Who Am I?
An excellent question to ask on the first ‘normal’ Monday morning after the Christmas/New Year holiday! I am SilverdomUK, a 58 year old pansexual CIS white male. I am also physically disabled. I mention that because it is relevant to this review. I am husband and SadoDom to SilverdropUK, a 46 year old CIS white female.
I should say right off, with some reservations, that I like it. The packaging is refreshingly original and amusing. The stroker itself just looks ‘right’. The silicone doesn’t feel at all tacky, and seems strong. There is almost no smell from the material.
Now for the Fun Part – Eventually
I’ve used this sleeve four times at the time of writing – twice successfully. The first two times were solo sessions and, despite plenty of lube, I couldn’t get the sleeve over my penis. This was frustrating, but I thought it might be due to my arthritic hands struggling. My wife helped me during the next two sessions, and we were able use it as intended. I should quickly say that it brought me to orgasm both times, so it’s doing something right! The design makes it comfortable to hold – either by the penis owner or any helper.
While I do not pretend to be hung like a porn star, I do have a particularly thick penis. This seems to be where our struggles to use the sleeve stem from. It felt borderline uncomfortably tight, and I was careful to ensure the inner knobs didn’t touch the exposed head of my penis – I’m uncut – as that was too much sensation.
This sleeve is easy to clean because it is easy for someone with non-arthritic hands to turn it inside out for washing. Top marks there.
The OffBeat Grande sleeve brought me easily to orgasm, but only when I used it with a partner. Other users with a thicker penis might find it problematic – as I did. As a disabled user of this sex toy – and disabled people DO HAVE SEX – I can only give it 2.5/5. If I were able bodied I would give it 3.5/5 as it not being stretchy enough to accommodate a thicker penis is an issue.
We are delighted to welcome Ella Scandal back to our blog with a delicious bit of fiction for Wankuary!
Toby is working out. Right here in the front room. His yoga mat is on the carpet, his dumbbells are in his hands, and his eyes are fixed on the trainer on the TV screen. I know this DVD as well as I know my favourite movie, I’ve seen it almost as many times. Going by the current segment, he’s been at it for almost an hour but he’s showing no signs of slowing down. Total powerhouse.
As usual, my arrival doesn’t warrant even a two-minute break. He just grunts and half raises a weight in my direction as I skirt his mat and slither onto the sofa. It’s been a while since I just sat and watched him. Usually, I’m up too. Lighter weights, heavier breathing, but giving it as much effort as he does.
As I watch Toby curl a weight toward his shoulder, a memory flashes in my mind. Last time we did this session together it went, quite literally, with a bang. The scents and sounds in the close room make the moving images in my head seem all the more real. The smell of old leather, the tang of a glucose drink, the hint of fresh sweat. Fast paced music, gruff trainer yelling encouragement, Toby’s grunts of exertion.
I was just about to eat lunch, but my appetite has forsaken me. Well, the appetite for food has. Now I’m hungry for something else altogether. I’m not going to tell Toby, though. I’ll let him figure it out for himself.
Shifting around on the sofa, trying not to make too much noise, I reach for my zipper. The metal stings my cold fingers, but I manage to get it all the way down. Already, my cock is uncoiling behind the navy-blue cotton of my boxers. It’s so warm down there. I run my hand over the semi-hard lump behind the fabric, straightening it out, massaging it, making it grow.
Any other day I’d watch it harden, watch the tip push, lift, then peek out over my waistband. But today my eyes are all over Toby. When I’m turned on, I seem to develop a kind of hyper-focus, and I see so much more than I usually would. Bluish veins bulging in Toby’s biceps. Sinews straining in his neck. Sweat running down the side of his face and his knuckles turning white.
Fuck, I wish he would turn around and notice what I’m doing. I know that he would abandon his training if he caught sight of me rubbing my hard cock through my boxers. I tug on it, squeeze it, instinctively know that the tight stroke has forced a few drops of precum out of my slit. Another stroke and I’ll probably feel it. Toby loves precum, almost as much as he loves full on spunk. He likes to smooth it over his lips, coat the inside of his mouth with it using his tongue.
With a bit of shoving and jiggling, I get my hand fully down my pants. I was right, plenty of precum that’s now streaked up my forearm. Shivers make me shrink away from my own hand when my fingertips skim over my balls. I tickle them, move them around, give them a little squeeze. A few sharp pulls on the pubic hair that covers them makes the base of my cock pulse and my arsehole twitch.
It’s a sensation that reminds me of how it feels to have Toby slap my balls. Arousal fucks with the chemical balance in my brain, making something that should cause me untold pain bring me closer and closer to euphoria. He hurts me, tortures me, and I fucking love it.
So much so, I forget that I’m supposed to be having a stealth wank. I lift my bulk from the sofa, yank my jeans and shorts to my feet then throw myself back down. The leather creaks, the crap on the table beside it rattles, but I don’t care anymore.
I see Toby glance over at me, do a double take, then match the rhythm of his lifts to the music again. He’s smiling, though. A filthy little smile that turns my insides to liquid and my cock to iron. I close my eyes, knowing that he’s going to keep stealing peeks, that if he manages to hold out until I shoot my load, I’ll be the receptacle for all of his pent-up frustration later on. My arse aches just thinking about it.
Breathing is becoming a struggle. I’m gagging on my own gasps, choking on my own cries. My shoulder is burning, my wrist is aching, my cheeks are clammy with tears. Toby loves that I cry when we fuck and I’m sure he’s gone quiet because he’s watching me.
I can feel it. Everything is tight, I feel like a coiled spring that needs to be released. I do need it, I want it, I’m shaking with it. Even if I wanted to hold it back now I couldn’t, it’s going to come spilling out of me, covering my hand, my wrist, my belly.
It’s pulsing from deep inside me, my body is wracked with ecstatic sobs. I know I’ve come on the sofa, on the floor. Somehow, I’ve even managed to jizz in my own face and hair, too. I’m covered in it and I can’t stop myself from sighing in contentment and sinking further into sticky leather.
Toby is laughing quietly. Smiling, I open my eyes, expecting to see him standing on his mat, watching me. But he isn’t. He’s right beside the sofa, shaking the last few drips of come from his cock. Ah. So that’s how I got spunk in my hair.
I have a long history of wanking under my belt, so to speak. I started noticing that touching myself felt good at a young age, and since I am an older gentleman I didn’t have the advantage of the internet to help satisfy my sexual curiosity. So like many other young men I found my inspiration in the pages of a department store catalogue, specifically the lingerie pages. Now you wouldn’t think these could be that inspirational, but you would be very wrong. To my youthful eyes pictures like this were the closest thing I would see to a naked woman for a few years and so I would take the latest issue from the tray at the bottom of the TV stand (A black and white TV to give you an idea how long ago it was) into my bedroom with the race car wallpaper for a bit if personal time with my penis.
This kept me occupied until a neighborhood friend showed me a copy of Playboy that they had nicked from their Father. That was eye opening and provided me my first look at a fully naked adult woman, that fired my imagination and kept me warm on a lot of cold winters nights. My friends Dad was obviously quite the perv because other magazines quickly followed, Hustler, Penthouse and now I had not only seen naked, but also actual sex. This led to a lot of wanking and a lot of stiff socks (Hey, we all did it) because for some reason that seemed like a better option that getting a tissue and putting it in the trash. I’m going to go with, I was ecologically aware and you can choose to believe me or not.
Pictures like the one on this cover stayed with me for a long time and possibly brought me to an important wanking aid, lube, well not lube exactly because it was the dark ages and lube was not something you could ask your mom to put on the weekly shopping list. But TV came to my rescue and showed me something that we might already have ready at hand. Johnson’s Baby Oil.
This was a revelation because as a horny circumcised young man I was finding that just using my hand was causing a bit of… chaffing. Look this was before the internet or cable TV even existed I had a lot of time on my hands and so like many people wanking was a good way to spend that time.
Then I had my first sexual encounter where the number of participants was greater that one. I liked it, I liked it a lot. We pretty much did it every time we were even vaguely near each other. But, that doesn’t mean I stopped wanking because there was also remembering the sex I had just had once I got back home and my first experience of using technology, the telephone. Now we didn’t have it easy like the kids do today when I say a telephone I mean this.
Our telephone was downstairs in the “Rec room” and had a very long cord that while it wouldn’t reach into my bedroom would reach into what was known as the “Powder room” and as teens were often known to do we spent hours talking on that phone. Well, when I say talking I really mean having phone sex and wanking, she was very good at it, or at least that is how I remember it, I had nothing to compare it to and it was all very exciting. One thing I am sure of, even if she didn’t say so, was that my mother had to be grateful that the days of crunchy socks were over!
Life moved on and so did my first sexual partner and while there were many other partners there was also always plenty of wanking. Eventually I got married and had children. But marriage doesn’t mean the end of pleasuring yourself and so while I didn’t do it as much as before I certainly never quit and now I had cable television which brought more adult content right into my home. I put it to good use. But there was something new that none of us expected, a stunning innovation that revolutionized the world and brought a whole new way of showing sex and sexual desires. The internet!
Now the web didn’t leap into existence no matter what the youth of today might think. The early days meant hours of tying up the phone line to download something that maybe kind of looked like porn if you squinted.
It is a marvel that people were willing to spend so much time and, or money to do this, but we did and because we did you folks have unlimited access to all kinds of depraved filth that we could only dream about. I must have used hundreds of the free ‘100 hours of internet’ from AOL to download (yes download, streaming was not a thing over dial-up) pictures and stories and eventually movies (anyone else remember Usenet?)
Many years have passed since those heady early days of the World Wide Web and while lots of things have gotten worse, access to wanking material certainly hasn’t. And my life has changed as well, I have kids and also Grandkids. I got divorced and re-married, I have had a lifetime of changes and adventures, some good, some bad. But even as I get older I have found that wanking has not changed that much for me other than I don’t do it alone. I have a partner that greatly enjoys seeing and participating in good a wank and that brings a whole new level of fun and excitement to something that after all these wanking years you would think would have become dull and boring. But it has not, so I say to all of you men out there, whether it be nearer the beginning of your adventures in masturbation, or like me you are a more mature wanker, enjoy every bit of the journey and give yourself the pleasure of a good old wank if and when you feel like it. As the saying goes, no one knows you like you know you.
Who am I?
First a little about me, I’m sub-Bee Keeper, a 39 year old straight male. I’m partner, photographer and tech support for my gorgeous sub-Bee.
I’ve had some experience with male masturbators, my first being a glow-in the-dark Fleshlight and then a set of Tenga Eggs. It’s safe to say I have mixed feelings about them. I’ve also had a play with the Godemiche OffBeat Venti which I loved so I was excited to get my hand… literally on the Grande.
About the Off Beat Grande
It’s a soft silicone sleeve that’s 3 ¾ inches long and has a circumference of 6 inches. It came packaged in a cardboard tube, this is where I have an issue. The Grande seemed to be slightly sticky to the touch which meant that, after taking it out of its packaging, it was covered with small cardboard fibres. Thankfully, these sleeves are so easy to clean, just run them under warm water with a little soap.
Now for the fun bit…
I applied a liberal amount of lube to the opening of the sleeve, slid it down my penis and began masturbating. The extra length the Grande has is a definite improvement allowing my whole hand to hold it. The ridges on the outside made it comfortable along with preventing it from slipping out of my grip. The texture on the inside of the sleeve, even though it is made from a soft silicone, felt fantastic as I could feel the firm “nipples” along my shaft and around the head of my cock.
As mentioned before, the Godemiche OffBeat Grande was simple to clean. It can easily be turned inside out so that both the inside and outside can be washed under a running tap.
So, on to my verdict. Apart from my slight reservations regarding its sticky feeling it is a definite improvement over other sleeves I have used. The design and sensations of the OffBeat Grande are fantastic and it is definitely a sleeve I would recommend to others. My score would be 4/5.
Get a glimpse of the OffBeat
I thrive on a lot of attention. Thankfully my man understands and delivers. Here is one of the many times I was hoping for a good fuck and got one.
We were on holiday without my date night clothes or make-up – just a red lipstick. All of our ropes, whips and sex toys were at home. Except for a green butt plug I always keep in my toiletry bag.
We did have one other thing on our side: imagination.
Knowing my place
Just when you think your sex life can’t get much better, it does, and you are left reeling at your good fortune in finding someone so in touch with everything you do…
Lipstick applied, I glance in the mirror. My skin has a sun-kissed, healthy glow so I choose white lacy knickers, matching bra and white shirt to complement my tan and head out to the kitchen. Smiling appreciatively at the sight of me, he serves dinner accompanied by a bottle of local sparkling wine. Delicious.
Afterwards, while chatting, he stares intently at me with his dark brown eyes. My heart immediately begins to race. Removing a rope fixture from the curtains he secures it around my neck with a cable tie (never travels anywhere without them). It feels tight now it’s in place and my breathing quickens in anticipation, but I know I can cope.
Leading me over to the sofa, he removes my shirt and pushes me to kneel. There’s a large wall-mirror hanging in front of us. Standing behind me he lowers the cups of my bra so the wire pushes my boobs higher. The effect is stimulating to us both. Then, as he pulls back on the rope around my neck, my tits are thrust even further forward. Before I have time to take in the sexy reflection, my knickers are yanked down and legs splayed apart. Fingers find my warm moist spot and intrude.
“Fucking slut, you’re as wet as can be,” growling in my ear.
He lifts his hand and firmly spanks my arse. Then his belt lands with repeated cracks on my bum and back. I scream, lowering my head into the rear of the sofa in pain. But I want more and inhale deeply as his cock enters me. I’m pummelled forward into the sofa cushions as he fucks me hard and fast for his own enjoyment.
Yanking me back by my hair he forces me onto my knees. His cock rests at the entrance to my mouth and I lick the tip. Our eyes lock and he taps the right side of my face with the palm of his hand. I know from experience this means he wants me to carry on, slowly and gently.
“Good bitch,” he sneers.
Taking it up a gear he secures my mouth firmly on his dick and vigorously propels forward. I begin to gag and splutter, he responds by smearing my cheeks with his saliva smothered cock.
I push my face into his stomach in an attempt to regain composure but am reminded of my place and ordered into the doggy position on the carpet. He’s behind me now, tongue between my legs, licking my clitoris and caressing the entrance to my cunt. Then he steers it into my anus. I moan out loud. This always gives me a small shock of pleasure because of its taboo nature.
He asks where I want him to put his cock next. The fucking was so good earlier I reply,
Grabbing the butt plug he slowly and deliberately presses it in my arse. Then pulling on to the tie around my neck, he enters my pussy, swiftly. My juices are flowing as he pushes in deep. Experiencing that bittersweet sensation when a man thrusts forward a little too far, I cry out, but he just shafts me more, spanking my arse cheek with each thrust.
“Fucked in both holes, you dirty whore,” he goads.
The feeling of fullness from wearing a butt plug increases the intensity of the fucking and I teeter on the verge of a climax. But adrenaline is pumping through my veins. At times like this sometimes it’s impossible to find a release.
He falls back on to the sofa and pulls me to him, pushing my head onto his cock. I massage it with my lips and tongue, as he sits back into the sofa cushions and relaxes. Very calmly he spurts into my mouth and down my chin, exhaling slowing.
Pulling me up to face him he kisses me passionately and tells me how much he loves me.
“Thank you for letting me have control of your incredible body.”
I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes knowing I am just where I need to be.
I’ve always struggled with belonging. It’s part of what makes me, me, I guess… a constant suspicion that something isn’t right about who I am, or what I’m doing, or even why things happen in my life. Yet a much larger part of me, frankly, doesn’t care how uncomfortable I am and acts in complete defiance of those thoughts.
Understanding womanhood has been no different for me. I am a woman, a beautiful, resilient, strong one, but finding my place in womanhood often comes with challenges, ergo my appearance, my attitude, my strength and career, and an often perilous unwillingness to give up in the pursuit of improvement and happiness.
In the real world, I’m a transgender active duty service member, so I must disclose to you, readers, that the opinions expressed in this article are my own and do not reflect the view of the Department of Defense or the United States government.
As a federal employee, the intent of the proposed transgender memorandum written by the Department of Health and Human Services effect me personally. Despite having changed my gender completely on every legal document discerning of who I am, I’ve become increasingly at risk of losing that identity by a crusade set on seeing me removed. First they came for my career and now they come to erase the possibility of my existence in the first place by removing ‘gender’ from the equation. It’s easier to get rid of something when you kill the roots and all of that.
So, perhaps the most inclusive form of womanhood that I’ve experienced so far has been the consistent attacks against it.
The first time I realized this was in a pretty big way, when my white, male doctor tried to warn me that by taking “women’s hormones”, specifically, as a “man taking women’s hormones”, I’d go crazy, yet, he vocalized that how supportive he was of me being transgender and of me transitioning. He couldn’t explain “how” I’d become more crazy, and finally found a way to vocalize his concern by saying “Well, you know how women are. You’ll be like that.”
It hit me like a slap to the face I guess. I wanted to ‘be like that’, I looked up to women and prayed about being just like them, in every possible way, for so long. His perception of women was that, as a normal, they were crazy. This was just a different way to say that ‘women are hysterical’ by someone who I thought ought know and care more, someone educated and privileged and, in that moment, directly and ideologically in charge of my wellbeing. He didn’t stay my doctor for long after this.
One of the more surreal experiences was the loss of friendships. Coming out wasn’t hard for me, I did it one day during roll call pretty early after the Air Force’s iteration of guidance for transgender service members, and for all intents and purposes, it was a positive experience for me. There was a very small scattering of disparaging comments from some of the more brazen civilian employees, but not a single one of my brothers and sisters made me feel unwelcome, with a bare minimum of inappropriate questions that were handled in a professional, calm manner… that is, until many months later when they felt emboldened.
Twitter has, a lot of the time, brought to me some of the best friendships and joy I’ve had in my only sort of young life. So it came with a lot of sadness when I saw a tweet by my oh so loving elected leader from this favourite social community of mine that I was suddenly and abruptly ‘not welcome, capable, or worth being’ in my career. I was pulled into an office that morning to asked, as all good First Sergeants do, if I was okay and if I could work or needed time off. I could work, but of course I wasn’t okay.
Not all of my once supportive coworkers remained supportive. “Well, of course he’d ban it. If you’re born with a dick you’re a man, why should the taxpayer be responsible for you to cut off your pecker?” was the very first comment I heard about it, said someone I never expected. More of this said differently with the same underlying meaning from increasingly empowered bigots followed and it wasn’t very clear to my supervision how to handle it, except from my section lead, who put an immediate stop to any and all comments once she overheard an argument from someone who supported me and someone who didn’t. She didn’t care how powerfully they felt about their opinions, I was to be treated with the same respect I had before and that was that, except that it wasn’t. What had been said was said and there wasn’t going to be take backs later, they weren’t disciplined and I was moved somewhere else where the animosity couldn’t be felt in the air.
These people have mostly been silenced in the greater public voice. Uniformed leadership understands that there isn’t room to treat me with disrespect and adversaries are denied a public forum to talk about me negatively to their begrudging dismay, but I’m constantly reminded that the threat looms just around the corner, or that it’s ‘only a matter of time’ for them to be given the freedom to be hateful.
I’m stronger than them, though. I will continue to outlast and stand in defiance of hatred by doing my job and performing at a level that isn’t easily matched by others. I mean, you know how women are, don’t you? If you don’t, this is how we are… we’re strong, capable, and we persist through an existence of continued hatred. Our bodies are constantly being debated by the court of public opinion and courts of law if they even belong to us, our minds are thought to be inferior and our opinions don’t really matter.
This battle, for me, continues here with the Department of Health and Human Services’ transgender memorandum. I am a tall, muscular woman. Taller than most men and certainly built stronger, yet, my body continues to confuse these people who hate me. I face increasing discrimination by the powerful and people temporarily in charge and the discomfort for myself and, certainly, others continues daily. I’m doing the things that need to be done by being the positive metric, but we still need help. Gender exists and cannot be stamped out overnight to further support an agenda that says womanhood is only about your vagina or chromosomes and being a man is all about having a cock. That it’s something that can be defined.
This isn’t just about our bodies. For me, it’s been about overcoming my adversaries and fighting for our rights. It’s been about being ignored, denied, ridiculed, shamed, and so many others. It’s been about living in fear that I won’t get to decide who or what I am, but, it’s also been about being understood by other women. Having my concerns shared and plights acknowledged. Transgender women are women, and transgender men are men.
Get out and vote. We can and will win this fight together.
The author of this piece declined to take the payment for writing this blog post and so we made a donation to a charity of their choice which was Transequality.org
We are delighted to host another piece of deliciously sexy erotica on our blog. This time we are welcoming Quinn Rhodes to our site with her story of summer holidays and swapped suitcases.
Not every summer holiday features golden sands and turquoise seas.
Sometimes it’s about booking a last-minute flight north, and a brand-new suitcase full of books and sex toys. I needed to get away for a bit, and the peace and quiet of the barren islands appealed. It didn’t hurt that it was cheap, either.
Most, though, don’t involve you grabbing the wrong bag at the airport.
The plane that had flown us there was tiny, as was the airport we arrived in. On reaching my hotel room, I found that the red suitcase I’d taken was older than mine: battered, worn from travelling. It’s not that which alerted me that it wasn’t my bag, though. It was the fact that when I opened it and reached for my Doxy – which should be on top, wrapped in a t-shirt and ready for me to christen my home for the next few days with an orgasm – it isn’t there.
They usually include changes of plans…
Plans to spend the week in my hotel room, getting over my break up with frequent masturbation and science fiction novels quickly vanish. While I can get off with my fingers, there’s not the same variety as fucking myself with different toys. Thus, I end up venturing out into the small town. Standing stones, buried settlements… I’m glad my camera was in my hand luggage. It’s been a while since I’ve tried my hand at non-erotic photography, but the beautiful landscape quickly helps me regain my skill.
… but they don’t often feature detective work.
I can’t help looking through the other suit case I’ve ended up with, just once or twice. I tell myself I’m looking for clues, in the hope I can spot whoever has taken my bag in the cobbled streets. The denim jacket covered in pin badges is helpful in that respect. A ‘Queer As In Fuck You’ badge, a Hufflepuff patch, a badge declaring that it’s wearer uses them/they pronouns, and a non-binary flag pin. These make me like them, as do the non-toxic, body safe toys in the case. There are sketch books as well – I flick through them quickly, wishing I could justify examining the drawings more closely.
They probably shouldn’t involve wanks with sex toys that aren’t yours.
I don’t mean to use the toys; exploring keeps me busy, and photography gives me something to focus on. But neither satisfies my desires, and after two orgasms and an evening of audio porn my fingers aren’t enough to push me over the edge a third time. I borrow the ultra-violet pink and silver-grey Adam dildo, slip a condom over it, and give myself a generous squeeze of lube. I fuck myself hard and fast with the toy, and come with a drawn-out groan, picturing that they were watching me squeeze my cunt around their dildo.
Very few people end up meeting a real-life cute-as-fuck genderqueer Teddy Lupin on holiday –
I call the airline, who inform me they’ll get in touch when they track down my luggage. When they contact me the next day, and I carefully repack the suitcase and lug it to the airport, I know instantly who I’m meant to be meeting. They’re wearing dungaree-shorts and stripy tights and have a pencil stuck behind their ear. They have short, tousled, green-blue hair – which they later describe to me as Teddy Lupin turquoise – and a clusterfuck of freckles. The biggest clue, of course, is that they have a red suitcase at their feet.
– and even fewer end up making out with them two hours later.
When you know there are sex toys in the cases you’re exchanging, it is easier, somehow, to get over any awkwardness. A few minutes of conversation, complete with punning and complimenting each other’s taste in sex toys, leaves me feeling warm and I ask them if they want to grab coffee with me. We continue talking, swapping stories and teasing each other. Soon they’re grinning and making me blush as they tell me sternly to put my purse away and insist on paying. They ask me questions and I end up sharing kinks and fantasies that make me squirm in embarrassment. And before I know it, they are pressing me against the brick wall of the alley beside the coffee shop and sucking a hickey into my neck.
Summer holidays frequently include fucking, sometimes even of the kinky kind.
They insisted on dinner that night, though I’d have happily turned the alley-way make-out into more straight away. They make me scarlet with gleeful shame and dripping wet with the words they whisper to me. We negotiate and flirt and laugh and work out what we’d like to do together. Humiliation and orgasm control are not topics that I feel comfortable about in such a busy place, but the gleam in their eyes tells me how much my stumbling confessions are turning them on. They pour filth into my ear while holding my hand as we walk back to their hotel, and the door has barely shut before they’re ordering me to strip.
However, I’m pretty sure getting pissed on by someone you’ve known less than 48-hours is slightly more unique.
I’m not sure that sleep happened that night. They fuck me with their strap-on, telling me I cannot come. They tie my hands behind my back and make me watch while they fuck themselves with their Godemiche dildo I’d used the other day, then make me use my mouth to clean it. When I lick my lips to taste all of them, they decide that I should use my mouth to make them come. Later they sit on my back, pressing my face into the pillows and jamming a powerful vibrator against my clit so I come – not once, but three times, until my body is shaking uncontrollably.
It takes a brilliant perv to bring a bicycle ride with a butt plug into your holiday.
They persuade me to come with them to visit the tiny chapel built in the 1940s. Partly because I want to spend more time with this funny, clever artist who fucks me so well, and partly because they tempt me with the idea that I could take some naked photos of them, I agree to hire bikes for the adventure. And agree to wear a butt plug while we ride down. I feel the plug push deeper inside me every time I cycle over a dip or bump on the single road and blush every time they grin knowingly at me. They examine my cunt when they remove the plug before our naked photography session, and tease me for being so wet.
Maybe no other summer holiday will ever end with your panties in your new fuck buddy’s suitcase, not to be reclaimed until you meet them in a few days, when they’ve promised to stuff them into your mouth and lead you back to their flat gagged with your own underwear.
I can’t wait.
I love having a cunt.
I deeply, sincerely do. I love its versatility, having a G-spot and an A-spot and a clitoris to experiment with and flit between, like having different handbags for different occasions. I love the way it looks, shaved and silky smooth or shrouded in dark, curly hair, encased neatly in lacy knickers or spread open in front of a mirror. I love its resilience, its elasticity and the strength with which I can clench it. And, of course, I love being able to clench it around fingers, penises and toys, and experiencing a whole buffet of different sensations.
It just so happens that I also love playing at having a cock.
I’m non-binary, and my gender identity and gender expression both fluctuate wildly. They exist outside of a linear scale from “masculine” to “feminine”: for example, sometimes I’ll dress in a tank top and shorts from the ‘Men’s’ section of a clothing shop, but with a full face of makeup to set it off. This fluidity means, among other things, that I don’t necessarily want to permanently change my body by transitioning in the ways a binary trans person might, and that I have no problem with keeping the cunt that I love.
It also means that I find it affirming and arousing to play with dildos.
The most obvious example: on a masculine-of-centre day, strapping on a dildo that’s a similar tone to my own skin and gazing down at it makes me feel a whole lot more at ease in my body. Watching someone sucking on said dildo, while their movements grind its base against my real-life clitoris, is almost unbearably hot. Getting to fuck someone with a strapped-on dildo – making them moan and gasp and clutch at the bed-sheets – fills me with a sense of power and strength that feels, in that particular setting, intensely masculine and intensely sexy. Add in a toy in my cunt, moving with each thrust (and strapless strap-ons are fantastic for this), and I can imagine it’s a real-life cock I’m fucking somebody with, until I come and collapse on top of them, shuddering with pleasure.
Playing with toy cocks isn’t always as straightforwardly masculine as that, though. A lot of the toys I own are less phallic and more abstract, and are typically pink or purple or ornate glass – traditionally “pretty” and, by extension, traditionally “feminine” – but that’s no bad thing. When I’m feeling more feminine, toys that are ornate and pretty can feel like a luxury to masturbate with, and can even aid age-play style fantasies wherein I’m all girlish and helpless. Similarly, if I’m feeling feminine and having sex with a girl, I can fuck her with a pretty toy in a harness (which is great for added closeness and sometimes for more forceful thrusting), or in my hand (for added dexterity and precision, and for focusing all my attention on her). Pretty, “feminine” and abstract toys can add to the joy of lesbian sex: they come in a broader range of shapes, producing a broader range of sensations, than imitation penises do, and they contribute to the unique joy of having sex with somebody whose gender is close to or the same as yours, rejoicing quietly in your shared femininity.
I have also used pretty, “girlish” toys on masculine days. Sometimes, I’ve used them simply because I’ve wanted a quick and strong orgasm, and I’ve ignored their appearance for the sake of enjoying the particular spots they might be able to hit (or, on occasion, built their appearance into a fantasy about having stolen the toy from a cute girl’s bedside drawer and needing to wank and put it back before she finds out). Other times, I’ve used them in humiliation scenes with a trusted Dominant, either inside my cunt or strapped on, to toy with the vulnerability I feel when I’m having sex in a more masculine head-space. Humiliation and condescension turn me on like little else, so having my cunt played with (and, often, my nipples tortured) while my Dominant mutters things into my ear about me “coming all over this pretty little pink dildo” will reduce me to a puddle in no time at all. Naturally, scenes which involve gender-related stuff can be more or less vulnerable and “edgy” for different people, depending on their own experiences of gender – but I’m fairly comfortable in my own fluidity, and very secure in the knowledge that my Dominant understands and respects my non-binary identity. And, if it ever gets a bit too close to the bone, I can always use my safeword and revert to a much more gender-neutral toy, like a black wand vibrator.
And therein lies the joy of dildos and vibes: there are literally hundreds of them out there, in different shapes, sizes, colours and materials. You can build them into fantasies and into sexual encounters however you like, meaning that there exists, in theory, an infinite number of ways to have sex involving a toy (or toys!), on your own or with a partner (or partners!) and alongside whatever kinks you practice. If you’re imaginative, or just plain slutty, you can make any toy suit any kind of gender expression, and you can have some excellent sex no matter what your gender identity may be.
[First, a quick note on terms: I am a queer, cisgender woman and am writing from that perspective. However, I have used the term “vulva-owners” and gender-neutral pronouns in this piece as much as possible in order to be more inclusive in my language. Not everyone who has a vulva is a woman, and not all women have vulvas!]
Strap-on sex is amazing. I love both giving and receiving penetration with a strap-on, regardless of the gender or genital configuration of my partner. But how can you get the best out of this often misunderstood sex act?
Let’s Bust Some Myths!
“Queer women who want to be penetrated with a strap-on are actually straight.” Nope! The sex acts you engage in (or the toys you use) have precisely nothing to do with your sexual orientation. A queer-identified person who wants to be vaginally penetrated with a strap-on isn’t secretly wishing they were having sex with a cis man, I promise. Orientation is based on who you do the things with (or don’t,) not on the things you do.
“Using a big dildo will stretch out my vagina permanently.” Again, no. Vaginas are muscles and muscles are pretty incredible things – they stretch and then spring back to their original state. No sex toy – or bio cock – can permanently stretch your vagina.
“The person doing the penetrating doesn’t get any pleasure.” In my experience, this is absolutely not true. There are all kinds of ways to ensure the penetrating partner gets pleasure too – some harnesses have little pockets where you can put a small vibrator to stimulate the wearer’s clitoris, and you can even get “strapless strap-ons” (think the Feeldoe) where one end sits inside the giver’s vagina while they penetrate their partner with the other end. (Note: I do not recommend these for beginners as they’re more difficult to use and control than standard strap-ons.) There’s also pleasure beyond the physical. For me, the “thud” of muscle on muscle as I fuck my partner, and the sounds and expressions of pleasure they make, are hugely gratifying in and of themselves.
Now that we’ve got those out of the way, let’s move on.
Picking the Right Gear
Godemiche recently published a fabulous piece on picking the right harness so do check that out. Personally I recommend picking something comfortable, adjustable, and with the ability to change the ring size so that you can use different dildos with it.
The next step is choosing your dildo. There are four main things to consider:
- Body safety! You want a non-porous and non-toxic material. For a strap-on dildo, that means going for pure silicone. Buy your toys from a reputable manufacturer or retailer, not on eBay or Amazon!
- Size. I recommend starting small if you’re not used to being penetrated regularly. You can always work up. Another option, if you can afford to, is to buy a selection of dildos of different sizes to play with.
- Texture. Some people love being penetrated with textured dildos – think ridges, bumps or realistic “veins”. Others, like me, find it painful. If in doubt I recommend starting with a smooth toy.
- Base. Your dildo needs to have a wide enough base to hold it securely in your harness. Look for words like “flared base,” “strap-on compatible” or “harness compatible” in the product listing.
And finally, don’t forget lube! If you’re using a silicone dildo, you need a good quality, water-based lubricant. Even if you or your partner produces a lot of lubrication naturally, a little extra can’t hurt and will help prevent any bad pain from happening. I recommend Sliquid.
Now the Fun Part!
Okay, you’re all set and you’re ready to have some strap-on fun! I hope these tips will help you and your partner get the most out of the experience.
First, try to take the pressure off yourselves. The goal shouldn’t be for the receptive partner to have taken your biggest dildo up to the hilt by the end of the night. The goal should simply be for you both to have a lovely, connective, sexy time together.
I don’t like the term “foreplay” (the acts we usually refer to as “foreplay” are part of sex!) but for want of a better term, it will have to do for now. So: plenty of foreplay. Start with cuddling, kissing, making out and touching each other until you’re both really turned on. Some people like to have an orgasm – or several – before being penetrated at all. If that’s the case, you can do hand sex, oral sex, play with toys, or masturbate together.
When it’s time for penetration, positioning is important – and what’s comfortable will depend on the size, shape and ability level of your bodies. I’m quite short, so I like to kneel between my partner’s legs and use a pillow or two to lift their hips up, giving me better access to their vagina. You can also use a piece of sex furniture such as a Liberator wedge, if that helps – this can be particularly useful for those in bigger bodies or with limited mobility. Other positions include the receptive partner on their back on the bed while the giving partner stands; missionary; doggie; or on your sides in the “spooning” position. Let your imaginations run wild and position yourselves in whatever way feels natural and comfortable.
You may need to guide the dildo into your partner’s vagina manually. Don’t be afraid to do this – better to have a little help from your hand than to go in at the wrong angle and cause them pain. Slide inside slowly at first, and give them time to adjust to the sensation.
The main tool you need is, of course, communication. Don’t be afraid to communicate verbally before, during and after strap-on play. You don’t need to carry on a full conversation during (unless you want to!) of course, but using your words is an important and underrated skill. Phrases like “How does that feel?” “Are you ready for me to go deeper?” and “Please let me know if anything hurts” are really useful for the penetrating partner. And phrases such as “Harder,” “Slow down a bit” and even “Can we change position, my leg’s going to sleep?” are useful if you’re the one being penetrated.
Try different types of movement. It’s not all about pounding! Try thrusting, try moving your hips in circles while your dildo is inside your partner, try moving the dildo very slowly just a few inches in and out, and try holding still and having your partner clench their vaginal walls around the dildo. Pay attention to the reactions you get and, again, communicate.
Let’s Talk About Orgasm!
The vast majority of people with vulvas do not experience orgasm from penetration alone. This doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong, and it doesn’t mean they’re broken! If you’re struggling with this, read Emily Nagoski’s amazing book, Come As You Are. In general, I don’t recommend making orgasm your main or only goal, because goal-oriented sex tends to feel too pressured to be fun. However, if the receiving partner would like to try to reach orgasm during your strap-on play and doesn’t get there just from penetration, you’ll need to introduce some clitoral stimulation. (Even if orgasm isn’t necessarily your aim, lots of people really like having their clitoris stimulated while they’re being penetrated!)
Rub your partner’s clit with your fingers while you fuck them, or have them touch themselves if they prefer – or you could use a vibrator, from a small bullet vibe right up to a mains-powered wand. Whatever feels good for you both, do it. Some people will want you to thrust hard and fast as they get close to orgasm, and others will want you to stop moving and just hold your dildo inside them. The only way to know your partner’s preference is to ask and to follow their body language, so do that!
What if it goes wrong?
In sex, as in life, sometimes things won’t go the way you want them to. Perhaps the receiving partner experiences pain as soon as you try to penetrate them (if this happens regularly, see a doctor.) Or perhaps you just bump their cervix or go in at slightly the wrong angle and it hurts. Perhaps everything’s going well, but one or both of you just can’t quite get off. That’s okay! Things might not go perfectly, the first time or any subsequent time. The key to good sex isn’t everything being perfect, it’s learning how to roll with the punches and adjust.
Good sex should never hurt unless it’s consensual, safely applied pain. So if it hurts, stop! Receiving partners, listen to me: please do not endure pain because you think it’s what your partner wants. No-one who loves you will be okay with hurting you in a way you don’t like.
Try not to see needing to stop or change something as a failure. You’re exploring each other’s bodies and this new activity. If you need to switch position, switch position. If you need a break, take a break. If you need to stop and do something else… you see where I’m going with this. Everything that goes wrong is a learning experience. With tonnes of mutual respect, affection, good communication and emphasis on consent, nothing truly terrible is going to happen – promise.
Congratulations, you’re done! I hope you had a wonderful time. Now have a long cuddle, tell your partner they’re awesome, and sterilise that dildo! (Boil it in a pot of water on the stove for about ten minutes.) Next time, maybe the other person will wear the cock…?
Watching Aaron painting his corkscrew hair is one of my favourite pastimes. When we first met he’d blushed when I caught him converting a patch of grey back to his natural black. After a few months, he’d just smiled sheepishly when I commented on how good he looked with a few highlights. But now? Now my eyes are flickering around as if I’m in the middle of REM sleep, watching his deft hands fly over his locks with primary coloured chalks, powders, and glitters.
Today isn’t just our first Pride event as a couple. It’s Aaron’s first ever. We met just after last year’s, in a café on the high street. I’d just thought he was a hetero guy. A straggler from the gig that had gone on at the university. It was his band tee that had made me assume, you know? I’d been worried that he was about to start something, with the way he kept staring at me. But when he did open his mouth it was to confess that he’d spent all weekend on the periphery of our colourful celebrations, all constricted and closeted and not knowing how to get out. Even today, he’s still half in, but that’s all about to change in the hugest of ways.
See, this year’s event will be televised. My sister, Syd, had called us brave this morning when we said we weren’t put off by the idea of cameras. I’d been so fucking proud when my usually meek boyfriend looked her square in the eye and said, “You’re calling us brave for going about the every day business of living our lives? You sure you’re an ally?”
The way he’d pulled back his shoulders and lifted his chin… it was the first time I’d ever seen him look so sure of his own identity. Damn, it had made my dick so hard. And now, thinking about how ferociously we’d fucked in the kitchen when Syd left is making me hard again.
As I watch Aaron finish blending a bright purple stripe of hair with a neon pink one, he shifts his gaze. He holds my eyes but doesn’t stop. He just switches to a different brush and starts to blend in some red. When his lips quirk into a smile I know he’s noticed. At this stage I’m only wearing a thong and a multi-coloured chain chest harness, so he knows what’s what.
All it takes is a sharp move of his desk chair for me to know what he wants me to do. There’s room for me now, under the table that’s littered with pots and powders. I don’t walk to him. I crouch, fall forward and let my hands slap against the floorboards, then crawl. I prowl across the room, chest so low it’s almost skimming wood. Even though my head is pulled back I still have to look up at him through my lashes.
Aaron pauses in the middle of smudging orange into the red stripe and groans, “Jesus, every time you look at me like that I just want…”
When I reach him, I smell him. Patchouli, black pepper, and vanilla. His signature shower gel. It’s faint at his ankles. His giggle when I lick his instep isn’t, though. It’s loud and it reverberates through me, making my eyes roll as I run my tongue up his shin bone, as I drag it through the rough hair and wrinkle my nose against the tickle.
As soon as I reach a patch of soft, smooth skin I start to suck. Aaron widens his legs and I see an opportunity. His cock is only half erect, but not for long. God, I can barely breathe. I’m about to do something that’ll make him purr and I know the sound will have me fucking the floorboards. I twist my neck, push my face into the hollow at the back of his knee, and bite.
A make-up brush bounces off my hand and rolls under the desk. I bite deeper, form a seal with my lips and suck so hard I know I’ll leave a lingering mark. But I won’t stop. I can’t stop, because Aaron’s heels are digging into my shoulder blades and he’s squirming so much his chair starts to roll over the floor.
I follow, still latched on, and as soon as the chair hits the bed I shift. Hands on Aaron’s soft thighs, pulling myself up, dipping my head to kiss and nibble my way over his skin. His goosebumps almost make me laugh, but my mirth fades when I catch another scent. The patchouli and pepper are stronger here, but there’s something else layered beneath them. It’s the scent of Aaron. Of his crotch. The natural fragrance that always clings to his pubic hair no matter how well he washes.
He’s supposed to be the big cat today, but I’m the one roaring. I’m the one losing my shit, lunging at his cock and taking it to the back of my tongue before I’m even ready. I gag. Splutter through my nose. Feel my eyes watering and don’t give a fuck about mascara tears because Aaron is already grabbing my hair and pumping his groin.
I love this. Love having his cock in my mouth. Its taste, its size, the feel of his foreskin moving beneath my tongue. The stretch of his over pronounced head pushing past the last barrier in my throat and sinking into my oesophagus makes my arse spasm.
Holding my head still, Aaron fucks my mouth. His balls slap of my chin. We’re not even on the bed and the springs are squeaking. I’m going to cry. Puke. Pass out. Come. Fuck, I’m so close to coming and my cock hasn’t even been touched.
Aaron must know. I don’t even realise he’s withdrawn until he’s on his knees in front of me, shuffling closer until our chests are touching. He grabs my cock and mashes it against his, shaking his wrist and wanking us both at the same time. I’d love to help, but I’m so overcome with desire it’s rendered me useless.
And this is what Aaron loves. Me, so fucking delirious with need for him that I become nothing more than thrusting hips, a ravenous mouth, and animalistic growls.
In a desperate bid to keep myself upright, I grab the edge of the desk. Aaron gasps, a sure sign that he’s about to blow, and my sack tightens in response. My balls ache so much I realise I’m afraid of this orgasm. How fucking intense is it going to be?
So intense I throw my head back and holler at God. Is that my spunk or Aaron’s splashing my Adam’s apple? Why do I want to get back on all fours so that he can fuck me? My head drops forward and I open my eyes. What the fuck? Aaron is laughing, and I immediately see why. A rogue pot must have rolled off the desk when I grabbed it and spilled its contents over our dicks. Mingled in with our sticky come is the cutest iridescent powder.
“Well, you did say we just have to be ourselves today,” Aaron says with a grin. He grabs my headpiece off the bed and fits it just above my sweaty forehead. “I wouldn’t be a lion if I didn’t have my rainbow mane, and you wouldn’t be a unicorn if you didn’t jizz glitter.”