Review of Lovense Ferri featuring special guest review of 3 Tenga Products

It’s time.  I don’t know how to begin, where, why, etc.  I just know it’s time.  I’ve had at least a dozen shower thoughts over the last few months on how this post would begin, reminding me of rehearsing a script before a therapy session, whether that’s me as the therapist or me as the client.  Yup.  I’ve been a part-time therapist for LGBTQ+ clients at CogniCare over the last 6 months.  Yup.  The practice I’d refer patients to back when I worked at PROUD.  “When I worked at PROUD.”  Wow, that feels really different typing out versus just briefly glossing over it in conversation.  I left my PROUD family to begin a new chapter of my life as a full-time Patient Navigator for Gender Affirming Services at Planned Parenthood Metropolitan NJ.  A position I had ached for so badly while at PROUD, wanting to work by Danielle’s side and be a part of all the change and love she spread throughout the community.  A position I now have because of my fellow board member from Masakhane and brilliant sex educator at PPMNJ, Bethany.  

It’s happening again.  Full-time navigation, part-time therapy, coalition meetings, sex toy workshops, new romances, meaningful tattoos.  It’s all overlapping.  And I can keep putting off this post because I am at the tip of the “overlap iceberg” in my own self-discoveries or I can just, you know, fucking write and see what happens.  Which will, as it usually does when I get momentum going, get super long-winded and then suddenly stop because I’m in the process of doing the very overlapping things I am trying to capture on the keyboard.  I’ve been playing a lot of keyboard, speaking of which.  Something about it infuriates me like a good challenge, from the intention tremors in my hands to what feels like an increasingly foggy memory…the daily mini crossword on the toilet isn’t really stimulating my synapses anymore.  I guess terrible videogame covers are it right now.  

My attention span has been shot, too, which I need to give myself a little more grace with.  I’m finally doing all the things I said I wanted to do in two careers, writing letters of support, helping with grants, training affiliate-wide staff, attending nationwide meetings, compiling resources, connecting with trans providers in New Jersey and across the country, meeting all new patients in my OWN FUCKING OFFICE, WAIT WHAT?!  No seriously, it was a week in and I already had an office with a standing desk that I’m turning into an art gallery for various queer and trans artists, including little labels under each piece to promote their work.  It’s so reciprocal, but reciprocal doesn’t quite describe the energy in my life right now…it feels beyond transaction, no quid pro quo, no sense of competing for seats at the table.  That whole spiel people give about how everyone has their own skills and can shine because of their unique lived experiences?  It exists.  It exists here.  At my job.  In my life.  I feel like throwing up, my cheeks are hot, and I feel like I’m going to cry.  

Every damn day I have to wrap my brain around something new and amazing I thought I’d never experience, something I thought I never deserved.  But here I am, experiencing it and deserving it.  For as inundated as I was with the word over the last three years of my life, and for how bittersweet that path was, I feel so wholesomely and compassionately “proud” of myself.  No wait…yup.  I AM going to cry.  The world has held me lately.  It’s simultaneously terrifying and cruel and nourishing and warm.  The cognitive dissonance of the thrill in spreading my Mothra wings to soar and remembering that everything is still on fire is dizzying.  And it’s like I said to my therapist, my supervisor, my loving friends, partners, colleagues, former colleagues, and family.  I’m thriving in my existence right now, and I don’t think that needs to be indulgent in a way that’s bound to values or binaristic morality.  I think that growing into my queer joy has transformative potential too.  I know it does, let me stop with that iffy “thinking” crap.  I know it does.  

Mothra Larvae toy in Miyazaki Cat Bus style
Seriously though, a Motrha/Miyazaki mashup was too good not to include somewhere in this post.

People reach out to me, saying they’re living through me right now, the vicarious pleasure they’re feeling from seeing me at peace and starting each new day with the same jaw-dropped awe as though I’m unboxing a new vibrator.  I feel reborn.  Free, self-directed, and goddamnit I feel sexy as hell lately.  Like, so sexy.  SO confident.  I just put my chin in my hands for a moment to feel the heat of my cheeks and bask in the fact that I made my own damn self blush.  

Avery selfie
Click the pic for bonus pit hair action!

One change I already felt within myself over the past few years is how I’ve deepened my commitments to sustaining relationships with people and forging new ones.  I used to have this tired line I’d give people when we parted ways about how, realistically, I was unlikely to keep in touch because I was “terrible” at doing it.  That’s not me anymore.  I don’t know if it ever was.  Maybe I was just scared.  But I’ve kept in touch with people from all parts of my life lately, even people I had hurt over 15 years ago and thought would never want to speak with me again.  I’ve said it before in previous posts: people CAN change.  And they can’t.  I’m pretty sure I used those exact words.  Either way, Aries season is about to rain fire and I’m charging full speed ahead while hooking my horns around everyone close to me.  Yes you, you’re coming too, if you want.  

Tweet about LiveJournal friends

And I’ve also left some people behind.  And that’s okay too.  Not everyone wants to come for the ride.  Not everyone gets to.  AND I’m dating someone new, with that being said.  Someone who has given me an entirely new appreciation for radical vulnerability, for cracking open my mind, for showing me that being a dad who loves with their whole heart is celestially beautiful beyond anything I could ever imagine.  That whole vicarious joy I talked about before?  I have the cheesiest smile on my face right now just thinking about how much he adores his babies.  

It makes me feel so appreciative of my own father, having a person like that in my life who loves people unconditionally, weirdness, warts, and all.  You’d think I wouldn’t mash up family and sex toys.  But you’d be wrong.  And if you knew me, like really knew me down to the pith, you’d know why my brain skipped no beats transitioning from talking about good parenting to talking about sex toys.  Vibrators to stimulate tomato pollination.  Explaining a Game of Thrones reference regarding a dildo.  I’m weird, and the apple never fell far from the tree.  Circles of sexuality, all that.  It’s my throughline, my root.  So let’s talk.

Gif of dropping the magnetic disc near the Ferri and it snapping to the toy immediately
Fucking magnets, how do they work?!

I’ve acquired quite the collection of new toys over the last year and yet somehow I keep finding myself going back to all the oldies and reassigning new meanings to them.  It’s not surprising, as this has been something I do whenever I’m embarking on a new life chapter and reinventing my relationship with things, rituals, ideas I’ve once associated with people or circumstances I wish to move past.  After my breakup with Mike, it was really difficult getting back into toys again until I was able to reclaim them.  It’s similar to a good song, meal, or movie I feel deeply connected to and need to remind myself that they represent facets of me, a fragmented kaleidoscope of self-reflection that can be pointed in any which way and still retain a function and significance intrinsic to my own unique being.  

My Lovense Ferri is one example, which I initially purchased to be used in public situations like arcade nights at 8 On the Break or other nerdy social activities.  I loved the technology of the Ferri, the fact I could have more than one person logged in at a time to take control of it, a sense of silliness and camaraderie when friends would plug in the rhythm of the Terminator theme song while I’d be playing the pinball game (and inevitably losing due to the distraction and/or my lack of skill).  I loved using it on my housemate, that deviousness of knowing I could watch her from across a room and see her squirm with an eyeroll or sassy smile on her face.  But the Ferri, while about pleasure and fun, was never really intended for orgasms.  I liked the psychological torture of it, the connections and memories it made, but it was a novelty thing.  And then a new partner entered my life this winter, one who lives all the way out in Washington state.  The Ferri wasn’t about novelty anymore.  Psychological torture sure, but unadulterated lust this time.  

A fiery Leo who matches my erotic and reckless Aries energy, dancing circles around my sexual rhythm, a partner who knows at any moment what my breath rate means or even the sexual subtext of a seemingly innocent “How are you?”  When I told Kenny about the Ferri, it was game over, man.  I knew that if nothing else, the way he holds my mind like he would hold my body is enough to make me feel so linked into him that I was undoubtedly going to orgasm from this thing.  And the mind is a powerful thing.  Then again, so are the Ferri vibrations.  So lo and behold, I have had several orgasms at the touch of Kenny’s fingertips using this device.  

Witnessing him learn so eagerly how to manipulate its modes, coming up with new patterns, giggling with glee when I forget it’s clipped to my underwear and he suddenly gives me a gasp-inducing jolt…it’s so affirming and sexy.  I’ll never forget the vision of him on camera, his phone just within eyeshot with the app open, watching his hand reach to change the speed and me whimpering in anticipation only for him to jerk his hand away without touching a thing.  Visual, audio, and tactile edging at its absolute fucking finest.  

Ferri laying on its side

Specs-wise, the Ferri is about the size and almost the width of my thumb, with a slight taper and curve upwards as it progresses away from the ridged tip.  Like I always say with toys, there’s no one single way to use this thing, just keep it out of your butt since there’s no flared base.  Flip it any which way you want.  Use the app or don’t, since you can control the vibrations by just pushing the button.  Even with bottom growth, it still fits neatly between my outer labia and stays put, the shape of it tucking into me but not so bulky that I can’t sit with it.  It’s comfortable whether turned on or off (pun intended), and the vibrations are so strong that they reverberate consistently throughout the device.  

The magnet adheres with so much force I either need to get my thumbnail underneath the black disc to pry it off or just slide it using the texture of the printed “Lovense” on its silky smooth silicone to push it away from the toy.  It comes with a replacement magnet, but I anticipate this isn’t because the magnetism is going to weaken, rather, if you drop it anywhere near something remotely magnetic, like behind a radiator or down a vent, that thing is gone and stuck to whatever it touches.  The silicone has zero drag and is easy to clean, plus it’s waterproof with a magnetic charger which plugs into any USB port.  It holds a charge really well; Kenny can edge me for over an hour and it showed no signs of dying at all.  And finally, maybe most importantly for some people, it is oh so quiet.  But that could also be my deliciously thick thighs insulating the noise, and if you’re sitting on something hard like a plastic stool, it’s probably going to transmit sound down both your and the stool’s legs.  

Back of the Ferri pointing upwards to show ridges

I’ve talked to so many people who use or want to use Lovense products.  I was in the middle of teaching a toy workshop last month when an attendee talked about their partner’s experience with the Max 2.  And as always when I learn and share experiences about toys, listening to them review it and show how its mechanisms worked was a glittering moment of bliss for me, as it’s definitely something Kenny and I want to try in the future.  

One of Kenny’s many green flags (like, SO many, holy heck), is how authentically sex positive he is.  One of our first conversations in Discord with our friends was focused on his love of the Tenga Flip Zero.  So naturally for Valentine’s Day I bought him a bunch of other Tenga products including the Spinner, the 3D, and two bottles of lube.  He commissioned a portrait of us from our best friend in “selfie mode” because we won’t be able to take one together until the summer.  I’m shaking my head smiling at our love languages as I write this.  It was easily the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me on a Valentine’s Day.  And I sent him fuck sleeves.

NEVERTHELESS: the Tengas have gotten a lot of use, to which Kenny agreed to write a guest spot in this blog post and I’m not editing a single thing in it… take it away, lover!


I’ve been tasked with writing a blurb about my sex toys, and I’m just excited I can be a part of this blog!  Me?! Hell yeah!  I have been given a lot of power being told “I’m not changing anything you write.”  So now I have a huge urge to just write stupid stuff and make Avery roll their eyes, but I’ll contain myself. I had a few prompts I tried answering like bullet points, but I think it’d be best if I just talked about them all since my thoughts started to all blend together anyways.  

     I started using toys shortly after I had a break up and decided it was time to start the sexual healing process, and explore my interests because I do what I want and I wanted to “treat yo’self”.  I made my own for a while which was cool and all but it got old, so I looked up penis sleeves and eventually decided to go to a local sex shop to see some in person.  I ended up walking out with 3 Svakom Hedys, the blue, pink, and white egg.  

Svakom Hedy trio

These were great for jumping into the sex toy world.  They were affordable and safe to try.  A summary and experience of the 3 would be

Blue – from what I can understand blue is supposed to feel like a mouth and it wasn’t very good for me, didn’t offer much in feeling besides an equal pressure all around.  What’s a mouth texture without suction????

White – I didn’t like this one much at first, but eventually I started to use a light pressure on it and I figured how to make it shine.   The tiny ridges really make for fun changes during sessions.

Pink – it has like…5 main ridges, they’re solid and pretty firm which was nice for me.  The best way I can describe it is that it was like entering someone 5 times and then exiting 5 times in a row which I’m all for. 

   With these they’re all easy to clean.  Just wash immediately use a mild soap or toy cleaner and pat dry with a clean towel or paper towel.  They’re supposed to be single use, but I used mine until they started to show signs of wear.  I got rid of the blue one pretty quick, but the pink and white I kept for a couple months, rotated uses.  I’m not a daily ‘bater so YMMV.

  Eventually I was ready to upgrade to something more serious.  I got the Tenga Flip 0 for black friday I think, and for V-day i got a wonderful gift of a Tenga spinner and a Tenga 3D polygon. So on to those

Tenga Flip Zero

Flip 0 – fanciest one I’ve tried and probably my favorite.  It opens up fully so it can clean easy and has easy prep for use.  It has….3 zones?  First is a soft ball with texture the I feel is supposed to simulate a tongue, and on the other side has more intense ridging that kind of…flicks?  That’s the best was I can describe it.  I don’t know maybe you can see in the picture but it’s cool you can rotate it around for different intensities and feels how you want it.  The 2nd zone is the same knobs all around nothing really more to say about it.  3rd zone is a weird hooded ball that is fun to get into but I don’t think you can enter the hood but it’s fun to get up in there.   My favorite part is you can push out all the air and make a vacuum in it for suction.  You can control the strength of it and overall it’s an experience when you get used to all you can do with it.   It’s great for intense heavy sessions and also more gentle love making times. 

Tenga Spinner Shell

Tenga spinner Shell- this one was a treat.  It’s intense, knobby, tight, and suctiony. 

The plastic spring in it sure twists it.   It has so much texture and all the air gets pushed out as you enter, I think it has more of a vacuum that the Flip, and harder to get off than the Flip but in a good way.

3D polygon – I didn’t like this one at first.  I couldn’t feel the texture, the firmness was different, material felt different, it just wasn’t what I was used to.  Gave it a couple more tries and now I like it a good amount, and I can feel the grooves.  It isn’t intense so I like to use it when the mood matches that.  Nothing fancy about it, no bells or whistles, but in the end, I find it something I’ll use in my rotation often enough.

Tenga 3D Polygon

     I talked about it briefly but the Flip is the easiest to clean IMO, while the hedys and 3D are equal difficulty (just turn them inside-out), with the spinner being the hardest just for the fact you can’t to my knowledge turn it inside-out.  A bit of warning with the 3D is that it can launch whatever is inside it when you invert it so be careful of cannoning your lube, cum combo all over your backsplash.  For cleaning though I just use dish soap, any gentle soap would work too, or just by toy cleaner since I’m sure it’s really the best for them.  All the fancy toys each came with their own drying stands but I just leave it in my dish rack…. where babysitters and ex’s can accidentally see it and makes for funny stories to friends.  Eventually I put them somewhere safe once they’re fully dry.

     I missed a few prompts that I think would be good to go over, one is lubing.  They’re all easy-peasy to get ready, just put some lube down the hold and a little bit on the entrance and you’re good to go.  The hard part is figuring out how much is enough.  Too much and you’re leaking everywhere and making a mess, too little and you can feel friction heat and that’ll cause your toy to degrade faster.  After some questioning I recommend using just water based lubricants, I have a couple different viscosities from some random brand on amazon to “slippery stuff” and one with menthol in it.  I complain about this often but I do wish Tenga would rename their brand lube.  Hole Lotion is a cursed name.

     Another prompt that felt oddly specific to me was a bout Lovense products.  I’ve talked with Avery about their app-controlled toys several times and for ones I’d try…to be honest I’d try them all probably, but the only one I can see myself putting money towards is the Max 2.  I think the ability for one’s partner to control it is what sounds the most exciting.  I don’t feel there’s many choices for sleeves that are able to be controlled by someone else, and with how online and long-distance dating isn’t uncommon at all anymore especially after Covid, I feel that this market should get some more effort in it.

     For my final thoughts/summary if you’re interested in masturbation sleeves at all, just go try one!  The “Disposables” are like $6-$9 and last longer than they recommend for the most part.  Some people do just wear them out in a session and I’m intimidated by that.  I’m going to go with a personal thought here and use gendered terms since I only know experience as a CisHet.  I always felt there was a stigma for guys owning fleshlights and other sex toys, as if it’s like… a degenerate thing to do, have, or use.  I think it came from how jokes were delivered when it was something that was talked about.  In the end I realized that is silly, and I deserve quality, quality time to myself and there is nothing wrong with using an aid for it.  If you are self-conscious or have doubts, I want to encourage you to do what I’ve been doing that past year and “let go for dear life” and treat yo’self.  You deserve it! You are amazing!  Take care of them and they’ll take care of you.  Also I love you Avery, and I can’t wait to spend time with you later! <3


Thanks babe! Okay, so piggybacking off of Kenny’s thoughts on Lovense sleeves, there are two which initially piqued our interest: the Max 2 and Calor.  Some of Lovense’s products even pair up, meaning they provide haptic feedback (just a fancy term for vibrating responses to touch, but I’ll roll with it) when people are using each of their toys at the same time.  I was talking about this with a friend of mine who wants to try this with her boyfriend when we both paused to consider how, especially during the isolation of the pandemic and so many other barriers, Lovense’s products are literal lifesavers.  

Growing up in an era where cybersex in AOL chat rooms and 900 hotlines were the closest thing to sexual interaction via tech, the fact that someone can use their kegels and somewhere across the world another person feels their sleeve contract is incomprehensibly wonderful.  It says loads for sex work, disability, long-distance relationships, kink, and so much more.  Kenny and I are vacationing to California in August to meet for the first time in person, and I am absolutely bringing the Ferri.  There are just too many possibilities not to bring it.  And even though I’d probably never do it, we could be in two entirely separate airplane bathrooms mid-air and the Ferri would still work with Wi-fi.  That is just beyond.  Life right now is just beyond.  

Gif of Screencapped Instagram Story

So I guess I’ll close this whopper of a post, if you’ve even gotten this far, by reminding you that Aries season (linking to a Google search result because I typed in “Aries,” “Mothra,” and “meme” and my new tattoo comes up, what is life even) is rapidly approaching.  As is my birthday, March 31st, the same day as the International Transgender Day of Visibility.  My birthdays these past few years, whether because of the pandemic or just me getting crotchety in my older age, are not of much importance anymore.  The International Transgender Day of Visibility is.  So if you want, consider donating some money to a transgender organization.  Buy your trans buddies a burger.  Put your pronouns in your email signature.  Whatever.  But do something.  Fire can sustain and destroy, and while I love everything Aries-related, I also can’t ignore the amount of damage being done to other trans folx around me.  Especially the kiddos.  Visibility is vulnerability, and trans youth are more vulnerable than ever these days.  We don’t have to be parents to care about theybies, so let’s take care of them in any way we can.  Deal?  Deal.

So I’m Engaged?

Well shit. It’s been some time, all. Life has taken some strange, albeit lovely courses lately. I ran a poll on Twitter last month asking what I should write about on vacation in Aruba. The results were mainly split between a review of Uberrime’s Night King and my ConCane, both are still works in progress. The ConCane is going to channel a pretty in-depth discussion of disability, community, interpersonal support, and reconstructing physicality. It’s going to be a great post, but it’s not time yet. The Night King is a beacon of positivity and everything about it sparks joy, but I want to wait until I can do it justice with a gushing (ayyyy, puns) review.

Right now I’m riding a plane back from Aruba to Newark Liberty. Everything seems connected these days with a very present recognition. Driving past the Newark Marriott and being flooded with memories of Masakhane’s workshop at NSEC, rereading old posts about Pride, registering for my MSW courses at Rutgers, wearing my staff shirt from PROUD while walking with Mike on the beach… I could never have expected the levels of synthesis in so many aspects of my life.

Avery Mike Engaygement
Still rocking that rainbow bracelet from Newark Pride last year.

Perhaps it’s just that time of year when everything comes up rainbows, maybe it’s just a matter of moving, starting my new job, preparing my internship for HiTops, whatever. The world of queers was always a paradoxically woven one for me. Queer academics even more tightly woven. Queer academic activists working their asses off, even more recursive. It’s a matter of time and space, I guess. I’m almost 15 years in the field, still ambiverting my ways through various professions in hopes they might one day inform one another with crystal clear dimension, rerouting through past professional encounters and networking those beyond the exchange of a business card or LinkedIn.

I’m actually manifesting kinetic plans that build into each other instead of reducing their complex application to one single mission. I shouldn’t be surprised by the success. I shouldn’t be humble. I should be celebrating. The shifts in my life have been pretty drastic, and yet I still find myself marveling each day at new, subtle changes. I’ve been on testosterone for over a month, intramuscular injections each week that sometimes leave me limping in pain, bloodwork bruising my arms, my voice gradually dropping, a sudden inability to cry. Words come so much harder, my mania has subdued into a different species, something foggy and nonconforming to my baseline analysis or comprehension.

I stutter a lot now. I stumble over myself in person and online, and writing this post has been pretty daunting, if not for all my life changes than the reduced lexicon which once trademarked my writing for its verbosity and derailing. I worry a lot about this now that I am going back to school for my final Master’s degree. My thoughts, conceptions, and ontologies are my most confident parts, an intellectualized defense from years of being bullied at a very young age.

I got a lot of backlash from my classmates for taking on this project. That smile has fear behind it.

I did not understand how to hide my queerness in elementary school and programs like “Talented and Gifted” as well as switching to a private school, though pretentious and extremely fucked up in rhetoric and social strata, were the few institutions protecting me against almost daily physical and verbal harassment from my peers. Anyone who says children are incapable of truly harming one another is completely unaware of how harmful that very declaration can be.

It took me a long time to honor my queerness and simultaneously took me the same amount of time to learn how to code switch into straight culture. I spent my vacation week with an engagement ring around my finger, silver oak leaves entwined with a sparkly green gem. For me, queerness is a lot like this gem. I want it to shine and I want it to be seen, but I don’t want it to make sense to everyone. I don’t want it to be read as feminine, but with everything society attaches to what it’s supposed to look like, I’m left wondering how to reclaim its meaning.

engaygement ring
People see me and Mike and some may think “straight couple.” They may see us and think cis, abled, monogamous, whatever. It’s not us. It’s not me and it’s not him. I hashtagged our engagement photo on my Instagram, saying #enGAYged, then wondered if that would lead to a critique of our queerness. I want to not give a fuck. I want to cherish this moment, to hold his hand in public and not fear the misinterpretation of heteroperformativity, but the reality of my life is that this misinterpretation IS privilege in and of itself. It does not carry the same risks of being read as queer, the inherent harm and discrimination against “visibly” LGBTQ folx.

View this post on Instagram

Ready to hit the town.

A post shared by Avery (@thepalimpsex) on

But what constitutes the parameters for”visibility?” Who gets left out from that definition? I once said to be “anti-man” requires more unpacking at what signifies “man.” Do I deserve to get pissed at people misgendering me; do I deserve that discomfort or centering myself in that discourse? Am I reproducing inequalities and privilege by even writing about this?

I started this post on the plane ride home from Aruba. Mike accidentally spilled water on my laptop, so I saved the document and shut it down immediately. I wonder sometimes about fate, luck, higher beings, universes, whatever, because I really needed time to process and reflect. Three days have gone by, reconnecting with my neighbors, coworkers, gaming buddies, folx who want to see “the ring” after they saw my announcements on social media. And I find myself hesitant to show them. As though me, of all people, is not supposed to have a sparkly gem added to my already compulsory heteronormative token of perceived matrimony.

Congratulations dessert
I mean, we’re going to milk free desserts as long as we can.

I want to say fuck the norms, I want to say I can have any damn gem on any damn ring of any damn finger and it means fuckall with regards to my sexuality and gender identity. I feel this need to tell people “no this doesn’t make me straight, or cis, or monogamous, or institutionally religious”…but that need just reinforces the duality of “normal” versus “subversive.” OMG like “nonconformity is just another conformity,” paging adolescent punky Avery covered in rainbows writing Anarchy symbols all over their locker… It feels like a projection, like I’m protesting too much. I aim not to justify my engagement when I know what feels right, but I also feel exhausted at the identity shifts that happen when I’ve become “permanently paired.” At least “fee-ahn-say” is pronounced the same no matter the gendered spelling.

I knew at a young age I never wanted kids but I never had many thoughts on marriage. I think everything’s still the same…my cat is my baby and a marriage is just an excuse to throw an awesome party celebrating a love that queered futurity. I see queer folx all the time in relationships with cis dudes and I don’t identify with these specific dynamics, but I also respect them so much. I’ve lived the “not trans enough” and “not queer enough” narratives to understand that my relationships are just another color to the spectrum, not necessarily a compounding layer of invisibility. I hope it stays complicated. I’m not sure I’d have it any other way.

The Woodhull Redux

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 few of 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.

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 examining privilege 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.

Thoughts on Pride™

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?

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.

NYC pride 2007 I believe? @laura_scarano #tbt

A post shared by Avery (@thepalimpsex) on

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.

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.

On the subject of sponsorship…

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.

Hello subspace my old friend…

So I retract my previous blog statement about finally finding a water-based lube that doesn’t irritate me.  Maybe it’s because I only used a little of it once or twice without issue but right now I am typing with an angry yeast infection and its best friend, Diflucan-induced diarrhea.  My partner and I had what felt like a 3 hour kink-a-thon yesterday and copious amounts of lube were used.  We tried the water-based lube as the toys got larger, but when it came to fisting, we went back to good old coconut oil as the lube was starting to burn.  Between gentle fingers and soothing coconut oil, I felt much better until later in the evening when the itch began.  It’s just as well…I don’t know why I felt I needed to stray from coconut oil, maybe the sheer determination of finally finding my perfect water-based lube.  If only I had enough money to invest, I’d totally just create my own.  No aloe, no glycerin or parabens, no citric acid, no propylene glycol, just basic BASIC shit.  And if that means it dries up quickly, so be it.  I recently started using these baby wipes that are literally just water and cloth…my nethers have never been happier.  I’ve also had a bidet on my wish list for a few years, but Jersey winters would make that water shockingly cold on my butthole and the hot water option is much more expensive and difficult to hook up.  Anyway, ramblings as I was up on a Tuesday morning, glancing longingly at my coffee knowing it’ll just cause further diarrhea.  Basta.

Last night was, unf.  While Mike and I have always had our kinks, last night was sort of a “no-holds barred,” “try anything” situation.  Spitting in each other’s mouths, biting, choking, jerking off each other and cumming on each other, the whole thing was just bliss.  I’ve never really been topped by Mike before, and although I am switchy, it was such an out-of-body experience.  Like, not just my usual subspace (although is there ever a “usual” subspace?) but a subspace where I was kind of co-topping myself WITH him.  I don’t know if that makes any sense.  It just started as one of those clean slate nights, sort of “I’m going to close my eyes and I want you to choose one toy that vibrates and one that penetrates,” and letting him do the rest.  I was so tickled that he immediately went for the Tails and Portholes Leviathan…something in him must have known I wanted to be stretched out.  But the Leviathan was squishy and cumbersome for him to thrust, so he went for the NS Novelties Rainbow Pride dildo.  This was definitely an improvement, as well as the Prism he gave me for vibration.  But I kept wanting bigger and bigger, finally realizing I didn’t want a dildo at all.  I didn’t want vibrations.  I wanted his hand.  So fisting away we went, fisting led to fucking…there were so many orgasms for both of us I can’t even count.  Again, a total primal subspace.  I squirted with the Prism, then squirted on him with the Vanity Vr6, lapped that up, and we just kept going.

The night was wild, and again, we have our kinks, but this pushed it ever-so-slightly out of his comfort zone and I am very grateful for his consent and enthusiasm.  When he went to go clean the toys (I don’t know why but I find it so endearing when he does that), I snuck a stainless steel gemmed butt plug in between my cheeks before we hopped in the shower.  It was a great surprise when I told him that he forgot to clean one last toy and just pulled it out.  His face lit up and he just smiled this gleeful smile, like I’d just played the most adorable yet sexy prank he’s ever seen.  I love that he’s always willing to try new things and keeps such an open mind about our sexualities and identities.  I love that we continually discover new shit we like but don’t pressure every sexual interaction to be an epic journey…

I think we appreciate all the connections made during sex.  Speaking for myself, they don’t really fit into rankings, they’re all just different…but when we have sessions like last night, there’s just a sense of complete fearlessness unlike anything I’ve experienced at even my kinkiest play parties.  I don’t need marks for good impact, I don’t need my hair pulled to control my movement.  Time and time again I’ve been told my kink is through energy-exchange (grow up with an ancestry of witches and who’s surprised?), and Mike is very similar.  I like our kink a lot.  It’s very unique to our chemistry and filled with love.  In a time where it feels like the world keeps giving up on folks, it’s nice to know we haven’t given up on each other.  And that extends from the simplest gestures of a morning kiss to the depths of soiled sheets and pruned fingertips.

Review of Funkit’s Pumpkin Almond

It’s 6:30am and I’m wide awake. I typically have my clearest moments in the morning, and I’ve been in hypomanic for a little over a month now. But, almost like overcaffeination, the mania keeps me productive in some areas and completely avoidant for most of the truly important stuff. I’ve been spending money like it’s my job, to the point where I just saw Amazon is having their Black Friday deals and almost clicked off this post to fall into a capitalist K-Hole of nonsense and Himalayan Salt Lamps. It’s a friend’s birthday today as well as my second tattoo appointment of the week, and yet I find myself far more excited to go use Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons on a gift she’s likely not going to need than getting my tattoo.

foot tattoo
Post/Post Edit: maple and oak (oak freshly done).

Wednesday I got a maple leaf on my left foot and today I’m going to a different artist to get an oak leaf on my right. The two have been symbolic of my past and now current relationship: alas, I have gotten back together with the boy. Our oak and maple penny necklaces sat blessed by moonlight during a good six months of no contact. Along with a “Dazzling Red Maple” Yankee Candle and a 3-year-old love note, I was able to reach out to him on what would have been our anniversary in September. Things have been wonderful since. Call it a renegotiated limerence or renewed relationship energy; we don’t want to jinx it and taking things slowly has been much more productive for better communication. Anyway, that’s the short version of my relationship update.

I know. We’re gross.

What has also changed dramatically is my sexual appetite. I actually HAVE one now. One by one, the toys are getting less dusty with usage, some orders have arrived, and I almost forgot how electric it is to self-lubricate again. As in, I can so much as hear him breathe in a certain way and I know we’re both in tune with whatever level of arousal we’re at, even if it’s just sitting on the couch. It’s like music. Sex with Mike is like music. I don’t know why I should be surprised, if I am at all, considering his natural musical talents and my tendency to synchronize energies during sex. But in the words of the ever-classic Celine Dion, it’s all coming back to me now.  Especially now with Kenton’s amazing deals.  Who could resist?

I’ve also finally found a water-based lube that doesn’t irritate me, one that I’d sold for years and never actually tried. I’m still a dyed-in-the-wool coconut oil fan, but on cold, solidified days when the dispenser doesn’t want to work, this Slippery Stuff really hits the spot. Another review on that later. Jesus, I actually have stuff to review now! I recently acquired a “pumpkin” butt plug from Kenton at Funkit Toys, an item that explicitly states it is NOT a carrot. Whatever…carrot, pumpkin, almond, it all works suitably considering my butt has been insatiably hungry lately.

I was even able to handle the Tristan 1 the other day, a notoriously challenging plug for me because of its squish and wide neck. With firmer shore, a narrower tip and a much more gradual bulb, the Pumpkin Almond looks great from all angles. The colors are skillfully poured and the signature suction base known to Funkit Toys made me so proud to own another one of Kenton’s creations. I even liked the subtle ridges from top to bottom due to the 3-D printed mold. Surprisingly, I could actually feel them upon insertion and they were really stimulating.

Butt Plug
Ridges are visible here. Also, sorry to future CVS customers who buy these almonds.

When I say “all angles,” I didn’t realize the Pumpkin Almond is not perfectly symmetrical. Which makes sense, because Kenton’s website description literally says “lateral ridges and a slight forward bend.” The bend isn’t created so much as a tilt or curve, but because one side of the Almond is a little rounder than the other. This creates a slight dorsal ridge on each side, you know, like an actual fucking almond. Initially assuming it was completely round, I met a challenge upon insertion as I realized there might be more optimal methods of using the Almond aside from just sliding it in willy-nilly. I needed to find which way to put it in that felt most comfortable.

Butt Plug
Not perfectly round. Y’know…like an almond.

Again, another teachable moment about my body: where I thought inserting the Almond with a horizontal orientation would feel better, the vertical actually worked more. I figured a side-to-side stretch would give me more feeling of fullness, but turning the plug so the wider part pressed against my tailbone and front wall brought me to orgasm almost effortlessly. I tried double-penetration with my Jopen Vanity Vr6, my go-to when it comes to DP testing, and it felt perfect. The squishy flared base of the Almond was unimposing but present and it didn’t get in the way. The one thing I did notice, which has become standard for most of my butt plugs, was that the Almond shot right out of me during orgasm.

Butt Plug

The taper-ratio is pleasurably gradual for insertion and it stays in place for DP, but once my muscles contract for an orgasm, it just won’t stay in on its own. It’s fine, since I think out of my twelve butt plugs only about three of them stay put during orgasm. As long as I keep one hand securing the base, my orgasms with the Almond are really satisfying. Cleanup is simple, and despite its glossy appearance, the Almond is not a complete dust magnet. I’ve noticed this with the Crista, too…something about Funkit’s silicone really stands up to the “Cat-Hair” challenge.

Butt Plug
Signature base with Funkit’s logo.

Which is great, because they’re two of my favorite toys to show off when visitors curiously enter my bedroom and are drawn to the toy shelf. I’ll be interested to see what boy thinks of it, so this post might get updated soon. Or, y’know, as an addendum in future reviews. My sexual hiatus is finally over. And I am SO glad the Pumpkin Almond got to be a part of that reawakening.

Review of the Crave Flex

Well, I’d say it’s been getting easier because it probably looks that way from the outside, but it really isn’t.  Every day is sort of a literal/figurative rinse, lather, and repeat with different Lush products to make it seem less repetitive, but it’s still the same process.  Running trainings for Planned Parenthood employees, biking 23 miles, somehow managing to visit friends at RennFaire three times… I’m active and it’s valuable but it also distracts me from the biggest realities of missing my ex and wondering what the fuck happened to my sex drive.

 

I’ve still got it in my head that there’s a purpose for not wanting anyone else, and I think that might be a good move for different reasons, but why the hell can’t I bring myself to jerk off?  The times I do, I end up in tears before orgasm, and if I do have that rare orgasm in between, it’s filled with emptiness and dissatisfaction.  Have I become one of those people who replaces sexual release with exercise?  Someone I thought I’d never be, not because I judge “that person,” but because I never believed I could enjoy exercise.

Crave Flex vibrator
The buttons look deceivingly simple.

The only times I do come are in the shower, rocking 5 minute wall sits until my quads are on fire with the shower head pulsing away at my parts.  My skin is so hungry, and yet I get nauseous at the thought of anyone touching me.  It also doesn’t help that I was just recently diagnosed with Interstitial Cystitis and kidney stones, so my body and mind are all over the place.  I recognize the dissonance and contradictions in all the circles of my sexuality right now and yet feel completely helpless to do anything.  I even tried buying a Crave Flex since I liked the Vesper so much and grew increasingly frustrated at my body’s response.  Something didn’t translate, whether it be the silky silicone and bendy tip or the dulling effect the vibrations had as I tried to press them harder onto my parts.

Ghosts can like bendy tips too!

The modes seemed excessive and where I’m at mentally, the process of having to skip through to find the strongest constant vibration was (and is) enough to lose my build.  At this point, something so simple as a truck driving past my window can carry away any tenuous desire I have for an orgasm, so the process of experimenting with new toys is just an investment I can’t emotionally or physically handle right now.  I’ve had one orgasm in the 5 or 6 times I tried the Flex and it required me to be on my knees, squatted over my Shilo, again becoming increasingly frustrated that here I am, fucking my own dick and trying to pretend it’s his, wishing I at least had him to help me thrust the Shilo.  It wasn’t until the burning of my quads kicked in that I could get back into my body and appreciate the increase of heartrate long enough to let go of thoughts and just come.

Crave Flex vibrator
USB chargers make life so much easier.

The Flex is probably amazing for folks, between the multiple vibrations from tip to base and its attached USB charger (so all you need to do is find a laptop or wall outlet without bothering with wires).  It’s really nice to look at and still somewhat in the same price range as the Vesper, but something about having the sheer metal and temperature change of the Vesper gives me truly pinpoint stimulation without any power diffusing through silicone.  I’d still recommend it, and maybe someday I’ll be able to pull out of my funk enough to truly enjoy it.

Where am I?

Drenched in sweat, starfished on the kitchen floor, the dehumidifier blowing musty air in my face as I come back into my body… it’s the closest I’ve been to anything like an orgasm in what feels like ages and it’s tachycardia. I’ve just installed a new bike seat on the vintage Schwinn my landlord gifted me a month ago, lime green with a hole cutout in the middle, a reminder of yet another accommodation for what’s between my legs, but at least I get to make it green to compliment the purple bars of the bike, a genderqueer tribute to my dysphoria. Biking surprisingly doesn’t hurt my discs, and while the soreness of my groin is the closest I’ll be to a hard fucking in a long time, I lost most desire for sex since my breakup anyway.

I need the new seat otherwise I can’t handle the freedom and endorphins of the 11 mile trail I’ve been blessed with outside my home. Although I loathe the 90 degree weather and humidity signature to Jersey summers, I’m completely claustrophobic with the contexts of this particular July from academic to personal obligations. My mental health is rapidly deteriorating to the point where I don’t even know what self-care looks like anymore. Today it looked like a new bike seat and a quick ride to test it out, but it also neglected hydration and included caffeine; it forgot that I took a Vicodin for my back last night after 10 days of classes sleeping without an actual bed and how opiates trigger my SVT episodes. So my last mile push home included palpitations, followed by a half hour sweat-out on the kitchen floor, my only space left in this apartment currently to sprawl in semi-privacy.

I’d cry if I had the tears, the heart-rate, the spoons, the understanding of what I should mourn first. The cats who aren’t even my cats came to lick the sweat out of my hair as I nudged them away, reminders of what I can’t handle. I looked to the ceiling fan, a snakeskin lightning bolt charm hanging from a chain reminding me of power symbols as I tried to focus my eyes and breath to cut the palpitations. I meditated and affirmed myself as best I could, prayed nobody came into the room and the cats could give me some peace.

As the 180 finally went back to 60 bpm, I opened my palms to the ceiling and noticed my right arm had been touching my No-Face backpack of books the entire time. At first I went to push it away with disdain and then recognized the conflict of this action. How my academics are the source of my frustration and strength, how my love and hate and fear and insecurity are all blended together through my journey and academia is what taught me to blend my heart and my brain. How appropriate I chose No-Face as my bookbag for all the character represents and how placeless I feel in life all the time, how dependent I am on others for my own existence, how the familiarity of this hard kitchen floor brings back the warmth I felt sleeping on wood during my stay in Philadelphia and how I thought my self-care this week would include solitude but it really requires comfort around positive people.

I still firmly believe my heart thrives in nature, that I cannot handle living in a city for all the infinitely unique thoughts of people buzzing directly around me, but right now I feel so ungrounded. My skin hunger is nauseated but present, my boundaries of self-in-world are blurring, and there is so much I want to do but here I am: starfished on a kitchen floor trying to figure out my next move.

Mental Check-In and Review of Tantus’s ProTouch

Ohhhh yes.  My upcoming summer semester (and hopefully final semester at Widener) is quickly approaching and I’ve just begun plugging my due dates into Google Calendar…this one is going to be a doozy.  Three courses wedged into the entire month of July, class nonstop from the 8th to the 16th, papers galore…I may have bitten off more than I can chew when I said I needed more of a challenge at this school.  We shall see.

What it has done is given me a swift kick in the ass to get my writing flow back into gear, which is a bonus.  I’ve basically spent the last two weeks getting back in touch with my roots, revisiting parts of my identity I had once abandoned with shame and regret.  A trip to Aruba spent solely with Mom and Dad, a weekend of Punk Rock Bowling with a best friend, videogames with Steam friends…I needed the familiarity of these things accompanied by a deeper introspection of what they have meant historically to me through the years.  How many times I’ve enjoyed the company of friends on my Aruba trips only to later make enemies with them, how many punk buddies I’ve pushed away never to speak to again, how, even now, I am constantly navigating the paranoia of annoying my Steam friends and sometimes I intentionally “fall off the map” because I think I’ve been a burden to them.

I was diagnosed with BPD in 2010 only to later be dually diagnosed with Bipolar II three years ago.  Meanwhile, I’ve had one or two exes who have armchair diagnosed me with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, something I’ve mentioned to every psych professional I’ve seen since undergrad and has been consistently shot down…so who knows.  I overproject intellectualism, have an ever-escaping self-awareness of my neurodivergences, and I’m definitely insecure… Probably going to delete all of this anyway because why on earth would anyone want to read something this personal in someone’s sex blog?  Wouldn’t you rather read about handjobs or my gag reflex?

PURSEonal stuff first. OHHHH the puns.

I guess the point of this reflection is that I’m trying not to be scared of looking back at who I was or being open about it to anyone (and I mean anyone).  The 25 years spent chasing iguanas by the beach, the 15 years making out with sweaty folx in mosh pits, and now the recent years finding a community who shares my same love for gaming.  I’ve fucked up a lot of it, but it’s not all bad, and neither am I.  I NEED to start believing this.  If I keep wasting time shitting on myself, I’ll never get back to blogging from a positive headspace, I’ll never learn how to love other people the way I want to be loved, I’ll never take the time to appreciate the world outside my head, beyond anything I could ever imagine.  The whole concept of self-love terrifies me sometimes, because deep down I don’t think I really understand it, and I’m scared I never will.

This post was ACTUALLY supposed to be a review, believe it or not.  I had every intention of getting punnily detailed with my recent usage of the Tantus ProTouch, a versatile toy I’ve been promoting since my days at the porn store but never actually tried.  I opted for the Grab Bag version and ended up with literally the SAME fucking color (like a more translucent version of “wine”) it comes in normally (I swear to goddess, I have the worst luck with Tantus Grab Bag colors).  I got so bitter about it I never ended up using the fucking thing.

ProTouch by Tantus

Yesterday I finally had my first masturbatory release in months…a little Nine Inch Nails and a Wartenberg Wheel was enough to get me going.  My butt just kind of wanted everything on the shelf.  I went for each anal toy I could find, starting small, eventually working my way up to an Echo Handle.  It was an intense afternoon and I direly needed it.  But the ProTouch surprised the hell out of me.  I was expecting the curve to be painful, uncomfortable, anything like any other curved butt product I’ve used before.  It wasn’t at all.  Sure, it’s made with the same shore silicone in most Tantus products, but maybe because of the hollow middle (which is meant for a vibrating bullet though I left it empty), it had some squish.

ProTouch by Tantus

I’m not usually a fan of the freebie bullets that come with Tantus toys anyway (kinda weak), and the depth of the hole inside the ProTouch is too shallow for the WeVibe Tango.  Besides, it actually made it more grippy for me because I could just stick my finger inside it while I hooked the flare with my thumb.  Regardless, the curve of the ProTouch conformed nicely to my body and was actually relatively comfortable.  My other surprise was that I could actually feel all the textures of it in the best ways possible.  I went back to the ProTouch after using the Echo Handle and the ProTouch still had quite a…how shall I say…presence?  The curves were stimulating enough to remind me it was inside, but not too scrapey or pinchy.  So I’ll be damned.  That thing has been sitting on my shelf for months now and I’ve just discovered I actually rather like it.

The ProTouch by Tantus
Little grippy ribs in the middle, good for bullets, also great for my lubey fingers.

Sometimes I learn a lesson or two about myself when it comes to toys.  I’ve been thematically discovering through blogging how the toys I think I’ll like, I don’t end up enjoying very much and the toys I don’t expect to like, I do.  Or the toys I’ve loved for years suddenly don’t do it for me anymore, that my body and mind can change, that pleasure isn’t linear or orderly…it doesn’t obey any logic or mapping and what feels right to me one day might feel absolutely backwards the next.

Shelf all cleaned and reorganized.

I’m looking at my shelf and getting a little weepy now.  These toys have taught me a lot.  I cherish them.  Beyond pride, beyond memory…there’s a little bit of magic in each of them and I don’t think it’s something I’ll ever understand.  Maybe that’s what makes reviewing them so exciting.  Because who knows?  Two years from now, my body might be able to tolerate Aloe, and I might actually dig soft silicone.  These reviews aren’t just unique to us as individuals, but unique to our place and time in life.  It’s the futile but delicate attempt at grabbing a bit of eggshell through the yolk…always almost there but always slipping away.

Audre Lorde will always guide my spirit.

I think about Audre Lorde’s “Poetry is Not a Luxury,” and how she spoke of words, how “Possibility is neither forever not instant,” and yet there is always a validity in her phrase “it feels right to me.”  Each toy has its purpose, its opportunity to “feel right” for someone, as does each review.  Maybe a time in my life will come when things begin to holistically “feel right,” maybe not.  So for as disjointed and (perhaps inappropriately, to some) unsteady this blog post may seem, I think I’ll actually leave it as is, consciously unedited.  I suppose it just feels right to me.