Monthly Archives: October 2015

Re-use, reduce, recycle?

I must admit that being called upon to arbitrate disagreements about the etiquette of sex toys is both flattering and a little unnerving.

I’m actually not a huge fan of sex toys. I don’t object on principle, mind you, but just out of the general haughtiness that comes with easily-orgasmic privilege: I don’t decorate cakes with fondant flowers, because the real things are lusciously, inimitably gorgeous (nothing compares to a candied violet), and the artificial ones are lovely to look at but overwhelming when taken internally. However, I’m in full support of arming oneself with whatever trinkets, baubles, and foot-long vibrating buttplugs help you and your loved ones get their respective rocks off.

My Inquiring Friend is a completely middle-lane level of slutty, as far as I know. That is, he dates women, and, I assume, has sex with them, but he’s not Wilt Chamberlain or one of the interchangeable Kardashians (whom I’m pretty sure just tag each other in as necessary to finish whatever gangbang they’ve begun).

His question was disappointingly ordinary: what’s the etiquette about using sex toys with more than one person? (Sequentially, that is, not “at a time” – that’s clearly covered in our last episode, with the takeaway being “don’t touch anyone currently being tortured pleasured by the cattle prod unless you’d also like to feel like you’re escaping the bounds of the dog run.) I think the answer, for anyone who has had sex with more than one person, is crystal clear: wash the item appropriately[1] and feel free to use it on someone else, just like you do with your genitalia. (It is good practice to take the extra step and sanitize the dildos and other insertables; however, dousing your genitalia in sanitizing solution or running them through the dishwasher is not recommended in any situation.)

I vaguely remember reading a variation on this question years before my life pendulum swung from “French vanilla” to “everything and the kitchen sink”-flavored. Unmemorable anorexia-inducing-women’s-magazine-advice-columnist-lady advised that if you were going to delve into the world of exotic and titillating adult novelty items with your partner, the good and decent thing to do is to dispose of those tainted ben-wa beads with the burning embers of your love screeds and extinguished hopes and dreams when your relationship crashes and burns off the end of lover’s lane.

Inquiring Friend noted that this practice would get expensive quickly, particularly if you invest in quality playthings. I concur: No one buys a new set of china after every time you have dinner guests, even if you do have that friend who won’t refrain from dipping his balls in the gravy boat. And although *I* host an inordinate number of dinner parties, anyone who has more than an occasional soiree would be wise to invest in quality dinnerware and care for it appropriately so it serves you well for many years to cum. Besides, up here in the Pac NW we recycle everything, and I don’t think you can put old dildos in with the mixed paper and metals (and they are specifically excluded from the separated-glass bin, you-don’t-want-to-know-how-I-know-that). So re-using is good for not only your partners but the PLANET, amirite?

The interwebs tell me, however, that in lesbian relationships, re-using toys from one relationship to the next is completely anathema. A particularly disturbing quote from one Q-and-A observes that “[a] lesbian couple’s dildos become suffused with the energy of the sex in the relationship and end up symbolizing the sexual connection the poor doomed couple had. They belong to the relationship.”[2] (Just – wow.) I suppose I can see the logic in picking out a special new phallus to be the best kind of hush-baby third in your otherwise-monogamous lady relationship (but only if you get to name it together – I propose “Agamemnon”). Then, when the union goes sour and lesbian bed death sets in, you can blame it on old Aggie before hooking up with a new lover and trading in for a younger, more enthusiastic model of purple glittered faux-cock.

**Please bear in mind that I have equivalent experience being in a monogamously lesbian relationship as raising bees (both popular pursuits in Portland I have no interest in taking up), and do not hold myself out to be an expert on either – my etiquette recommendation is only aimed at straight(ish) folks with a slutty level of at least .69.

But you wash your ankle spanker and re-use it on your next partner, don’t you, gentlemen? Why wouldn’t it be equally appropriate to re-use clean, genital-shaped implements, assuming they aren’t crafted out of the ashes of previous girlfriends’ dead Chihuahuas or bedazzled with their initials? And that they aren’t infused with – well, anything, really, lingering-ex-energy or otherwise.

I recommended buying some dedicated sex toy cleaning solution and keeping it with whatever arsenal of insertables and inflatables your bedroom chest contains. Then, when showcasing the wares, you can ensure a sterile, cat-hair-free penetrative-assisted experience together. And if you decide you’re sticking with this new fuck-hole for a while, maybe you can buy a special new friend together to enhance the collection.

My answer seemed to satisfy Inquiring Friend, but this brings up a new quandary: I need a witty sobriquet if I’m going to be arbitrating these kinds of dilemmas. Emi-lay Post? Miss Man-hers? I’m sure my punnier friends will, ahem, rise to the occasion.

[1] Do note that properly cleaning and sterilizing sex toys is dependent on the material of the toy. Shitty sex toys that can’t be sterilized don’t belong in any orifices, period. Just as cucumbers are a one-and-done kind of item, when in doubt, throw it out.

[2] Savage, Dan. “Can you use sex toys in more than one relationship?Village Voice, 5 Feb 2008. Web. 28 Oct 2015.


Rock me, shock me, roll me through the night

We’ve met up in a city that neither of us live in for a big, slutty club party, with a ridiculous aquatic theme featuring a sperm whale looking for love. (These parties must make more sense if you’re on mushrooms, which, alas, I am not.) I know the party organizers, and can expect to see a smattering of familiar faces (and breasts), but mostly, we’re on the same level of anonymity with this crowd. The notable difference, however, is that I’ve been to dozens of these parties – a few in this town, most in my hometown – and I know generally how the cocktail shakes. He’s a slutshow rookie, but has aced his tryouts and has been an all-star in the regular season, so I have high hopes for his performance in the postseason.

We haven’t seen each other in too much time, so once we meet up in the bar, we essentially slam our pints and make for the fresh king sheets. The hotel is old – it reminds me of the kind of joint that 1950s traveling salesmen would’ve called home when hustling a few days in the big city. Its décor has been freshened up, but not its soundproofing: you can hear virtually everything from the next room, particularly if you open the closet (something that eventually disproved our theory that a family of leprechauns was living in the safe). I’m not quiet normally, and with the pent-up separation pangs I give the local spankoff theatre a wank for its money. But I figure that at 4 p.m. I should be pretty safe to moan as enthusiastically as I like without attracting much more than a bemused underage bellhop, so I throw caution to the wind.

We “catch up” for about an hour before we figure it’d be a good idea to clean up, make a cocktail, and then take care of our administrative duties: check in for the afterparty and acquire wristbands, meet the neighbors, say “hel-blow” to our organizers, and see where all the rest of our slutty friends have been roomed. As he takes the first of seven showers (turns out sex really IS great cardio), I scroll through the FB group, where our fellows have been posting their room numbers and explicit pre-fuck pre-func invitations. One post in particular sets the tone for the night: “We’re in 509. WHO IS IN 508?! :)” … uh, yeah. That would be us.

About three minutes of silence pass before there’s a knock and request: “Hey! Can we come in? We just thought we NEEDED to meet our neighbors….” Two amply-bosomed ladies – one blonde, one ginger – and their enthusiastic escort sidle into the foyer and introductions are made. Promises are exchanged to get to know each other more later, after bourbon is consumed and costumes are arranged. Eventually, after business is attended to, we do another few rounds of warmup throws, and head to the club to check out the rest of the talent pool.

By 11:40, I’m over the boots-and-cats scene and have about 3 minutes of teetering on heels left in my screaming soles before they revolt and refuse to ambulate. We pop into a Lyft with the neighbors and head back to finally start the main course. They’ve come vastly more prepared than we were: their room, at the far end of the hallway, is now effectively a discotheque. (Why didn’t we think to bring the portable strobe and speakers?!) Everyone mills about for a while before someone finally relieves someone of some clothing and it’s Game On. The statuette for “best mastery of a skill that will get you laid” went to the fella who could effectively make each lady squirt like a drinking fountain in an average of 90 seconds. (The award for “biggest asshole moment in the orgy” went to the last lady in line, who sprayed so vehemently and copiously that she was able to get up and shake like a Labrador to share it with the other half of the room, too.)

Neighbors have also thought ahead to bring a boutique’s worth of sex toys, from floggers to vibrators to double-ended dildos. Winning for “most terrifying moment” was when one hauled out “the shocker,” which is unsettlingly Exactly What It Says On The Tin. Apparently, following Rule 34, some insane fuckers actually like being stimulated by a tool that roughly approximated the feeling I experienced when foolishly repairing the dryer without unplugging it first and enjoying a healthy jolt. One touch of that was enough to propel me off the bed completely, especially after re-learning basic high school science principles like “everyone being shocked by this thing will conduct a charge” after being unpleasantly surprised by a casual stroke to my partner’s business areas. Get me fucking out of here, stat…

By this point it’s 3:13 a.m. and I’m flagging. My partner in crime still wants to taste all the jujus in the candy store, and I tell him he’s welcome to go explore without me, but that’s not really how it works… he makes the effort but is politely refused without his companionate set of tits, and claims to see the wisdom in getting a few hours of sleep before checkout and departure to our cities of origin.

He wakes me up at 6 a.m. with a passable cup of coffee and a gigantic hard-on. Thank god these parties are only quarterly, or I’d have to work on my equestrian lingo to explain my perpetual saddle gait. We’ve got five hours to checkout, and we’re going to fuck the marrow out of each of them.

A little less conversation…

Knowing each other for around two years, now, it’s only appropriate that after eating special cookies and watching Bob’s Burgers for two hours our date devolved into a conversation about whether we’d eat our own amputated toe.

On our first actual date, we went to one of those horrifically hipster shall-we-shag bars. It was the kind of place that served upscale-twee drinks with punny literary names, cramming sweaty-palmed hormone-buzzing millennials into uncomfortably rustic bench seating. As the buzz amplified around the hopeful romantics, we slipped into a peculiarly easy, if borderline psychopathic, conversation.

Unfortunately for the wholesomely-vanilla-looking couple dripping desperation six inches to our right, our chatter revolved around current events. I’d spent the evening before with a charming couple I see frequently, and somehow our pillow talk had devolved from “best methods of canning homegrown tomatoes” to the recent disappearance of a twenty-something female hiker. Around Oregon in the summer, that kind of thing isn’t extraordinary, but the circumstances of this one were peculiar even for the Northwest: she had wandered off from a meditation-yoga retreat at a hot springs (not unusual), wearing not a shred of clothing (getting weirder), without a compass or any other piece of wilderness survival gear (unheard of in this part of the world, where the Boy Scout gene is dominant). Somewhat unsurprisingly, she was never seen again, sparking our disturbing speculation about the details of her demise.

Now, Couple and I had determined that, best case, the Meandering Meditator died of exposure and the scavenging animals made quick work of her locally-sourced, grass-fed flank steak and chops; worst case, she wandered aimlessly until she collapsed or injured herself, before bleeding out agonizingly or dying of shock. First Date, however, snorted derisively that we had been far too limited in our creative ruminations about her end. Within sixty seconds, he’d outlined a much more Saw-worthy plotline involving rabid lupine dismemberment and a cannibalistic inbred family of kidnapping skullfuckers. I had to admit that, in fact, his was a much worse worst-case scenario.

As per usual first-date briefing, I did explain at some point my custom and policy that I don’t let anyone come home with me until I know him or her well enough to believe my date won’t gut me like a Steelhead – impulse killers are much less likely to off you in their own digs, considering quicklime so rarely goes on sale at the Home Despot and crawl spaces fill up so fast, even if you chop the hookers into pieces.

Nonetheless, the following Saturday found me recovering from a raucous pre-Thanksgiving rumpus (involving three deep-fried turkeys, 70+ revelers, a few hours of no-holds-barred Sinatra-dancing cleanup, and hair-pulling sex with a virtual stranger in the man cave, no pun intended) and gearing up to go hiking with First Date… three hours from civilization. I didn’t even bother bringing weaponry…the ripping hangover ensured that dying sounded like a perfectly acceptable way to end the evening.

Two hours into our drive, my inherent tendency towards carsickness amplified by the alcohol-sweating nausea, I finally insisted that First Date pull the car off right now and sent the remains of at least one turkey off to be salmon snack. The intermission gave him the opportunity to discover that we had, in fact, been driving for about 15 minutes on a completely abandoned service access road rather than the “main” one-lane road heading to our target hot springs. (In retrospect, the hangover was probably the only thing that kept me from panicking, hog-tying him to a tree, stealing his car and hightailing it to the nearest ranger station with tales of my attempted kidnap/murder.)

We did eventually make it to the completely abandoned hippie hot springs paradise, spending a glorious evening naked in a handmade, private outdoor tub. And, as evidenced by last evening’s baked conversation, I made it home with all of my body parts still connected, despite stopping off at a roadhouse straight out of Deliverance for some chicken fingers on the way back to civilization.

Which leads us to our latest inappropriate date fodder. This has followed a conversation about the various body detritus and excreta that one can consume from one’s own body, on a sliding scale from “boringly normal” (hangnails, boogers) to “fetishistic” (urine, feces, scabs) to “frankly impressive” (your own come, if drunk directly from the source).

“So, you’re having a toe removed – an extra toe, a sixth on one foot, that has always given you trouble, but that isn’t diseased or anything. Do you eat the toe?”

Now-long-ago-First Date goes on record: “Yes. BUT with the necessary caveat: in response to your question, I would say yes, I’d eat the toe, but it never would have occurred to me if it had just been a situation that, you know, just happened to me. Without you having put the thought that toe-eating was a possibility in my head.”

Riiiiiiight. Because I’m the one who’s the bad influence here.