adapting to a limitation, where being “stuck at work” during a major event related to my identity is still an opportunity to subvert, reach out, and process. I am so excited to see familiar faces tomorrow, to connect with new communities, to learn new perspectives, and best of all, to show off my newConCane(TM).
Want to see how I did it? I livestreamed the process on Instagram. Saved it to Youtube. Added CC’s. Enjoy!
I’ve been having the most vivid dreams lately. Nightmares, dreams that mimic all-too-close the reality I live in, lots of dreams bringing up past parts of me I had long forgotten. I’ve also been fighting a really nasty stomach bug (potentially C. Diff) and night fevers, so combined with all this “Mars in retrograde” stuff, my continual spurts of con drop since Woodhull, and the ongoing management of self-care versus advocacy (and I realize the two are not mutually exclusive), it’s no wonder my dreams have been disturbingly realistic. I feel stuck lately, scared even, sensing a greater threat to my physical and emotional safety than I’m able to fully grasp. I also feel super paranoid lately, and I think that has a lot to do with what I once thought was paranoia in this particular field being affirmed more and more over the past month.
Woodhull, after my second time around from my stint in 2016, was meant to be a redemption story. I went to the conference with blazing positivity, ready to socialize, network, reach out to potential sponsors, thank those who awarded me my scholarship, and most of all, detach from my trauma. I accomplished some of those things in a similar fashion to 2016: through ways I’d least expect. Socializing involved getting to know conference keynotes and organizers, photographers, folx I’d admired for years but never thought I had the chutzpah to approach. And I didn’t really need said chutzpah; things evolved organically through friends of friends the way networking can.
Justyn, Frankie, Kate, and Carmen right after admiring a spider web. Photo by Louis Shackleton.
Thursday night was spent by my lonesome after a failed attempt at socializing at yet another cocktail party catered towards introverts (when will they learn that’s not how this works?), only to be swept into a wonderful evening of smoking Marlboro Reds, talking antifa, laughing at plastic pachysandra walls and taking pictures of orb weavers on the bridge to the Retreat Center. My best decision of the conference was booking a room in the Retreat Center, almost the very same room we had in 2016. A balcony and a refrigerator, the privacy of trees and the loud rush of a fountain delivered sanctuary on so many private scales I wouldn’t know where to begin.
In what seems to be an emerging pattern, Thursday set the tone for the rest of the weekend in terms of reaching for challenging conversations, feeling unwelcome and questioning the validity of said feeling, and finally finding solace in quiet spots among kind faces. Each day I made several attempts at visiting the “Blogger Lounge” only partially successfully. I toured Lunabelle’s infamous dildo forest and documented this event like a kid in a candy shop. Only now in this moment do I realize how this became an improved version of my 2016 experience with Lilly’s infamous Jar of Horrors. This time I was invited to spectate and encouraged to interact with Lunabelle’s spread, where in 2016 I felt like a total creep barging into a silent conference room to take a few selfies with a glass jar of sludge only to scurry off after failed attempts at small talk. Validation number one: I can reinvent how I involve myself with traditions which have existed before me.
Smirking in front of the fake plant wall. Photo by SexBloggess.
I finally got to meet a fewof the “newbie/baby” (are these terms really necessary though?) bloggers who have been so supportive of me over the last year as well as one of my Business of Blogging alums, Laurieann. Thursday came to a close and Friday I got to witness some of my favorite people conduct their No Daddies, No Masters presentation. Unlike 2016 where I was still reeling from fresh relationship trauma with my D/S triad, 2018 me felt refreshed by the workshop, empowered by the choices I’ve made and the ways I thinkfeel.
I bolted for the bathroom during the No Daddies workshop only to cross paths with the speakers for the upcoming workshop in the very same room, a workshop I had been looking forward to attending. My head dinged like I was a boxing arena since this had been the third time I’d stumbled into certain bloggers in less than 24 hours only to get nasty looks and no discernable acknowledgements of my head nods or vocal “hello’s.” I prepared for the conference by curating a schedule of workshops I wanted to attend, reminding myself not to be scared of perceived bullies but also to respect their boundaries because I didn’t want to contribute to the negativity. After encountering said negativity in the hallway, I did what I usually do when faced with potential confrontation in a vulnerably passionate field of my life: I clung to a friend and ducked out.
Validation number two: I can trust my instincts. During my egress to a different workshop about Sex Work and Disability, I ran into a fellow blogger who expressed disinterest in the workshop I had run from. They understandably wanted to support their blogmates by being physically present at the workshop, but also noted that the workshop would unlikely teach them anything new. I never realized how attending that workshop would not have challenged my brainspace because it was all familiar subject matter. How going to workshops to encourage colleagues is important, but it can also potentially sacrifice the opportunities for challenging discourse and dialogue when throwing yourself into the unfamiliar.
When the Sex Work and Disability workshop was over, it clicked. I needed to be in workshops where I’d actually work, emotionally, mentally, sociopolitically, everything. From then on the workshops I participated in were about law, chosen family, capitalism, and privilege…I didn’t go with the expectation to settle into common ground or settle altogether. A moment of catharsis slowly manifested into tangible actions over the weekend where I no longer felt like a “reject blogger” but rather my own unique flavor of sex work which didn’t have to fit anyone’s standards but my own. I transcended the habitual desire to peek into the blogger lounge, to obsessively check social media, to get mired in resentment or feelings of exclusion.
Boogieing down on the dance floor. Photo by Erika Kapin.
Like 2016, I relearned the importance of finding a collective of beautiful humans willing to engage in difficult conversations and actually DO THE FUCKING WORK. I’ll never detach from my trauma, be it from relationships, my current housing, my disabilities, or my ongoing Woodhull experiences. Perhaps I really don’t want to detach from my trauma because it makes me who I am and I am strong as hell. Friday night I danced my ass off at Bubbles and Burlesque after far too much champagne, stuck dicklets in my earholes, and giggled my way into Saturday.
I honestly don’t remember much from Saturday because I had started winding myself into one of the worst dissociative panic attacks I’ve had since March. Saturday afternoon had me curled into a chair on my balcony, unable to feel my feet or see straight in front of me, smoking a joint and listening to my partner guide me back into reality via speakerphone. I spent a lot more time in my room this go-around, enjoying quiet company, listening to roommates read Howl’s Moving Castle aloud, talking to Overwatch buddies via Discord, and unsuccessfully napping. Thank goddess for medical cannabis, something I utilized throughout Saturday and Sunday, as I was able to manage my anxiety so much better for those increasingly con-droppy moments.
Saturday evening also brought the treasured tradition of #SFSAfterDark, a QTPOC play space with an epic toy spread, a buffet of play choices, incredible people, and an evolving sense of community. 2016’s SFSAfterDark left my butt cheeks purple, my cheek cheeks sore from laughing at a human lube dispenser, and lots of towels stained red from a VERY messy cupcake scene. 2018’s SFSAfterDark had a distinctly different vibe, providing education for some, service for others, and holistic sanctuary for all. Folx left and right teaching each other, some connecting for the first time, some nurturing with mindful care.
We began this year’s SFSAfterDark with a midnight circle of intention where folx could speak a bit about themselves, what they felt the room needed to know, what would make the space feel safer, and what they were looking to get from it. After three days of bloated period shits, my turn in the circle became a solicitation for back massages and cuddles. Little did I know I was about to get one of the best massages of my life (two different hands at the same time…WHAT?!) which grounded me in my body in the most relieving way.
Squatting in performative contemplation. Photo by SexBloggess.
I listened to several conversations throughout the night where folx expressed their own dissatisfaction with the blogging field lately, their disappointment with ongoing cliqueyness, and their sympathy with my experiences over these last two years. People said they appreciated how unapologetically vocal I have been and that yes, I am an identified pariah but I am also a visible ally for other bloggers. Some of this I knew; over the years my DMs have been flooded with at least a dozen bloggers of all kinds, all equally frustrated but too scared to voice their concerns due to potential repercussions/being cast out.
Validation number three of the weekend came when one of the bloggers at the party said how angry they were to see me gaslit for speaking out about my trauma in the blogosphere. Me, someone who has been open about my neurodivegences at the very forefront of my practice, someone willing to share my vulnerability with the consent of anyone willing to listen, gaslit into silence because of my fear of worsening ostracization.
Audre Lorde flowed through the entire conference this year with her philosophies and beliefs in the erotic, the uses of anger, and the infinite resources we can find in creating loving coalitions. As someone who has lived through Audre’s words for the better half of my life, it would be fucking hypocritical for me to stay silent on the issues with the Blogsquad™. I cannot go on in this field forging alliances and soaking in the beauty of our unique experiences by shutting my mouth and swallowing my fear. Each day brings a new person, a new perspective confirming that I HAVE experienced trauma and I HAVE been shut out. I’m not imagining this. I’m not dismissing it as paranoia or some comorbid transference of insecurity. These things are really happening and know I am not alone.
Audre Lorde tells us that Erotic is,”the measure between our sense of self and the chaos and power of our deepest feelings.” #sfs18#letstalkaboutsex
In all of it, the good, the bad, the muddy, the messy, the brilliant, the unresolvable…I’m not alone. If I learned anything from this year’s 2018 Woodhull experience it would be that I am not alone. That my traumas are inseparable from how I travel through life but that they do not have to create a negative lens nor do they require overcoming. That I don’t need a fucking redemption story because I am always already redeemed through the people who choose to be around me and the company I keep within myself. That the erotic is alive and well, that silence can mean survival but it also comes at a cost, that anger can unite, that every experience is relevant.
So what now? How is this usable; how can we, me, you, anyone extrapolate these disclosures into something that produces results? Taylor J Mace created an awesome thread asking folx for feedback on how to create a more welcoming environment for bloggers, online and in person. The response has been phenomenal. Combine that with Caz Killjoy’s killer spreadsheet of conferences and already there is momentum and strategy to move forward. Some folx have mentioned resurrecting “featured blogger” options on their websites at low to no cost, which I know may not be the most realistic option but it’s still a great signal-boost.
Scientific fact: Salt just makes sweet things taste sweeter.
I once joined a blogging Slack only for my ideas about examiningprivilege and segregation to be relocated to a separate channel. I guess critical analysis clashes with the overall vibe of emoji’s and inside jokes? ::inserts bread emoji:: Maybe there is another virtual medium where folx can real-time bond and bounce ideas off one another? Are blogrolls still a thing and if so, how can we reimagine them with inclusive purpose? Just spitballing ideas for now, but with everything I’ve taken from Woodhull and beyond, I feel hopeful and humbled by the people I have met and continue to meet in the ever-changing fields of sexuality. A sincere thanks for the work that has been done and a warm welcome to the work that is being done.
Watching myself in 2011 give a sex toy workshop for Masakhane is bizarre. It’s borderline uncomfortable. I see how differently I talk about toys now and how increasingly protean my workshops have become. I actually stop to talk to people…I don’t just run a checklist 101 script. I ask folx what they want to know, what they’re curious about, and I don’t go into my workshops thinking people know nothing about toys. For example, in the following video I’m training Masakhane interns; they’ve been in their summer session for a month now. They know their shit.
And are clearly very excited about this workshop.
Someone asked me Friday where my first foray into the world of toys began. I’ve never really talked about that before in a workshop. I’ve never gotten to just be like “Hey, I bought some terrible products when I was a teenager– it’s pretty common.” I’ve never gotten to be like, “That showerhead tho, amirite?” or reminisce about my shittiest purchases at Spencer’s. I’ve never gotten asked about why my family is so fucking cool with my sexuality. Actually, I’ve never gotten asked about my family in general during a workshop.
(PS: Click the video to get to the Youtube page… I provide full timestamps so you can skip ahead to topics that may interest you.)
I started this one by saying I didn’t want to do the typical toy rundown or prescribe any order or designation. And yet in a typical queer contradiction, I still lined all my butt plugs together and cordoned off a spot for the lubes. I’ve noticed how the toy selection has improved, how my knowledge has expanded to a more scientific realm, how enthusiastically I refer to other bloggers or toy makers. People change. Teaching and learning is all about change. I don’t know why I was so surprised by the directions this training took. Chaotic, funny, beautiful, and brilliant.
Folx were using squishy toys in all their sensory glory, angry rants were had about the importance of libraries, interns were matching dildos to each other’s auras…the whole thing was so fucking fun. It’s probably the most fun I’ve ever had teaching a toy workshop. I think I’ve said that before, but if anything it just confirms that I’m meant for this field. It reminds me why I do what I do, and how much I appreciate how advocacy manifests in all ways, from a workshop to a blog post. A glitter bomb at Newark Pride to a freshly untangled Vesper (thanks Shayne). It’s all relevant and critical and I can’t fucking WAIT for Woodhull next week. I can’t wait to learn more and feel more. To exist in uncomfortable spaces and find solidarity in unexpected places. I love what I do and I’m grateful as hell.
The summer Masakhane interns from left to right: Bethany, Maddy, Sarah, Lauren, Shayne.
Companies, blogs, and general websites mentioned in this workshop (in order of appearance):
CN: Brief mention of trauma in the italicized paragraph below.
This has been a PRIDE MONTH. Like, imagine me screaming “PRIDE MONTH” with emphatic hand gestures representing part exhaustion, part awe, and a generous helping of frustration. My patience has been at an historic low these weeks…I wouldn’t say “short fuse,” but something along the lines of “my depression has no room for the inconceivable amount of bullshit the world has to offer lately.” Nevertheless, with joy comes sorrow and all of the emotional spectrums in between.
Take a seat, things are about to get real.
I had started this post at the beginning of June, feeling deeply inspired by the Sense8 finale and finding all of this resonance with the world around me, beyond me, inside of me. When the show concluded with The Magnetic Field’s “Nothing Matters When We’re Dancing,” I felt this uncanny connection to the conclusion of José Esteban Muñoz’s Cruising Utopia. The book ends with lyrics from The Magnetic Fields’s “Take Ecstasy with Me,” discussing the importance of vacillation within our given queer time and space. Knowing the importance of emotion beyond feeling, of living beyond existing, but simultaneously conscious of how everything is born from something else and it’s all fucking inseparable.
I’m confusing myself a lot lately and while it’s completely overwhelming, it’s also a profound experience of what it’s like to process my thoughts through a raw and affective glow. Random bursts of tears, laughing harder than I should, desperately trying to smile but not understanding how all of this emotion is supposed to manifest in my body. My sex drive has taken an almost political strength, where I masturbate with militant intention, slipping into orgasm with a sharp awareness of the ongoing and worsening struggles around me and inside me. I don’t understand myself, but I’m not sure I have to right now.
I know that pride is really complex and sometimes universally simple, but I know I’ve also grown really tired of this assimilationist conglomeration of “Love is love” when it’s worth so much more than that. The simplification of critically uncomfortable discussions and the capitalization of queer visibility scares the shit out of me. It’s nothing new; I’ve been preaching “self-preservation versus self-advocacy” for years. I had a conversation with one of my beloved exes and explained to him how I started this beautiful blog post in early June and it got deleted…how that just sucked all the momentum out of me because I felt like I finally contextualized something unnameable that has threaded through my life since my first experiences of trauma and love. I told him that I’d never be able to rewrite it and how I felt it offered such a value of insight to this blog, how I know I needed to just “let go” (another mantra for 2018 so far) and push forward. How I feared disclosing all of the above for the sake of a blog post because I’m not looking to capitalize off of my work but also, I kind of am? He told me to stop thinking and just do. I say, why not both?
That feeling when you compose a perfectly synthesized blog post on pride, emotion, the unknown, the #Sense8Finale and the complexities of letting go— and WordPad loses it completely. No cache, no recovery. Gone. Life doesn’t spiral, it knots. Time for ablution as self-care. pic.twitter.com/hoKBAsVGGo
At age sixteen I was skanking with my ex-girlfriend during prom to Reel Big Fish’s “Sell-Out,” laughing at the irony, yet not realizing how much more disgusting the irony would get throughout my life. I haven’t been to a Pride Parade in over a decade and yet still garnish my lifestyle with rainbows like my “baby gay” self did at age sixteen. Justin Vivian Bond posted an Instagram clip of a New York Times article entitled “5 Ways to Celebrate Pride Away from the Mainstream,” and I have to say, I’ve felt like such a bad gay for not marching with my queer families today. But I also know I’m celebrating and making myself visible in ways that still matter.
The since discontinued Tantus Rocket. The Asteroid is still available in this color scheme on their website.
I typically spend most of Pride month with my biological family, one full of queer positivity and queer-identified members. These past few Junes have been increasingly soul-searching and I don’t think I could have done a lot of that introspection without the support of my family. How instead of being at New York’s parade today, I was helping my sister unwrap her baby shower gifts and sipping mimosas. And while I was mired in baby obligations, I know I more than likely would have avoided NYC Pride even if I could go.
A lot of this avoidance comes from the trauma I associate with cities. I have a tremendous fear of cities in general. New York was a place for me to explore my queerness as a springy teenager where I’d romp around St. Mark’s getting piercings or buying overpriced vintage Doc Martens and sneaking into bars. New York was also my first kink scene, introduced to me by a dear friend from college. But with “The City” came a lot of phobias and fears: fears of being trapped, not being able to find a bathroom, not being able to rest, not being able to breathe. I used to enjoy the astounding empathy of eye contact when walking past New Yorkers, wondering what each and every one of them were thinking, what their stories were. I tried to be a city kid when I moved to the Bay, but even then, I rarely crossed into San Francisco. My car window was smashed on my birthday while living in Oakland. I narrowly escaped a mugging during SF Pride by using the pepper spray I never thought I’d have to use. Even Philadelphia was a great nugget of gayness for a while until I no longer felt safe going back to the clubs where my abuser is still currently performing. Cities mean people, people mean unpredictability and inevitable conflict.
I’ve tried to honor these conflicts by picking my battles, and I know I can’t live in the woods forever. I know things balance out and time provides a great avenue to reflect on change, but for now I celebrate my pride by spending private time with other queers playing Overwatch, eating sushi with the enby loves of my life, sobbing over the new season of Queer Eye, and fucking myself with Pride-colored toys. And even THEN! Even then, I worry about which companies to support and which ones are just feeding into some messy agenda.
I see companies making “Pride-Themed” toys out the ass lately and part of me is elated that these things are now so widely available. The last minute of Sense8 featured a cum-covered Fun Factory Amor Pride laying on the sheets after a celebration of unity…I squealed. But then there are companies with really problematic behaviors auctioning off one-of-a-kind Pride items at ridiculous prices just because it’s for a “good cause.” Shouldn’t accessibility be a part of this picture? Is that really how to run a fundraiser, through exclusivity, rather than making your work available to all à la Kenton’s Red NoFrillDo campaign?
I’m running out of steam. A blog post that was meant to be a mental check-in before a full-fledged review will have to organically take its course. I have a veritable fuckton of Pride toys now and I’m extremely proud of them. And while I absolutely adore my new Avant Beyond butt plug for how it feels and works, I’d much rather praise it for the role it has in reimagining my sexual ferocity. How right here, right now, in this very moment, I am conflicted and conflicting, overprojected and verbose, shamelessly navel-gazing in a swirl of color, filled with love and gratitude for the things I have learned during this particular Pride Month. The sheer volume of work that needs to be done, the distinctions we need to make between visibility and safety, the specificity and power of words which complement actions, and the courage to face the unknown are all somehow connected to or fueled by some form of love.
My baseline stance around this political moment is that if we go down, we’ll go fighting. We will make space for ourselves, we will defy their oppressive authority, we will be in solidarity with each other, and we will find moments of joy and care amidst it all.
I’d meant to write this post in the beginning of June. I’m finishing it now. And crying. Also crying. One of my clients at work keeps reminding me to “trust the process.” So here goes.
So my previous post talked a lot about sponsorship and the financing of this blog. It’s a subject that’s had a lot of broader applications in my life, as I am looking to go back to Rutgers for my MSW and third Master’s degree overall. Widener, among its many injustices during my time enrolled there, refused my application for a clinical track switch within the Human Sexuality program. I attempted this switch with a ton of support, professionalism, and credentials, but because I was not “dual-degreeing” in THEIR Social Work program I was considered a “legal liability” and subsequently denied. So despite a decade in Sex Education and a Master’s in Gender and Sexuality from Rutgers, I didn’t have any extra cash to feed the Widener machine for their Social Work degree.
I was forced back into the Education track which was a curse and a blessing. I was lucky enough to meet so many amazing people who were also experiencing similar struggles with the program, and I learned more from my peers than the course material itself. I would never call Widener’s Human Sexuality program a total waste of money, but the educational experience seemed like a reductive and homogenized version of my Rutgers degree. They rarely allowed course credits from “outside” programs (because, c’mon, who really wants to save money?), insisting that their Human Sexuality program was uniquely intended to streamline students directly into the professional field.
Except not, because AASECT certification was withdrawn from Widener in 2014 and our graduating class was never grandfathered in or financially compensated for a very empty promise (one which still exists on Widener’s website even after certs have long ended…CTRL+F “AASECT”). And I agree with many folx that AASECT is not the “be-all-end-all” for an established career in sexuality. It’s again, often more money than it’s worth, and full of the same bureaucracies I fought at Widener. So I pick and I choose where my money goes, where my energy goes. A course on sponsorship by a fellow blogger I respect and admire? Well worth it. Inspiring dildos from aspiringindividuals and ethicalbusinesses? Fuck yes.
[Ironically, I’m listening to an M83 playlist on Youtube as I write this post and a fucking HPV commercial comes on, reminding me that I actually graduated Widener with fellow students who STILL don’t understand the importance of destigmatizing STI’s and that yeah, HPV is literally the common cold of the bunch. I’d shake my head in disappointment, but my fibro is making that painful today. Oh, and as for sex and disability? We got ONE course for it, an elective with Bethany Stevens…but where was it in the rest of our curricula? Okay, okay, I’ll try to stop perseverating and unclench my jaw. Which, in some ways, positively segues to the review below.]
My previous post also talked about how I’d be willing and happy to provide reviews to support brilliant makers, folx with their minds and hearts devoted to making this industry an informed and inclusive one. I’ve already reviewed two of Kenton’s works on behalf of his investments as Funkit and his overall awesome contributions to the community. I am stoked to be reviewing the NoFrillDo. I talk a lot about this new line for so many wonderful reasons.
Kenton is, in all senses of the word, an outstanding educator. The rationality behind every product, the attention to detail, the approach and interpretation is all meticulously thought out, from versatility to the way toys can fuck with expectations. Funkit makes toys that sort of “Easter Egg” me every time I buy one. As in, I’ll think about aesthetic, function, or design, and every so often go, “Oh shit, that’s something I didn’t think of!”
The NoFrillDo takes affordability, basic innovation in shapes, durability and ease, and mixes it with this really practical CMYK color model alluding to a digital era, one also characterized through Kenton’s process of 3-D printing. I’ve seen so many mindblowing ambitions for 3-D printing these days, but Funkit has given me a complex appreciation for it. Even how Funkit’s social media documents Kenton’s methods, models, molds, curing spaces, and pigmentation is a testament to the craft. The juxtaposition of flowing and organic colors within their computer-generated dimensions gives a delightful contrast, almost microcosmic to some spectrums of sexuality itself.
Cleaning and reorganizing the workspace and I found the original Funkit molds. They're a bit dusty, but in great shape. With I remembered what brand of ABS they were, I know how to fix the one problem it had now pic.twitter.com/VircgK9uN2
Making affordable NoFrillDos, promoting them with a well-conceived Indiegogo campaign, distributing them to sex-positive companies, getting them in thehandsofeagerreviewers, retaining the simplicity of selection…the whole significance of the NoFrillDo brings about such a breadth of opportunities that touches my heart and energizes my spirit. Masakhane’s next board meeting is before the Newark AIDS Walk this Sunday, and I’ll be recommending we buy as many of these as possible for our trainings and fundraisers.
I’ve had enormous success teaching condom demonstrations with non-representational dildos, opening up great discussions of sex toys in general. To be able to provide economically-sustainable silicone products to non-profits like ours would fuel a much-needed shift in narrative for how learners conceptualize sexuality on a holistic level. How one yellow, spiraled piece of silicone can be used non-proscriptively, how its size and form encourage play that connects mind and body.
I love this dildo for pegging. It is textured just enough for G-spot stimulation. Its shape prevents my TMJ from acting up during oral. Its base is firm but not too wide or thick, making it stable in harness or hands. Even the subtle ridges from the 3-D molds help my lubey fingers grip the shaft. It is an easy clean and repels dust. Whenever my eyes cascade my rainbow toy arrangement, the NoFrillDo always stands out, maybe due to its vibrant color, maybe due to its symbolism of what sex toys could mean to the world when created by the right people with the right intentions. It sincerely gives me hope for what was, is, and can be a reimagining of advocacy through sex toys.
Phew. So March was a doozy of a month, usually one I’m not particularly fond of for many reasons anyway, but mother nature made it her business to really dig around for the rest of my spoons and leave me flailing on autopilot. March is the time of the year I lost all of my grandmothers, the time of the year my poly triad began falling apart, the time of the year I asked Mike to move out, and also my birthday, which contrary to what you might think, is not the happiest of days. March also decided to pack in Easter at its tail end, which was a nice punctuation to begin April anew with cherished friends, family, and happier traditions (like our yonic/phallic bunny ear candle centerpiece).
This particular March also displaced me from my home four separate times after power outages lasting sometimes up to a week. It put my job in jeopardy and reminded me of how desperately I need to move out of my once beloved apartment in Long Valley. I can’t hide in the woods forever, and I’ve avoided much of social media (at least more than usual). Mike and I are seeing less of each other due to our busy work schedules, and I am constantly having the existential crisis of “what the fuck am I doing with my life?”
From my workshop series at the NJ Center for Sex Therapy.
Running group psychoeducational sessions twice a week, I often hear clients ask me why I don’t do more with my Masters’ Degrees and seasoned experiences in the field of sexuality. I don’t know what to tell them. I’m stuck? I’m not reaching out? I’m not pushing myself hard enough and getting my name out there, showing the world what I do and the wonderful things I’m capable of? I remember when I first created my Trans and Gender Non-Conforming group sessions at the NJ Center for Sex Therapy and my mentor, Dr. Christine Hyde, told me that by not charging enough, it comes off as though I don’t value my work. Even now, one of the biggest struggles we have at Masakhane is how much to charge for our workshops when we’ve spent 10 years offering them for free. And like I tell Stephanie, it’s time to monetize.
This blog started on the basic principle that I wouldn’t affiliate or ask for sponsors. Not because I was better or different than paid bloggers, but because I honestly didn’t want to make the effort. I’ve all but alienated a lot of my sex blogging community and although I promote my blog, it’s often as an afterthought to the other things I do in sex education. I just downloaded JoEllen Notte’s “Will Work For Sponsorship” class and holy fuck am I overwhelmed. I remember when I took her and Epiphora’s Business of Blogging class I felt electrified, motivated to write with a new force and intention, soaking up the material like a sponge. It’s what I do: I learn and retain, I teach and interact.
Needing a little bit of this.
But I am incredibly shitty at promoting. Seeing how complicated sponsorship can be (at least for my brain-thinking), I’m left struggling, wanting someone in the community to hold my hand, tell me this is still worth doing and that it is absolutely worth getting paid for. I used to be elated to get free toys, telling myself that a free toy in exchange for a review was compensation enough. But it’s not. It’s not feeding my cat. It’s not paying my rent. An orgasm is great and toys are transformative, but they are not going to cover my health insurance. Some days I look up the ladder and see how far I need to climb before I feel established in my various fields of work. Some days I look down and see how far I’ve come, how many years I’ve put into this evolving field and how many amazing people I’ve met along the way.
Side note: I still have two extra unopened Satisfyers if anyone’s interested.
I’ve delayed writing reviews lately. Different companies provided me with free toys of my choosing and have been checking in to ask when my reviews will be up. Combining my paid job of teaching wellness with the volunteering hours I put in at Masakhane, PLUS the demon month March has been, reviewing toys has been hanging over my head as an unchecked obligation. It’s beginning to seem unrealistic to continue reviewing toys for free. I cherish my collection and out of ethics, there are definitely companies I would happily endorse in activist solidarity…but I know someone out there must want to buy my reviews.
I still remember the day Joan Price tweeted about the quality of my writing. How two sentences validated so much. One, that yes, my writing IS fucking good and it had better be because I’ve gone through two Masters’ degrees, various honor societies, AND been published, but two, that she’d only just heard of my blog. I know I’m no social media maven; most of my Instagram posts are of cats and food. Twitter gives me straight up anxiety, and with the shadowbanning and increasingly shitty state the country is enduring, I find more self-care in avoiding Twitter altogether. It’s a dilemma for sure. I know I need to put in the effort for the sake of my own visibility and support others in the process, but I also fear for my own mental status.
I can’t seem to find a balance, even if my personal life is just now beginning to find its own equlibrium. I know none of it is separable, and I wonder how much energy I’ve actually spent trying to parse it all out. I know I need some form of organization to manage my goals, but I haven’t figured out exactly what that looks like for me. So now, with all that being said, the post below is a review which I’ve been meaning to get to for months, and in a way, it has inspired me to get my ass in gear. Maybe this year I go back to Woodhull. I think it’s time.
A few months ago, technically last year if we’re being specific, I was emailed by someone from PinkBOB.com asking if I would like to review any of their products. They were super sweet and very professional as far as emails go, and I appreciated their understanding when I told them I would only review silicone or ABS plastic products. I hesitated at first, admittedly, having been through hell during the MEO incident. I also hoped that my review wouldn’t be tightly bound to a company contract, which I’ve also experienced before. Finally, I wasn’t particularly enthused by the company’s highly (and I mean HIGHLY) genderedmarketing.
But in came my Lust Wand in Baker-Miller Pink and a quilt-textured handle…definitely not the aesthetic I look for in a toy. I’ve actually begun to change my mind on pink toys after seeing the Nova in person, realizing that there ARE versions of pink that can be pretty badass. And given the progression of my rainbow toy display, throwing a bubblegum shade into the mix was inevitable.
Lust’s head in comparison to the Hitachi.
The toy itself is not particularly innovative in style and function, but I think that might be what I appreciated the most. What you see, feel, hear, or sense in any way is what you get. It’s a no-nonsense rechargeable mini-wand with a head that perfectly fits between my labia and covers my clitoris entirely. The vibrations straddle between buzz and rumble to the point where I feel like they deserve a different description entirely…is “zizzle” a word? I’m making it one. Actually never mind…I just Googled it: “Zizzle” is the name of a company that makes Furbies and Dora the Explorer products. The word still works perfectly as the Lust is probably the Becky of my bunch, not really living up to its salacious name but delivering quick and reliable orgasms nonetheless.
Its head bends ever so slightly with firm pressure and for some reason the ABS base freely rotates without unscrewing. I’m a little confused by this and concerned that without a seamless seal, mold or other bacteria is going to build up underneath said plastic. The charging port is my favorite kind, a tiny hole for a needle charger to poke through. And I think above all, the winningest feature of the Lust has to be its controls. A dyed-in-the-wool +/- fan, this vibrator has its own version to strengthen vibration, plus the added button for multi-features circulating through a sequence of pulsations and waves.
The controls remind me of the L’amorouse Prism V: easy to use, well-textured, and flush against the shaft so as to prevent accidental clicking during use. It holds a charge well, which was especially necessary when I lost power week after week during March. The Lust came with me as a backup endorphin-producer when I relocated my life to my best friend’s trailer for the month, and the silkiness of its silicone kept it from picking up cat hair, snake aspen, or whatever filthy contents in the bottom of my backpack. So yeah, the Lust may not always be in heavy rotation, but its reliability and simplicity make it a happy addition to my collection.
Spoons have been so painfully low lately. Life is stressful but somehow I’m jerking off way more than usual. Sometimes I convince myself to do it because I know it will give me some good chemicals, and sometimes I do it because it’s the only way to incorporate exercise into my otherwise busy schedule. Stationary bike or a vigorous session of orgasms on my knees? Tough choice. I still have so many toys to review, but I’m noticing a theme when it comes to the toys I actually review. The newest “gets” are always fresh in my mind/body, so they tend to get documentation priority. Which is a slippery slope, really, because a lot of the toys I intend on reviewing are pretty fucking amazing and still get frequent use, but the novelty has worn off a little.
And when it comes to shiny, glittery tentacled fuckable art…it feels almost instinctive to write about it. I acquired a girthy piece of glass shaped like a dichroic tentacle through a r/sextoys sale…completely unopened and in pristine condition. I’ve always wanted a piece by Woozy aka Simply Elegant Glass, and I wouldn’t have cared even if it had been used because hey, boil, bleach, good to go. I’ve been really curious about textures lately, particularly after my squishy corn cob experiences, and wondered how it would feel to use a heavily textured dildo with more firmness.
Can’t really get much firmer than glass, and I love glass dildos. So it really checked off a lot of “wants” for me, from the rainbow and blue color scheme to the amber/purple suckers. I’ve always been a sucker myself for glass between my plug collection for my ears and my pipe collection for my pot. This is definitely a dildo I would want in any form, even if it was a fucking paperweight.
The handle, albeit much smaller than I had anticipated, is shaped perfectly for various grips…I can slip a thumb through it or just grab the whole thing since it’s molded into a loose coil. Plenty of options for thrusting, although after insertion I didn’t really do much of that. The combination of the dildo’s girth and the hard suckers was enough stimulation on its own. In fact, I found that moving the dildo around too much while inside me was a touch uncomfortable. Those suckers actually suck; their concave array opposed to some of Woozy’s more bubbly dildos gripped at my g-spot for dear life.
It felt sort of alien, inorganic and medical, which typically are all positives for me, but combined with the effect of glass it just squicked me. As long as I left the dildo inside while using a vibrator, it stayed put (probably because of the suckers) and I was able to orgasm relatively quickly. The suckers, like some of my other textured toys, were great little receptacles for coconut oil, but I found myself needing more lube than usual despite the slickness of the rest of the dildo.
It didn’t affect my grip of the handle, and I think I’ll probably use this dildo more with my partner than solo. I love roughing up my g-spot, but for some reason when I do it myself I’m less comfortable than having someone do it for me. I don’t really understand the psychology of that, since when I stimulate other folks’ g-spots I am not shy about it. Either way, this piece is absolutely visually and physically stunning, even if it takes some getting used to. Now that I know Woozy’s work is even more beautiful in person, I’ll be sure to pick up a few more pieces. So here it is, your moment of “zen.”
I’ve been fascinated with food-inspired sex toys ever since I saw Epiphora’s color-changing corn dildo from Self-Delve in Germany. Some of my toys were already food-themed i.e. Damn Average’s Valentine’s Day Chocolate Lumpy and Funkit’s Almond-Pumpkin-Carrot creation. I’m super glad more companies are getting foodie, albeit bitter-sweetly nostalgic. I’m hopeful that I can now amend any mistakes I made as a know-nothing teenager using food really inappropriately for penetrative purposes. I remember an adolescence where my front hole was a chamber of culinary experiments, eventually learning from a very young age that no, candy canes don’t go there nor do empty Corona bottles.
If you’re cringing, there’s definitely good reason. Young me could DIY my own vibrations from the shower-head to a Squiggle Pen, but I could never find anything appropriately penetrative. The internet was just barely in AOL-56k-Chatroom-cybersex mode and my sex ed wasn’t pleasure-based, so any tips on condoming a cucumber just didn’t exist (I’ll always think of Ducky Doolitte’s “Not In Your Butt” video when it comes to using veggies for penetration).
I’m also a devoted splosher, a kid who orchestrated epic food fights and one day dreamed of being saran wrapped under piles of loaded nachos. Food and sex have always been like peas and carrots to me, whether that cake scene with the Merovingian in Matrix Reloaded or the melting Popsicle scene in A Clockwork Orange. When something goes smoothly into my butt, I tend to say I “ate” it. I’m not really surprised that I’ve taken a new fascination with foodie sex toys. That strawberry butt plug from Lovecrafters Toys may be getting purchased soon.
2017’s Black Friday was spent buying a ton of sex toys which I have yet to review, but I wanted to get around to GespentsFantasy Gear’s Farmer’s Delight as soon as possible because it’s such a unique dildo. The soft and squishy density is unlike the medium firmness of Self-Delve’s corn; the Farmer’s Delight is now officially the softest dildo I down. It flops around so much I could easily use it for a pack-n-play, and the base still has enough firmness that it stays put in an o-ring. Lately I’ve learned to throw out all my expectations when it comes to new toys, so when I saw how soft and deeply textured each bump was, I kept curious instead of doubtful. I think this needs to be my new approach to toy testing, to be completely honest.
The Farmer’s Delight felt amazing, every piece of corn distinctly rubbing against my insides, long enough for the pointed tip to reach my A-Spot and girthy enough to fill me without collapsing in on itself. Gespent’s signature is lightly etched into the base, and the way he hand-molds his work gives the corn such a unique feel. It’s not perfectly uniform in shape, it flops to one side when stood up, and even the tip is organically uneven. Which feels really appropriate considering this dildo is meant to look like corn, and while there is symmetry in nature, nothing is ever perfect. The corn aesthetic is truly spot-on.
Its squish makes cleaning super easy; I can stretch and bend this dildo in any way I wish to get soap and water into and out of each crevice. Boiling is also great because the corn can bend to fit in smaller pots. My partner said it was easy to use on me and that the base and texture gave him enough grip no matter how slick things got. Despite being tacky to the touch, the Farmer’s Delight doesn’t collect dust as much as some of my other squishies like BS Atelier’s Bingo or the Vixen Tristan 1. Its vibrant yellow makes it a wonderful addition to my rainbow of sex toys and I’m overall really pleased with this purchase.
