On safe sex toy storage

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I’m not an expert on sex toys. I have some, I’ve had others, and as a general rule I buy a new one every few months, then use it until either I or the guy I’m with is bored of it, or until it accidentally gets lodged somewhere it shouldn’t and we never use it again.

However, what I am an expert in is ‘inadvertently fucking things up to create maximum embarrassment for those around me’. So, to go along with the genuinely useful guides on safe sex toy storage and how to care for sex toys to make sure they last as long as possible, I thought I’d chip in with some tips of my own, based on a few choice fuck-ups I’d prefer not to repeat.

How to store sex toys so your Mum doesn’t find them

If you’re reading this, you should be over 18. However, as the housing market turns into a pit of howling souls and burning money, and thirty year-olds find themselves priced out of even the most basic rented accommodation, there are probably a fair few of you who live with your parents. Should you find yourself going away for a protracted period of time, heed rule 1: lock your sex toys away in a safe place.

A good friend of mine went away to University and failed to heed this rule. A month or so into the first term, she got a phone call from her mother.

“I found something under your bed. It’s a battery-powered thing.”

“Oh, really?” She panicked. “I… umm… what were you doing under my bed?”

“Tidying. But don’t worry, I didn’t throw it away…” Pause for dramatic effect. “I cleaned it and put it back.”

Cleaned it.

Now, there’s nothing inherently wrong with having a relationship so close that your mother feels it’s OK to clean your sex toys, but this clearly was not one of those relationships. My friend’s level of embarrassment was so high that she dedicated the next weekend to a round-trip home so she could sort and dispose of anything that had previously been into contact with her vagina.

I’ve had similar panics myself – not from my own Mum, who would no more go through my drawers than she’d read my dirty sex book, but the mother of an ex-boyfriend of mine, who once found an item that we’d stored under his bed.

She never mentioned it to us, so we were spared the conversation. I could probably have coped with a “hide your sex toys better” conversation, but my fear was that the object we’d hidden might spark the far more excruciating “what exactly is this for?” question. We only knew she’d discovered it because, when he returned from his trip, not only had it been wrapped in a carrier bag and pushed right to the back, but she’d also hidden one of her own – ahem – personal items alongside it.

In case you’re wondering what the toy in question was, it was this.

How to store sex toys so your nosy flatmates don’t find them

You might think that, having moved away from home, you wouldn’t have to worry much about this stuff. No one’s going to come into your room and insist you pick your knickers up off the floor, and nor are they going to root around in your bedside drawers to see what’s inside.

You would be reckoning on housemates that were not like Steve. Steve (obviously not his real name) was a housemate I had at University. He was the kind of smarmy arsehole who would listen through paper-thin walls when you were having sex with someone then complain loudly in the morning that you had disturbed his sleep. How did I know that he listened through the walls? Another of my housemates told me, because he had been bragging to that housemate that holding a glass to the wall and listening to some of the things I got up to was “much better than paying for porn.”

‘Flattered’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

One weekend I nipped back to my hometown for a couple of days to recharge my batteries by drinking gin with my Mum and caterwauling showtunes with her into the early hours of the morning. Unfortunately, being a trusting soul, I had neglected to clear away the toys I’d played with the night before I left, and there was something sitting relatively exposed in the middle of my bed.

When I returned home, Steve greeted me with a smug smile.

“That money I owed you – I left it on your bedside table,” he smarmed.

“Umm… OK. Why didn’t you leave it on the kitchen side, like we always do?”

“I just… I thought it would be safer in your bedroom.” There was a long pause, while he grinned even more greasily, and I knew exactly which question was coming next. “That thing on your bed. What exactly is it for?”

It was one of these.

How to dispose of sex toys so your neighbours don’t find them

I was raised on a diet of lentils and The Guardian, so I’d always aim to recycle products if I can. However with sex toys this has been limited to taking the batteries out and putting them in one of those recycling bins you find in supermarkets.

I don’t really know how you go about recycling them responsibly. Perhaps I could just collect them, then glue them all together in some sort of fucksculpture for my living room. If I get enough, I could create a sex toy throne to sit on as I watch porn, reveling in all the rubber cocks I’ve vanquished during wanks past.

But when it comes to proper sex toy recycling, I’m at a bit of a loss. What I can tell you for sure, though, is that you should absolutely not seal them into cardboard boxes with a pile of other un-recyclable rubbish then leave them out overnight for the council to collect.

It turns out that:

a) the council is not as efficient in collecting stuff as they promise on their website and

b) mysterious boxes sealed and placed next to your bins are infinitely tempting to thieves.

I came home one afternoon to find ripped boxes and bin bags all over my front lawn, and jelly cock-rings and vibrating butt-plugs strewn liberally across the pavement. My humiliation was almost complete – all I needed was for a concerned neighbour to slip a note through my letterbox asking: “what exactly is this stuff for?”

UPDATE: if you do want to recycle your old sex toys, the excellent Nymphomaniac Ness has published a fantastic guide on how to recycle sex toys. Please do check it out, and make sure that your wanks have as low a carbon footprint as possible.

On speed wanking

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The average adult reads at 250 words per minute. That means that the average person will read this blog post in under three minutes. As you’re reading that online, most of you will naturally read faster than you would if you were reading print, potentially skimming through a few sections of text as you skip ahead to particularly fascinating subheadings.

Frantically rubbing my clitoris

As you read this post, I want you to imagine the stage you’d be at if you’d started masturbating at the beginning. During the first sentence you opened your fly, pulled down your pyjama bottoms, or lifted your skirt and yanked your knickers to one side – whatever best fits your own masturbatory routine.

By now you’re about ten to twenty seconds in. For some of you, you’ll be in the ‘early arousal’ stage – just starting to get wet, or hard, or tingly, perhaps licking your fingers or reaching for the lube to speed things along.

Others might get there a bit more quickly – you’ll have graduated beyond the initial fumblings and be furiously frigging yourself, making all the delicious slick-wet or dry-rub noises that you most associate with this pleasurable past time.

If you read at the average speed, we’re now about thirty to forty seconds in.

If you’re me, you will have come already.

Speed wanking, and why I’m a bit odd

As a child I was a big fan of the film Grease. Big songs, big hair, and John Travolta in a tight leather jacket – what’s not to love? Somewhere in that film there’s a line about sex taking “just fifteen minutes.” Because I was young and inexperienced, I took this not just as a casual joke but a cast iron biological fact with the result that, during my teenage years, I was beset with occasional bouts of intense worry. I thought that either:

a) I wasn’t doing wanking right, because it was taking me between 30 and 45 seconds to come, and that if I kept doing it for longer I’d experience a ‘proper’ orgasm. This didn’t work too well, because too much wanking post-orgasm caused me much sadness and occasional intense pain. So the only other possibility was that:

b) I was a biological anomaly, and when I eventually got into bed with a man he would scream and run as soon as the first waves of orgasm twitched around his totally normal, 15-minute-ready dick.

The grass is always greener in someone else’s pants

Now that I’m an adult, I’m pretty used to my personal body quirks, and although things naturally take me a bit longer when I’m shagging, as a general rule my wanking has remained pretty quick. Thirty seconds, give or take.

I don’t usually think about it but the other day I had a conversation with a guy in which he told me – in exquisitely growling and lustful detail – about evenings he spends treating himself to extended masturbation sessions. These are the opposite of 30-minute wanking sprints – they last from when he walks in the door after work to when he finally ejaculates at bedtime. Porn, more porn, toys, slow rubbing on the sofa, frantic bouts of near-orgasmic frotting, pausing just before he comes, breaks for coffee, cigarettes and phone calls. Everything you’d do if you had all the time in the world and nothing but your genitals to play with.

I’m sad that I can’t ever really enjoy the kind of extended sessions guys like him have told me about – edging for hours until they’re ready to spurt at the lightest touch, or calmly stroking themselves to a plateau of not-quite-coming as they enjoy a particularly horny video. But even when I try to do this I fail miserably. If I watch porn (which I do, although probably not as often as people who are conoisseurs of it) I’ll watch it for about five minutes, find a section that I really like, then immediately initiate the frenzied clit-rubbing that’s so speedy and loveless I can almost hear the Countdown theme tune in my head.

It’s not that I hate wanking and need it to be over as soon as possible, or even that I’m biologically incapable of drawing it out. I wonder if it’s because when I’m alone and horny,  spending longer than is strictly necessary feels like a disgraceful and guilty indulgence. If it took me half an hour to come I’d feel that was half an hour well spent. But if it only takes 30 seconds, spending longer on it might seem a bit excessive. Like preparing a gourmet meal when I’m not hungry, or wearing high heels to do the gardening.

How long does it take you?

It’s a nice trick most of the time – I don’t know many people who could pop the kettle on then guarantee they’ll have frigged themselves to orgasm by the time the water’s boiled – I’m not complaining as such. I just wonder if I’m the only one. Perhaps I’m walking through a world where most people spend two to three hours a week on masturbatory self-care, in which case I’ll kick myself for being the overly-efficient robot who bashes them out in less than a minute, never stopping to truly enjoy the build up.

If you made it to the end in less than three minutes: congratulations on your reading speed. If you went back to the beginning and started wanking to see if you could finish before the last full-stop: well done, and I’m sorry it didn’t contain more filth. And if you managed to both read it and orgasm in less than 30 seconds, perhaps we should start a league.

Someone else’s story: How to sext

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I think words are hotter than pictures. Words are spectacular things which, if you can bend them to your will, can make someone pant with desire or puke with disgust. Not everyone agrees: some people prefer images or films, but for me nothing quite competes with words.

Sad, then, that despite the fact most of us have devices in our pockets to send filthy words to lovers whenever we like, so many people forget the power that words have, and end up throwing out any old shit that just happens to be in the ‘dirty’ bit of the dictionary.

Today’s guest blog comes from a blogger after my own heart – SeasideSlut explains what dirty words do to her, how to use them best, and – crucially – how not to sext. If you like her post (and why the hell wouldn’t you?) check out her blog and follow her on Twitter for more.

Why sexting is hot (and how to sext well)

I’m an avid bookworm and lover of language, so I am very appreciative of the beauty and power of words. Combine that with my filthy nature and you get an overflowing porn bookshelf and a serious weakness for a well crafted ‘sext’.

When I was 16 I used to regularly buy and sell secondhand CDs from a mail order firm, and somehow managed to graduate from a friendly covering note to lengthy, explicit exchanges with the guy who ran the company. It was such a thrill opening the latest parcel to see what he’d written and I’d tantalise myself by re-reading his notes over and over. It emerged that he was more than twice my age and married, so it never went further than that. But ever since I’ve regularly used my imagination and vocabulary to get people off, and often they kindly reciprocate.

For me, the key is paying attention to the details, because it makes the image you’re trying to create so much more tangible. Which is more erotic?

“I want you to put your cock in my vagina LOLZ!”

or

“I’m lying on my back, stroking my slippery pussy lips apart right now, thinking about you. I want to trace my bare foot over your chest, watch your nipples harden, stroke them with my toes. I want to watch as your cock head slowly eases into my tight, hot little hole; listen to you groan as you push all the way in… my cunt is aching to be stretched and filled by your delicious hard dick, I bet it feels so fucking good…”

Of course there are pitfalls. You can’t see or hear your correspondent’s reaction to your messages. They might be eating their dinner or trimming their toenails while you imagine them writhing in lustful paroxysms. They might respond with a exasperated tut to the 50th cock picture you’ve sent them, rather than the moist glee you hope for. Or you might say something that actively turns them off and because you can’t see their look of horror/disgust/boredom, you carry on down that ill-chosen smut avenue and just make it worse for yourself.

I’ll take this opportunity to share with you some choice sexts I’ve received – these are of the unsolicited chat up variety from male admirers (spelling mistakes left intact):

“Do you have any Celtic interests, dark arts or any connections with north Spain, the Kings of Europe or romatic inclinations outside of the norm? Who knows where we may have met before.”

“hi i like tits”

“I quite like the way you’ve shaved your delectable cunt in a kind of Hitler style, it’d be worth the occasional journey to inspect it. I’d like to try and velcro various items to it as well, then pump you hard from behind, ripping them off at the moment of mutual orgasm, with the inimitable sound increasing the satisfaction beyond all measure.”

“Hey babe I know I’m young but I just want to say I thing your gorgeous for your age look at most 34 year olds they te ugly as guck and you aren’t babe xx”

“when I look at you I see a horny slutty cunt who needs a rock hard cock, I want you grinding my cock while I suck, bite & nibble on your big tits. But when it comes down to it, I might not be able to carry it out. That is why I prefer to do and not say what I will do.”

“do you work? my guess – a Model for lads mags? ;-)”

…I could go on. I don’t suggest that sexting is an alternative to experiencing the reality (although sometimes it can suggest a reality that will never actually exist). But I do think it’s important to remember that the brain is the biggest sex organ we all have, and by exercising it we can achieve unbelievable pleasure. If that wasn’t true, why would I repeatedly orgasm while I dream, with no physical stimulation at all?

So there you go – SeasideSlut‘s guide to sexting. I couldn’t agree more that brains are sexy. Although I’ve never been as confident on sexting as she clearly is, so I’m going to practice composing a sext or two of my own. If there’s one thing sexier than a brain, in my opinion, it’s using my brain to give a guy an erection on his way home from work. If you’ve any sexting suggestions, leave a comment. Crowdsourced boners are a good thing, right?

On electricity

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I’m not talking about the sparks that fly when you meet the eye of a hot person across a crowded room: this is about real electricity. Sparks and stimulation of the purely physical kind.

There’s a type of sex toy that used to utterly terrify me: electric sex toys. The idea of these is to use electrical current to produce sensations – either for pain, pleasure, or a shuddery mixture of both.

I’m a wuss

Some people are adventurous types: the kind who’ll suggest drunken skinny-dipping at midnight or taking drugs then listening to albums backwards. Because I don’t want you to get the mistaken impression than I’m exciting, I should tell you that I am not one of these people - I’m the sort of twat who ruins adventures by asking about health and safety.

So when I was first introduced to electric sex toys, at an erotic convention many years ago, I was initially reluctant to even hold them in my hands, much less to let someone hold them against my cunt. They put an electric current through you! Like… plugs! I’ve always been told not to put my fingers in a plug socket, so I assumed that shoving a livewire inside me might be a bit of a bad idea.

I didn’t realise what I was missing out on until someone decided to push my fear a bit further than I’d thought they would.

Brace yourself

It was a bright sunny afternoon – not the kind of atmosphere I’d normally look for in a terrifying BDSM scene, but you get what you’re given when it’s real life. I was roasting hot, as was he, as were all the other people in the room we played in. I won’t tell you what the full scene was – that might be for another day – but in the microcosm that existed over in one corner, this guy had me strung up by my wrists, frilly dress lifted to my waist, naked from hips to toes.

He circled me in a deliciously menacing way, and tightened the rope that was keeping my arms in the air. It stretched and creaked, and I ended up standing on tiptoes to try and balance. Doing a series of less-than-graceful semi-hops to stay in control, I was pretty nervous about what he’d do next.

Then he blindfolded me.

I love blindfolds. I love the anticipation of what might happen next – what might be happening already, that I just can’t see. When all I can do is hear, everything sounds like fun. That swishing sound – was he getting out a whip? Was he removing his belt? The footsteps – is he coming round behind me? Then suddenly – the rough feel of his hands all over me, pulling down the top of my dress and pinching my nipples. Touching me all over. Slapping my face.

“Do you trust me?”

Yes. Obviously.

“Do you want me to hurt you?”

Oh God yes. I wanted him to wield a whip – lashing my legs and arse as I staggered to keep my balance. I wanted riding crops, straps, belts, whishing-slapping sounds and stinging pain.

But, being an experienced dominant – as opposed to someone I could easily wrap around my stroppy little finger – he didn’t give me exactly what I wanted. He introduced me to something new.

“This might feel… unusual.”

Then I heard a sound that was somewhere between a click and a crack. No ‘whish’ to announce the arrival of the pain, just a snapping sound and the immediate rush of a stabbing tingle high up on one of my thighs.

I leapt away from him, my tiptoes carrying me as far away from where I thought he was as possible: tripping, nearly losing my balance, trying to take the weight on my wrists and force myself back into control. He circled me for a bit longer, and I turned round to try and work out where he was, where the next shock was coming from.

“Did you like that?”

Yes. No. Wait, maybe. Do it again.

Crack. Tingle. Why was it hot? It was hot because it was so different. So… odd. And because I couldn’t hear where it was coming from. I was blindfolded, nervous, off-balance, and completely at his mercy.

Where he touched me my muscles clenched, and I felt even more off-balance. I don’t know if it was to do with the pain or the spasm, but he’d clearly chosen well. For this position, with me balancing precariously and trembling uncertainly, this toy was the perfect thing to knock me off-guard. The whack of a crop was expected. A belt last would be something I could anticipate and push back against. Given my determination not to fail him I could probably even have taken cane strokes. But electricity? Twitching? Forced tingles and that weird static crackling sound? That was too much. I wobbled, and tripped, and felt the rope biting into my wrists as my legs gave way.

I loved being beaten, being fucked and used, but I very rarely lost control. By using something completely new and different, this guy made me do  just that.

Fuck me with power

It’s not necessarily about the physical sensation: after we’d finished he let me play with it, pressing those weird static crackles into the palm of my hand. They sounded loud, and tingled a bit, but didn’t hurt as much as I thought they would. The toy itself clearly had way more bark than bite.  The sensations and the joy and the fear running hot through my trembling legs was clearly about the power. Using something completely unique gave him much more power over me.

The one time I got to turn the tables and use an electrastim dildo on a willing gentleman, I made sure that the physical sensations were way more than just an aside. With insertable electric sex toys, the focus is more on what the electricity does to the muscles. The way it twitches them, contorts them, and allows you to bend someone’s involuntary actions to your will.

As the guy lay on the bed, myself and an electrastim expert hovering over him, he looked up at me with very wide surprised eyes as his ass twitched hard and tight around the dildo we’d plugged him with.

“Oh… umm… fuck.”

“Good ‘fuck’ or bad ‘fuck’?”

He paused. Twitched. Turned his big eyes on me again. I reached to turn down the voltage.

“No no no. Good fuck.”

I turned it up.

By the end of the day we had him weeping with a cross between joy and misery, exhausted on the bed yet denied an orgasm, head spinning with all the things we’d inflicted on him. It was a different kind of control – being able to move his muscles at will. But as not all of it’s strictly electricity-related, I’ll leave that story for another time. For now I’ll leave you with the mental image of me, naked from the waist down, lashed to the ceiling by my wrists, sobbing “thank you for doing that weird, weird thing” as my kind dominant friend planted kisses on my neck.

Pain is hot. But so is power.

If you want to do this stuff yourself, you can grab an Electrastim starter kit or if you already have a control unit, here’s the ElectraStim dildo I think was used on the guy in my second story. But please read all of the instructions and don’t come crying to me when you run up a massive electricity bill.

On why absence makes the heart grow fonder

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This is a weird one because I’m writing it while the subject is in the next room. Sitting in his pyjamas, frowning at the mysterious black box of web code while he does magical things with his fingers that make the internet happen.

When we’re together, we watch TV. We paint walls, we count pennies, we laugh. And, of course, we fuck.

He’s good at touching me. He touches me all the time – playful slaps on the arse when we’re making dinner, a casual grope while we catch up on Game of Thrones, kisses and sly strokes that end with his hand down the back of my knickers, warm and soft against my arse.

If I wanted to, I could walk through into the next room to touch him right now. But I won’t.

I’m crap at affection

Despite being a filthy girl, keen to be used and abused, I’m not so great at touching. While I’ll happily sit and stroke someone for a while, or get comfy in the crook of their shoulder as we watch TV, I reject casual affection the way you’d swat away a mosquito.

Fuck off, I’m busy.
Don’t touch me, I’m eating.
Cooking.
Doing the washing up.
Just… get your hands off me. I feel trapped.

Because I associate hugs and affection with a certain kind of choking panic, I anticipate that every hug I enter into could end up siphoning five minutes of otherwise productive time out of my day. I’m an idiot, of course – if affection and touching were as terrifying as my knee-jerk reaction tells me it is I wouldn’t have spent half my life in bed with guys who make me cry with orgasmic joy.

And yet I look for escape routes. I watch the clock over his shoulder. I forget that, actually, I do really enjoy this when I can just shut my brain up for five minutes and settle into it.

The hotness helps my brain do exactly that. A cuddle for the sake of a cuddle brings on trembling and twitching – an unnecessary and irrational this-isn’t-getting-the-bills-paid panic. But a sly hand down the back of my jeans, cupping one of my arse cheeks and pushing two fingers’ worth of knickers into the crack of my crotch? That’s distracting. That’s fun. That’s the button I need pushed before I can sigh relief and hug back with enthusiasm.

An absence of affection

As I say, I could touch him now if I wanted to. I could wander into the next room, strip to my underwear, and slide his laptop off his knee. I could straddle and fuck him on the squeaky sofa, pushing my nipples into his face and reveling in his delighted moans.

But I’m not going to do that, because the anxiety tells me that I shouldn’t be fucking, I should be working, and affection can wait until later. It can probably wait until tonight, when we’ve both clocked off. Sadly then I might not be in the same hungry-horny mood: the waves will have subsided and I’ll be back to pushing him away, twitching at his deliciously warm hands teasing my cunt while I’m trying to cook dinner. At the time I won’t regret it – I’ll see myself as the sensible one, She Who Shan’t Be Distracted, who Gets Things Done.

It doesn’t really matter today, when he’s nearby, but when this blog goes live on Sunday, I’ll be far away. Creeping hands and playful slaps will be replaced with curt texts and joky emails, and all the ‘Miss you’s and ‘Love you’s that I forget to say when he’s around. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it also makes the brain realise what an incomparable prick it can be when it has everything at its fingertips.

I won’t be able to walk through to the next room to touch him. I won’t be able to bury my face in his stomach and tell him he’s delicious. I’ll feel, but be pathetically unable to articulate, just how fucking stupid I am for knocking him back day after day. His hands won’t be on me, and I’ll have all the time and space and independence I am usually crying out for.

And because I’ll have it, I will hate it. And I will miss him.