September 16, 2010. My first known and diagnosed STI. I’m rereading an old Livejournal entry about it. Yeah, somehow I still have a Livejournal, but it gives me a really good window into college-era Avery thinking. Some parts are validating, like how my queer and genderfucky identities have evolved, the best friends I have had and sustained since childhood, the LJ communities I was a big part of, the slow progressions of my ongoing body modification. Some parts are really tough to read, losing my best friend to suicide, the documentation of my PTSD from Patrick, failed attempts at polyamory, putting pets to sleep, disordered eating rants… It reminds me that yes, I’m constantly battling with the fear of being a horrible, unlovable person, but I’ve come a LONG, long way over the last ten years.
The entry about my genital wart is pure, unbridled hypocrisy. I was already teaching sex education with Masakhane for 3 years by this point, emphasizing the importance of destigmatizing STI’s, reimagining the mythos of terms like “normal” and “healthy” with regards to the body and sexuality, and yet here I was, flipping my shit outside the Montclair Planned Parenthood for a fucking wart.
I was desperate to blame someone other than myself, as if this had been a consequence, a curse, a shameful punishment. I stopped counting the number of my sexual partners by my senior year of high school. To this day, I know it’s probably somewhere in the hundreds and it’s pointless to think about since the very definition of “sex” is so fluid anyway. If “virginity” is a bullshit means of normalizing cishetero-penetrative sex, a notion I defied so well as a queer nonbinary teenager, then why was I still drinking the “slut-shame punch?” Why was I so embarrassed to talk about it? Why was I treating my genital wart as though it was a measure of my humanity, existence, morality, whatever?
What became such a source for my own ignorance eventually turned into a badge of pride, an opportunity for discussion, a flicker of personal and political education, but it didn’t happen overnight. Bit by bit, talking about HPV with partners, with family, with friends, with learners, classmates, anyone I could…I learned what I still now consider to be a world’s-ahead wealth of information regarding HPV.
I had been vaccinated with Gardasil at 18, but by then I had so many sexual partners it was pretty fucking pointless, even if it did offer protection against cancer-causing strains. I was a warty kid my whole life: plantar warts on my heels, knuckle warts, and even to this day, I still get a wart on my elbow every now and then. They come and go like a cold except they don’t hurt or cause discomfort, and yet I still grew up learning that they needed to be removed, cut out, burned off of me. They were considered ugly, undesirable flaws and I can’t even begin to tell you how many dermatology appointments I went to as a kid.
I grew up having HPV and never understanding it, so I can’t say I’m really surprised that I asked for my genital wart to be burned off with trichloroacetic acid. There I was, spread apart at the gyno, holding a cotton ball to my taint to prevent acid dripping to my asshole while the gyno applied it to the tiny wart near my fourchette. Logically, I feel like one of us should have realized that a cotton ball will just absorb and suck the acid down further, not block it. I felt nothing on the wart, but the chemical burn to my perineum and sphincter was so brutal I couldn’t walk for a week. I had to tilt forward when urinating to avoid the sting of piss trailing over the wound. It was after this experience I decided I’d never have another wart removed from my body unless it caused me pain or discomfort.
My regular STI testing is still a really shitty process where I end up providing education to my gynecologists rather than getting adequate, competent care. Yes I have a vulva. No it doesn’t make me female. Yes I want the full panel including bloodwork for Herpes and HIV. No, I haven’t had sex with more than one partner since the last test, but I still want the works. Yes I understand barriers are important, but YOU need to understand they aren’t a fucking guarantee. Yes I brought my own lube for the exam because your shit is loaded with glycerin and other crap that shouldn’t be in my body. No, I don’t enjoy getting needles in my arms just because I’m covered in tattoos.
These shouldn’t be things I need to teach medical professionals about, but here we are. I shouldn’t have had to educate my cohorts in a SEX EDUCATION program that HPV doesn’t always have to be “sexually” transmitted to be transmitted. That strep throat could be a fucking STI just as much as chlamydia. The dialogue needs to change. It starts with us. Me, you, the people reading this blog, the people doing the work.
I don’t even know if I have HPV right now. And honestly, I don’t fucking care. Okay, you have oral herpes but no current outbreak? I’ll still totally make out with you, I don’t give a fuck, we’re all probably going to get it at some point or another. I’d be glad enough if someone chose to disclose their status so I can get and give informed consent. STI’s aren’t the end of the world and the negativity surrounding them needs to change.
Get tested like you get your teeth cleaned. It’s maintenance. It’s not preventing the “baddies,” it’s getting to know your body better. Let’s make these discussions more intellectually, emotionally, physically, and financially accessible, let’s make this entire process more accessible. Shit, you can do it online now with companies like STDCheck.com (yes, they asked me to write a semi-sponsored post, but I really should have written about this a long time ago anyway). Transparently speaking, STDCheck actually offered me a full free 10-test panel and a $200 donation to the organization of my choice. Fuck yeah being compensated for speaking about an important issue on my terms. For a company to even reach out, encouraging me to write freely about my thoughts on sexual health, that’s a pretty sweet deal. So yeah. STI’s aren’t all sunshine and rainbows, but they’re not worth the “doom and gloom” slant either. I’m grateful to have this perspective and I sincerely hope more people can approach sexually transmitted infections with more sex-positive attitudes in the future.
Rainbows have always been important to me. Refraction, infinity, fluidity. These things represent my spiritual essence. So when I keep reencountering the metaphor of a prism, I look into it. The next few entries will be fragments of self that may not always constitute the whole, but are cosms of the places and times I’ve been since my last post. Section II comes with a heavy content warning about abuse of all kinds as I am finally coming out with specific ferocity. So here we go.
I’m going to type as fast as I can without regards to spelling, grammar, or typos right now because there is just too much to say and my fingers will never be able to capture my racing thoughts. This blog post is going to be in four-ish parts or I might just separate them into different blog posts all together. I’m not sure yet (re-reading and editing…I’m still not sure). I just know I need to get this down. I feel like I have a Ouija board smacking me in the face with some choir of spirits screaming ALL SIGNS POINT TO YES! DO THE THINGS! I know I’ve been gone in more ways than one. I know lots of you are aware of this and the reasons to some extent. I know some of you may not know I even existed. Perhaps some of you wish my blog would stay gone forever but sorry (not sorry). Sometimes I just need to get shit out as a means of benefitting myself and possibly others in the process.
I.
Why did I stop blogging? A lot of reasons, mostly related to my over-aggressive methods of addressing recent problems in my life as a projected effort to ignore some long, LONG-standing traumas in the rest of my life. I became so overwhelmed and obsessed with the blogging world, one I never truly felt a part of, or perhaps, DID feel a part of but in my own brand of outcast. Like everywhere else in my life, whether social, educational, whatever, I know I can be intimidating. I know I’m brutally honest but also understandably hard to trust. I know I wear my insecurities strangely and that makes some folx uncomfortable. I’m not an entirely likeable person but I’m also not so self-centered to think that any of this makes me unique.
There are bigger issues in the world right now than worrying whether I fit into the sex blogging community. I get affirmations here and there from other bloggers, industry leaders, people I respect immensely, and for me, that is more than enough to sustain my passion. I DO need money. I DO need affiliations and free products to review but I’m also going to get back to my original motivations rooted in ethical transparency. When I disappeared from the blogging world I also blocked Twitter on my computer and phone. My Instagram is a blend of my personal and professional lives so I still felt adequately represented on that platform even though I know it’s been an absolute shithole of censorship for a lot of people.
Twitter is still deleted on my phone (using Safari rn) and blocked on my laptops. Taking an indefinite hiatus for my well-being. Hope folx are doing okay. I am definitely not okay. But I will be. I think. #NationalSuicidePreventionDay
I’m writing this post now in OpenOffice on my dinky little Macbook I used to keep at work for my “Tools for Wellness” and “Holistic Healing” workshops. It was the laptop I used to bring to Widener, and it’s been through a LOT of shit. I’m taking it back as my own. I’ve been terrified to open up my blog. I peek in the “Admin” section here and there to fix broken links but I don’t bother to look at analytics, even when Google reminds me I’m still getting at least 700 hits a month. I mainly don’t want to go back to my blog because of an icon. One little fucking icon affiliate link that opens up Pandora’s Box with regards to my entire hiatus. An affiliate some bloggers banned, some openly exposed for their shitty practices, and then radio silence. I’m complicit too. I may have disappeared, but I could have taken the affiliate link down on my way out.
August into September was a difficult but really strong opportunity for the sex industry in all its fields, bloggers, educators, workers, ‘ologists,’ to come together and have honest, open, raw dialogue about what it’s like when capitalism compromises our own values. To consider what happens when companies throw us just enough money, muddling our subconsciousness and long-term goals. To ask how much we are willing to sacrifice of our own selves for a piece of the pie, or cockburger, or hot dog, whatever. People were vocal, big names, small names; the Tantus bullshit was not isolated and the ‘incident’ opened up a floodgate for folx to air out their grievances with the company only to get repeatedly shut down by the company itself or even fellow bloggers.
We all have complicated relationships with companies and leaders because at some point they did earn our respect, otherwise why would we bother associating with them? But people fuck up. People hurt people, whether intention equals outcome or whether folx are generally that oblivious to the consequences of their actions. And although the flamewars and often really engaging conversations about privilege sparked an energy in me, I also was consistently shut down. Sometimes literally so, with a Twitter inbox full of folx telling me I was “too angry,” asking me to pipe down, asking me to stop poking the bear, and “for the sake of bigger bloggers going through a tough time” (aren’t we all?), to check my tone.
Starting to see the #blogsquad saving face by making their declarations that they “had no idea” when I’ve had several direct conversations with them about this for years. Like, great, NOW you’re speaking out but you DO know you were one of the reasons for inaccessiblity, cmon. https://t.co/1kDZrFy2A0
What happened with Tantus got reduced to a diluted 101 of “call-outs versus call-ins” and it left industry leaders unchecked. The echo chamber of bloggers attacked one another whether outright or in veiled measures. Tantus’s controversy bled perfectly into overall problems with the Woodhull Foundation and the Sexual Freedom Summit, which was apropos and also intense. Voices on disability, socio-economic status, and race began talking about the spaces never made for them or the spaces deliberately closed off. Blog posts came out left and right about how Woodhull fucked up. Twitter feeds. SPREADSHEETS. We did our homework (financially uncompensated, of course). And like Tantus, the issues got shanked.
When a dear friend told me they would be attending Widener’s CareersCon this fall, all I could say was “WHY?” I have been so outspoken about how incredibly fucked up Widener’s Human Sexuality program is, to the point of telling new Masakhane interns every semester NOT to go and specifically why. My friend still went to the conference and unsurprisingly had a really fucked up experience. One of the newest interns for Masakhane is at Widener now and again, surprise, she is absolutely miserable and wishes someone had warned her.
I know I learned the hard way by making my own choice to enroll at Widener when I had three post-grads (two who were still teaching there to get out of student debt) tell ME not to go. But I didn’t listen. People listen in their own ways. I could shout from the rooftops how fucked up certain companies and communities and institutions and organizers are and what I’ve realized is sometimes people just need to figure it out for themselves and the best I can do is be here to support them when they get burned.
People who once tweeted about negative experiences with Tantus are still supporting and reviewing their toys. People who spoke out about their own negative experiences at Woodhull are already planning their trip this year. I know it’s not all cognitive dissonance. I know some of us REALLY do need the money, the connections, the networking, to get our names out there and sometimes we truly have no choice but to turn away from the truth for the sake of a clear conscience. But trauma happens. Over and over again. If you are not part of the solution you are part of the problem. We say that all the time but in the end, they’re just words.
In the last month I’ve quit drinking, seen a half dozen doctors, and spent time with friends/family. Am I still angry about Tantus and Woodhull? Yes. Am I angrier that folx who chimed in are RE-ENDORSING these companies? YES. Intersectionality is NOT a pick and choose practice.
Like Ericka Hart said, folx that retweet and reblog and talk about passing the mic to marginalized communities, think about how you do that. Who is at the focus? Is it still about you? What are your intentions and what power structures are you reproducing by your seemingly reparative actions? When you aim to support, are you doing it because it makes you look or feel more whole or are you actually unconditionally sacrificing something to a cause greater than you’ll ever understand?
I STILL meet colleagues going gaga over companies like Lelo or Bad Dragon not knowing their histories. Folx believing that they are woke because they know “other” companies like Adam and Eve sell shitty toys. We all have our measuring sticks of how aware and proactive we can be for the right causes. But the education forever needs to happen, and the communication is clearly failing somewhere along the lines if we’re still not all on the same page. I know I can only hold myself accountable but I also implore you in whatever work you do to do the same. I wholly appreciate bloggers and educators willing to organize their negative experiences for others to internalize and learn. Caz has some mindblowing spreadsheet skills. Piph has the “Shit List.” Lilly has a black list.
They’re all worth a read, even if I conflate my own personal issues with Lilly as she has been one of the reasons I’ve felt so unwelcome in the blogging world. I’ve had so many other bloggers tell me to please keep “that” under wraps even though they’ve also had similar experiences. I’ve had it out with Lilly time after time, so it’s not a matter of passively or aggressively airing out our differences in this post. She knows my issues with her. I’m not here to prove in minute detail all the bullshit she has put me through, but I will say that regardless of how rude Lilly has been towards me personally, her content is valuable and I’ve never second-guessed linking to her blog because it’s still one of the best out there.
I took this screenshot of my OWN content in 2016 because I knew I’d need it someday. Of course, I got shit on for violating #BlogSquad privacy. Left the Slack soon after.
My situation with Lilly is an example of how I assume a lot of these value-compromises and rationalizations go with bloggers or anyone in the fields of sexuality when folx realize one of their colleagues has an unsavory demeanor but also produces great content. I’m not supporting who she is but I absolutely support what she does. I think sometimes those two things CAN be mutually exclusive. But when it comes to institutionalized organizations where the privilege hides in passing the blame and never taking responsibility for harm, there is no distinction between act and identity. You are just an asshole and you don’t deserve my business. I WILL, however, scream angrily into the void even if I’m told I’m unreadable or unapproachable…if even one person reads this, it was worth the effort. I also just need to get all of this shit off of my chest because I’ve been harboring a lot of it for a VERY long time.
II. (Content Warning: Abuse)
As I’ve vaguely addressed in several posts, social media, in person, etc. I’ve been rocking some really complex PTSD since I was a small child. I systematically dissociate from it in a lot of ways, storytelling as though it never happened to me, completely forgetting it altogether, redirecting my frustrations elsewhere, drinking, getting mired in intellectual theory to keep my heart away from feeling, keeping friends at a distance, and even myself, reproducing similar harms onto others along my life path. I rock a long, LONG history of trauma, abuse, and sexual abuse with a consistent narrative of keeping quiet. When #MeToo started, I psychologically turtled my head so far inside myself I wouldn’t even check in with the news. But you know what? Me fucking too.
I still remember being criticized for wearing an "unflattering dress" before attending a play party with them. I remember them saying I was "hotter" when I was a ball of toxicity in college and never ate.
#MeToo for the constant bullying and sexual bartering in my brief years at public school for being gay, #MeToo for my ongoing sexual relationship with my eighth grade science teacher, #MeToo for my rapist in undergrad who went on to spearhead the Occupy Wall Street movement, #MeToo for my supposedly polyamorous queer kink triad which was just an excuse to psychologically and emotionally abuse me. #MeToo. #MeToo to my classmates at Noecker School (did I mention they set my backyard on fire and also egged my house en masse?), #MeToo Kyle Barniak (did I mention the headmistress told me to keep quiet about it so I didn’t “sully” the school’s reputation and then eight years later this happened?), #MeToo Patrick Bruner (did I mention his [sorry “their,” because apparently Patrick is an enby feminist now] dad was a fancy lawyer who tried suing me for going public about it and I got slapped with a restraining order and slut-shamed?), #MeToo Vyvyan (did I mention I still have every screenshot from the horrible things they said to the actual conversation where they admitted to cheating on me and our partner without protection?) OH and the kicker is that Vyvyan is STILL hosting burlesque shows and attending kink parties, just like they did when they were blacklisted from the NYC kink scene for being abusive to several members there. This is how it happens right? People we think of as leaders, as infallible, as responsible enough to own up to their mistakes, they fuck up, but we are still too traumatized to keep calling them out or to expect anyone else to outwardly support our efforts. That Safewords Won’t Save Us workshop from SFS16, that shit was so real.
Abuse, intent, malice, and self-preservation on a carceral level, particularly for folks in 24/7 d/s dynamics with a lot of clout. #sfsabuse
People will continue to take advantage of our silences by moving on to the next new thing, whether it’s a new dildo (perhaps exploiting gender non-conformity by calling it “they/them”) or a reworked accessibility panel (which STILL doesn’t financially compensate you for your work), or denying the history of a student-led protest (Widener, will you ever explain how the Town Halls REALLY came about?), whether it’s moving to a different town or a different community or brandishing an entirely new marginalized identity, whether it’s going on blogging hiatus or redirecting our attention to whatever new shiny insubstantial thing can distract us from the trauma… it’s all still there.
Scar tissue builds and builds until nerves get numbed and here we are, me rambling with the fear that I’ve triggered someone else’s traumas because that’s not my fucking intention but I still don’t understand HOW to talk about trauma. I’m just tired of being quiet about it. So yeah. This is going to be an entirely separate section of the post. Because while it flows well with the other two in terms of what I’ve been up to, it’s got me in an entirely negative, shaky headspace and I’ve realized I’ve been holding in my urine for three hours writing this so I need to back away for a minute. But it’ll all still be there. It never goes away. Unfortunately for a lot of you assholes out there who hurt me, neither do I. You don’t get my silence anymore.
III.
I can’t figure out the order I want to put these blog posts in (edit: figured it out). There’s the one on releasing trauma, the one updating all the beautiful things I’ve been up to, and the review post about companies I sincerely love. I think about all the educators who have done work on sex toys and trauma, especially (Sarah) Formidable Femme’s talk at the last Woodhull and how badly I wanted to go but couldn’t because Lilly was going to be there. Until January I was completely unable to even look at my sex toy rack because at least a quarter of them are either by Tantus or Godemiche (which is another fucked up company for its own gross and shitty actions and how they addressed them). But with time, process, and reflection, I have been using my toys more and more often.
I actually fucked my Tantus Rocket the other day with Mike’s help. I explained what the toy had meant to me and how afraid I was to use it or the implications it could have…how I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t gotten rid of all my Tantus toys to begin with, but then would what I do with them anyway? Donate them to Masakhane’s education chest with a huge laminate explaining the history of the company? Resell them on Reddit’s Sex Toy Exchange knowing that I’d be profiting off of a really fucked up company? I mean, I obviously can’t burn then because they’re silicone. I thought about repurposing them for something, but they’d still be providing me with some form or function tied to trauma.
Audre Lorde said “The master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house,” but I’m damn well gonna try.
And Mike helped me realize something…I could repurpose them, not by how I used them or what I did with them, but rather reclaiming them as my own. So I orgasmed with the Rocket. I came hard and I sobbed afterwards. It was a sob I had been holding in for so long, a sob I kept quiet and replaced with other sobs, but never one to mourn the feeling of being taken advantage of in such a specific realm of my life. I reclaimed that Rocket just like I’ll reclaim the rest of these toys. And that’s where my healing begins.
It is also unspeakably validating to have so many products from so many beautiful companies who not only give a shit about what they produce and how, but where their toys go, how emotionally, financially, and physically accessible these toys are, and overall just how deeply they value customers. Freud was a total fuckhead, but he pinged on a lot of really important points regarding trauma and pleasure. What Freud called a “death drive,” aka rather than a will to live/thrive a fear of death/pain. We live in a capitalistic world of fear, of consequence, of loss. Sometimes the choice to be fearless doesn’t go hand-in-hand with a willingness to sacrifice. Sometimes, as in the case of my blog, a willingness to sacrifice and lose everything isn’t so scary when it feels like there wasn’t much to lose.
But companies like Funkit, companies like Blush, companies like PeepShow, these aren’t just companies and dollars to me. These are people. Wonderful, insightful, brilliant and caring people. People who bring love into their work and spread that energy beyond the measurements of commerce. I’m in tears. I sincerely and truthfully adore these people. They took me in when no one else would. They checked on me so much over these last few months, supported me in any way they could, held the importance of my words, reached out about the specificities of my needs…I know it sounds vague and mushy but I am so grateful to be affiliated in the truest sense of the word with these companies.
Kenton sent me a Signet stimulation ring a few months ago and I still can’t get over how multifunctional this thing is. How many forms and uses and the kind of brain and soul that creates something so unique. I put it on a vibrator, I put it on my finger, I used it as a fidget toy for anxiety-provoking situations, I made music with it…the possibilities were and are beyond my understanding and for a human to make a creation like that is mind-bogglingly genius.
Blush’s lines, from eco-friendly to pride-celebrating, from community outreach to an intimate dedication to learn from customers…it’s a testament that a company can get “big” and still keep their hearts invested in growing a positive discourse.
For what it’s worth I REALLY enjoyed running workshops at the store.
PeepShow is near and dear considering the Jersey base. After working at a porn store which exclusively stocked products from East Coast News and Williams Trading Company, I got thrown in the deep end at a very young age with regards to parsing out crap products and crappier politics. I spent 6 years working at Essex Adult Emporium designing workshops and creating zines on how to be your own guide when it came to choosing quality toys. I moved to California to try and start a career with Good Vibrations in 2012. If I had just fucking WAITED, maybe I would have crossed paths with PeepShow sooner, but I’m just glad it happened at all. PeepShow has been so up front about who they are and what they believe to the point where if you go check their “About Us” page, they’ve retained the old mission to statement to show how they’ve grown.
THIS is how you do it. You don’t hide your progress, you keep it in the light for the world to see how the transformation happens. I know talk can be cheap, trust me, I was a total sucker for the PicoBong Transformer Manifesto (interesting that the manifesto has disappeared and it directly links to Lelo now) before I realized their parent company was Lelo. But PeepShow is real. Like, REAL real. And in this industry, being reliable and reputable for going the extra mile is a rare gem for growing companies. Blush, PeepShow, Funkit, they nail it. They find a way to make it their own and leave their unique mark. I’ll never be able to give them enough praise and I’ll never forget the lessons I’ve learned working with them. You folx have given me lemonade, and I humbly thank you for that.
IV.
Okay, fate has decided the order for these entries. I tried skipping back and doing the grammatical edits, considering which links I would incorporate, photos (if any), and had to catch myself for dissociating. There is a LOT of feel in this writing. There always has been. I’m known for writing this way, impulsively, off the cuff, vulnerable and honest to a fault, sometimes repetitive and perseverating. But fuck it. It’s me. And if there’s anything I’ve learned this year is that I need to keep being me. Time susses out where my value fits and how I can use it.
Thursday night I quit one of the worst jobs of my life with as much dignity and grace as possible, then came home to my snake, Princess Buttercup, dead in her tank. Mike and I just got a lead on a great apartment. I'm registering for my MSW courses. Life is intense rn.
My therapist told me in September to quit my shitty job, a job that refused to call me by my preferred name and pronouns, a job that processed me into a very awkward version of myself in drag for the sake of “Guest Service Appearances,” a job that exploited my education and expertise as a psychoeducational therapist by tossing me $12 an hour and pretending I didn’t exist otherwise. A job, I had been told by clients, coworkers, loved ones, and my therapist, that saw me as intimidating for what I knew, what I was capable of, and my different identities.
I quit drinking in October, partly because my therapist emphasized that the reward of a hard day’s work should be a self-actualized sense of accomplishment for “DOING THE THING” rather than external stimuli. Which is problematic, and I’ve told her so. I think a dichotomy of what rewards should and should not look like is a dangerous game to play, but so was drinking.
Tomorrow will mark my first official month sober from alcohol. Staying off Twitter has largely helped me quit drinking. I miss the connections but I also feel the support beyond social media. Thank you. Sincerely. Have a photo of me as a Pokeball for Halloween. pic.twitter.com/dNwI69Cf9V
I covered my bases before quitting. I applied (and got accepted) to the Rutgers School of Social Work, I searched for apartments with Mike and new adjunct faculty positions for the Human Sexuality Department at Middlesex County College, I had a shoulder procedure for a 16-year old SLAP tear, I welcomed a nephew into the world, I was accepted with Masakhane to present at this year’s National Sex Ed Conference in Newark, I reconnected with many old friends who nourished my soul, I bid farewell to my beloved pet snake, I finally booked my first HRT consultation at Proud Family Clinic RWJ Somerset, and as of today, I crawled back into this blog to say fuck you, thank you, I love you (not necessarily in that order or all at once), and life has been full of well, life. The full supermoon was in Virgo last night, and I’m trusting my instincts right now. I’m ready to release and regrow and I haven’t felt an energy like this since August. It’s time.
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.
