Apr 052014

These days feel almost too dark to write about.

My vagina’s quest for softness has become a demand – it has now rejected all insertable items I currently own.

Penetration is off the table.

I’ve been scrambling for softer options the past couple weeks, but there aren’t a lot of safe, squishy dildos for a tight budget. I asked a local blogger friend if I could borrow hers. I asked others if I could buy theirs. I contacted a manufacturer about any defective items they wouldn’t mind sending me. I considered getting a jelly toy. I tried making my own by stuffing a condom. I purchased an affordable dildo from a recommended Etsy seller, only to find out it’ll be at least 2 months before I get it. My request for a refund has not yet received a response.

And I sit here, without options, and I breathe. And then I come up with more ideas, do more research, contact more people, and go to sleep and wake up the next day and do it all over again. Because there has got to be a way through. There must be.

Masturbation is out of the picture until this matter is resolved. I tried a few times, but it hurts too much. Release is traumatizing. My perineum and vaginal (and labia?) tissues are full of knots, which strain upon engorgement and jab sharply with each shudder of orgasm. I’m left more tense than when I started.

I’m smart enough to stop trying to make it work without soft insterable items. And I have enough dignity to not beg for help.


I am holding myself together; I am gradually working out solutions. I have firmness samples in the mail, a tiny item coming from one blogger that might work, a possible purchase with another blogger, and if I get my refund I just might be able to order a decently priced customized firmness dildo for myself.

If not, next month there will be a little more money. Or one of my Craigslist items might sell before then.

Options are around the corner. I’m not frozen. This issue will get resolved, and I will be okay.

For now, I simply put my head down and focus on the next thing in front of me, and then the next and the next. Beauty will have to wait. But it will happen, and it will be sweet; it’s only temporarily out of reach.



Mar 222014

Silhouette on the wall
Candlelight framed
Through textured beads down a shower door
As steam rises
Towards the setting moon in the window.


I watch

I feel

I breathe

I live

Mar 162014

~ Read part 1 ~ There’s a process to this healing type of sexual exploration. It mustn’t be rushed, or forced, or coerced into anything it doesn’t instinctively desire at the time. The body is resilient and resourceful, but that deep quality level of wholesome pleasure can be fragile at times if not handled with care. Thus continues my unhurried journey…

Fingers posing gracefully on a black backdrop.It all started again one evening in the shower, my historic place of deep relaxation, as I was kneeling on the floor exploring myself. I had been to the toilet just prior and now found my anus1 quite open. Up till now I’d been too grossed out to consider using fingers for penetration, but after multiple butt plug experiments with mixed results at best and severe nausea at worst I knew a different approach was needed.

Still, it surprised me when a finger slipped inside…effortlessly. I wasn’t thinking of doing it, just prodding and massaging the area and it simply happened, only barely inside.

I was pretty relaxed and it felt surprisingly pleasant, comforting. I inhaled the steam as hot water cascaded down my back and I held myself from the inside with one finger just barely beneath the surface.

Presently, the most incredible thing started happening – movement. Not by my finger, but rather the anal sphincters surrounding it. My muscles were contracting, pulling the finger deeper in. Then began an involuntary rhythmic motion, like a baby’s suckling. Pulling in, relaxing, and then pulling in again. I know this sounds weird but I found it terribly endearing, and became somewhat smitten at this point.

It was still an anus, don’t get me wrong, but in that moment its existence simplified to merely a part of my body, made up of the same cells as any other, deserving of the same comfort, the same attention, and same respect as I give the rest of myself. I do not need to have an anal fetish or even explore anal play any further, but I must award the basic appreciation, nurture, and awareness essential to healing. I’d never done that for my butt before. To be honest, the entire area was an annoying disgusting unfortunate necessity and besides keeping things clean I wanted nothing further to do with it. But just as with other anal adventures my body has the steering wheel, and this is the direction it flung me.

Just my index finger, barely to the first knuckle. It didn’t take long to learn the value of keeping a dab of coconut oil in the shower ready to facilitate lubrication.2 Anal activity isn’t always on the menu, in fact, most showers I don’t even try. Only when I sense the need do I begin my careful exploration and discover what’s in store for the moment.

Inside, I find ridges and bumps and bits that I wonder are normal, just as when first exploring my vagina back in the day. I find which parts hurt when having a bowel movement, just as I found which parts hurt when my menstrual cramps become severe. And I tenderly massage those areas from the inside, unwinding the tension, relaxing the tissues.

A few weeks into this new routine, one morning found me in the bathroom doubled over with a particularly difficult bowel movement. As the pain intensified, I reacted without even thinking: hands rushed to surround the opening – one in front, one behind – fingers gently present, not pressing, not moving, just there.

And suddenly it all relaxed and opened and eliminated pain-free.

I sat immobile, stunned. Did that really just happen? No, couldn’t be. Not for this stupid unsexy problem. But how….? I brushed it off. It had to be a one-time thing.

But then it happened again. And again. And every time since, occasionally even with a touch of…dare I say it…pleasure.

I’m feeling less ashamed by the day. The usual standards of anal play would still place me in the “novice” category, but in my book I’ve already come a long way. Because it’s not about how much I can “take” or even the amount of pleasure I wrangle out of it. Rather, this process is first and foremost about the understanding of my body, and the relationship with all its idiosyncrasies and desires which I am only just beginning to unravel.

And I daresay it is beautiful.

Part 1: The Introduction | Part 2: Disgust to Respect

  1. “Anus” is the proper term. It might sound less sexy than “anal”, but it’s silly to ignore the fact. That would be like using the term “vaginal” but not “vagina”. Words are okay here.
  2. That is, unless I’ve orgasmed recently and can steal away some vaginally produced lube. My natural stuff holds up well in the shower, while other water-based lubes don’t. I like the oil, though, for convenience.
Mar 162014

I’ve again participated in e[lust], a blog digest meme where everyone shares their best blog post that month. I haven’t authored the rest of this post, but there’s often some real good ones in here so don’t be afraid to check it out!


Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #57? Start with the rules, come back April 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Trick of the Light

What Does Porn Lead To

The Posh Life of a Sex Toy Reviewer?

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Eleven Quarters

Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Sadists

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy! Continue reading »

Mar 082014

Silver Bullet Vibrator in Sunlight at Secretly SensuousI owned just one vibrator. Total.

It had two settings:

  1. On
  2. Off

A $5 bullet grabbed from Amazon as an add-on item.1 Cheap as cheap gets.

…and it was perfect. No pressure.

~ Perfect, because I allowed a friend to buy it for me without beating myself up
~ Perfect, because I didn’t feel guilty about not even trying it for weeks
~ Perfect, because when I tried it and didn’t like it, no loss

But most of all…

~ Perfect, because I learned so much about my body from this little thing.
And when it finally did work for me that was pretty cool, too. ;)


The concept of getting off on vibrations was foreign to me. I’d never pictured it, experienced it, or heard about it. But, well, here now I have this vibrator. Whatever – I’m game. Wasn’t impressed right off, but I didn’t mind hanging onto it.

One day Dom and I were kicking around on a call and I was surprised to begin experiencing arousal. That lightbulb moment when the sensation actually felt welcome instead of objectionably ticklish, when I began learning what my clitoris likes and how to sneak up on it with the vibe just so. It was far more stimulating than humping a wad of bedding with some torture on the side (my only method for the decade+ prior) and as I felt energy culminating I instinctively realized my lifelong record of silent orgasms was about to be obliterated.

With horror, I remembered I didn’t have the house to myself.

I had to wait.

Hour after painstaking hour.

Until finally, alone at last, I let loose screams that had nothing to do with pain.


It was one of the single most defining moments of my life.


A few orgasms later, I noticed the batteries were dying. Wait, you mean this thing doesn’t last forever? I was hungry. My appetite had been whetted and I wanted more – more vibrations, more release. Days passed with me fixated on nothing besides squeezing out the last bits of use as it gasped, faded, and sputtered to a stop.

Now what?

Did you know that you can get 100 watch batteries off eBay for a couple bucks?


Rolling in my newfound power, I quickly learned to hack my own vibration settings by mixing partially used batteries with new ones. Brand new batteries usually made my clitoris scream bloody murder, so instead I organized them by degree of spent-ness and then swapped out multiple times per session to customize the intensity. I became an expert at unscrewing the tiny plastic cap of that cheapo thing and dumping the batteries in record time, swearing when the cap wouldn’t screw back properly so I could get back to screwing around.

But hey, a one speed vibrator had been turned into infinite speed variations! At under $8 for the complete setup and untold months’ worth of batteries, I wasn’t complaining. Much.

It was slightly disturbing when some of the batteries fell apart and spewed their powdered innards everywhere.

I suppose you get what you pay for.

Bullet was used daily, and then some. With my clitoris so picky about wooing I spent hours convincing it there was nothing to flinch from. Must approach from the side, at a certain angle, with gentle vibrations that don’t stay in any one spot for too long. Do not get too close too fast or it calls red and I’m back to square one. Learning all this was painstaking work when I was so desperate for release, but that small taste of explosive orgasm had awakened a deep ache that pulled me forward. I alternated between the joys if rediscovering release and the frustration of finding it unattainable.


As weeks passed, my technique improved and with it my satisfaction. Yet – something was missing. I could tell by the way that other bloggers casually mentioned vibrators and orgasms as though getting off wasn’t difficult, or at least shouldn’t be. I knew I yearned for more stimulation, which seemed along the lines of the “powerful” and “deep” vibrations so popularly discussed. Plus, everyone says watch battery powered bullet vibes are crap anyway.

So after a lot of research I finally bit the bullet and ordered a Turbo Glider. And a Salsa. And a Little Secrets. Each of which are substantially more powerful than my humble bullet. Yay! Stuff that’s going to work better! I was beside myself with excitement.

Disappointment doesn’t even begin to cover what happened next.

Nothing worked. My clitoris recoiled. This can’t be happening. Days of hardcore experimentation left me quietly returning to my trusty bullet, feeling deflated and a little sheepish. While all the vibrator experts hailed power as king, I clung to my tiny prize. It meant everything to me. It meant safety. It meant options. It meant orgasms more satisfying than I’d ever experienced before.

I was ashamed to admit to the blogosphere that the items they love caused my clitoris to totally freak out and cry for its gentle bullet back. I felt defective, not to mention completely useless for the sex product review industry.2 The ache for more power was driving me crazy, and yet my clitoris was recoiling from it with ridiculous spasms that were most assuredly the total opposite of pleasure.

But giving up wasn’t an option. My body insisted there was more to orgasms than this. And when I finally got my hands on a knockoff of the Fairy Mini, it induced the breakthrough I was looking for…

…and a break-up with my bullet.


I didn’t actually realize until later that I’d never looked back. Aside from a single unfortunate incident I haven’t used that bullet since. In time, after a lot of Wand Therapy3 I grew to love the Salsa and Turbo, but the bullet has long been banished to a lonesome corner of my closet hidden safely from prying eyes.

I’ve moved on. But what’s the saying, you always remember your first? This was my first. This cheap, plain bullet introduced a massive amount of personal growth and positive experiences into my life, challenging me to learn about myself and love myself and be gentle with myself in ways I never had before; honestly, in ways my current vibrators don’t.4 It opened up a whole new world of possibilities with my sexuality and I will forever treasure those memories.

Thanks, Bullet!5

  1. If you really must know, it was the Frisky Fingers. Which has a sleeve made of jelly that I removed by common sense before I’d read anything about unsafe jelly materials. It broke anyway one day after a couple minutes of fiddling around with it from curiosity.
  2. I now know I’m not useless at reviewing products, but the way I take several months minimum to thoroughly acquaint myself with an item is incompatible with the currently standardized business model.
  3. That is, using some succession of plug-in wands including the Hitachi Magic Wand, BodyWand, and (the real) Fairy Mini
  4. Effective vibrators are too lazy. They work well, without much – if any – contribution on my part. Which is of course why I love them.
  5. An unabashed play on Epiphora‘s trademark nod to whichever company supplied that product for review.
Mar 032014

I can’t blog in a house full of Christians."Stained Glass window segment of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden" by John Panella at Secretly Sensuous

Every time I begin writing, get in the zone, thinking through some glorious experience, the same thing happens with little variation in detail…

I hear a footstep on the stair or a sneeze down the hall and my brain jerks out of it faster than you can blink. “YIPES! DON’T GET CAUGHT” flashes like a neon road sign demanding attention.

I stop, remind myself that I’m in my bedroom and no one’s around, and gradually ease back into writing.

A few moments pass. Then a knock on my door – I practically jump out of my skin. Scramble to close incriminating windows. “Yes…?”

15 minutes later the adrenaline still hasn’t worn off.

I’m not ashamed of what I do here. Before God or whomever else my conscience is clear. I’m not flippant about this exploration of my sensuality; I am not rushing towards vulgarity, and I’m certainly not out to rebel with an exclamation mark of deliberate offense. I am simply listening to nature and exploring this healing transformation that wells up inside me with such elegance that even I am awed by its emergence. Every fiber of my being says this is right, this is good, this is pure – an honorable and worthy pursuit.

Unfortunately, such reasoning doesn’t fly in a culture that believes our natural inclinations are relentlessly bent on evil. Every emotion or instinct is considered guilty until proven innocent, as determined by a jury of church peers. Following the path of curiosity is inherently dangerous especially where sex is concerned. Acquaintance with my own sexuality1 is immoral, or at least borderline so, and of course also downright selfish because I’m robbing my future husband of the gift of my sexuality intended to be opened together for the first time on our wedding night.

I’m not making this stuff up. God, I wish I was.

My story, in their eyes:

Poor woman was overcome by desires of the flesh, listened to Satan’s lies and gave in to the temptations before her. She was deceived by mere emotion, and being so weak in her faith she didn’t have the strength to resist. Probably because she hasn’t been coming to church lately, and that gave the Devil a foothold. Let us pray for her, that she be brought back, and tell everyone else we know to pray for her, too. After all, we’re just concerned about her lost soul…

Yes. That is life. It’s the life I was raised in, it’s the life I’m still immersed in up to my ears. And it’s the life that I yet hold a certain respect for, even while vehemently disagreeing with the repression, hypocrisy, and emotional abuse rampant throughout conservative Christian culture.2

There’s a certain skill to surviving this environment with your own essence intact. Rule #1 is conceal. Hide anything that doesn’t conform to the basic requirements of the culture. You keep it to yourself, divert attention elsewhere, and observe carefully to ensure your cover is secure. That your emotions are safe. That your thoughts won’t be judged. Sometimes, you have to bury it so deep that you lose track of it, because if questioned you must be able to convincingly refute any knowledge of it. Your sanity depends on this mechanism, this bubble that allows a shred of humanity to exist in your soul even as you dutifully project the impossibly confined façade of a perfect lifestyle.

My journey of self-discovery freezes in these moments, like a prey animal hoping to escape detection after sensing its predator nearby. So long as I remain still, I will not be noticed. A flurry of activity periodically breaks the silence as another poor soul is discovered and the public shaming begins, led most passionately by whomever was closest to them. The goal: to victimize the target to such devastation that they see no other pathway for life to proceed except by “repentance” and subsequent acceptance back into the fold. I look on, I help the struggling where I can, but mostly I just lay low. My journey is too young to withstand such an onslaught right now. Someday, perhaps, I’ll be ready to “come out”, but at present I’m smart enough to know that doing so would only endanger me.

Sleeping beauty with brown curly hair and pale skin at Secretly SensuousAnd thus my sensuality sleeps for a time, stirring only when Dom calls and I have a temporary safe environment to relax into before I disappear again afterwards.

It’s only when I’ve made my way to safer locations, where I’m less likely to be discovered, that I begin to let down my guard.

Easy, now…

I coax open my eyes, awakening once again to the desires that well up within me and smiling fondly as they clamor for release in artistic expression.

Only once do I look back –
a wistful sigh dissolving as I forget the lost time and embrace once more
the calling of my soul.

  1. Examples include masturbation, discussing sex ed or preferences in detail, entertaining fantasies, looking at naked people (even artistic), and most definitely penis shaped dildos. Or any dildos, really, but the realistic ones especially.
  2. I am not referring here to the Christian faith, but rather the social structure that often forms around it.
Feb 242014

From a distance, I’m repulsed by men who are domineering, controlling, and emotionally manipulative.

Hands Tied Up With Rope by Andriy Kravchenko at Secretly SensuousUp close, if/when they actually manage to reach inside me, this strong, feisty, independent woman melts. Suddenly:

  • controlling = safe,
  • manipulative = dynamic emotions (instead of stagnant/locked down)
  • domineering = a respite from the requirement to think

This is why, as a minor, I spent 4 months in an intense emotionally and sexually abusive relationship (primarily long distance) with a 20-something man 8 years my senior.

It’s also why I bounced from that into a terribly suppressed face-to-face relationship that at first appeared accommodating and respectful, but beneath the surface was even worse. When I put my foot down he proved controlling, possessive, manipulative, and threatening. It easily met the definition of stalking before I finally got others involved and he buzzed off.

And it’s even why I was once “into” an extremely conservative guy who wanted me – an adult woman – to obtain my dad’s permission before he was comfortable conversing with me privately by instant message. (!!!)

Bashing men has become a popular pastime for certain groups identifying as feminist. I cannot deny its cathartic appeal as part of healing emotionally from trauma, but I must be honest with myself and admit that there’s a reason I kept ending up with these types: Some part of me on some level is attracted to those very traits that make them potentially abusive.

That scared the pants off me.

This is where the structure of BDSM suddenly makes sense of my world. It gives people on both sides of the equation an opportunity to play out those tendencies in a mutually beneficial fashion, with full consent and communication every step of the way. Those guys from my past, every single one of them, are people I’d generally consider “good”. I did not sense any malice, or an uncaring or cruel attitude from them. They did not hurt me intentionally. But with ignorance in abundance, playing with fire inevitably caused burns. We didn’t know what the dynamic was called or how to do it safely, it just would sorta click and continue until I’d had enough of them pushing beyond my boundaries and not listening to me, or they had enough of the manipulative tactics I’d resort to in an effort to protect my hard limits without a safe word.

Oh, how much angst could be saved if any of us had known what was really going on.

My current D/s relationship is one of exploration and delight in how well things can work. Previously I’d resigned myself to being either in an abusive relationship or being bored. Now, I have a glimpse of what’s possible and it astounds me. It’s beautiful. From the outside it may appear to be the same actions, the same abuse, but it isn’t. Because it is done with supreme respect for my boundaries and desires, and the judgement-free environment to change my mind at any time or safeword out of it if needed. I get to experience those elements that attract me without the damage and danger associated with abuse.

And it’s healing past wounds, as well.

I don’t know if the men from my past will ever recognize and accept their dominant tendencies, let alone navigate relationships safely. But I hope they do, because it’s incredible how it can be channeled constructively to mutual benefit.

I’m not blaming myself, and I’m not blaming them. I don’t really see much room to bother with sorting out blame. There was a lot of ignorance on both sides, and we fumbled through as best we knew how with our individual hang ups and traumas and life pressures. And it was colorful and it was spectacular in how it was wrong and how it was right. There was hurt, yes — in some cases a lot of hurt. But falling out of a tree because you didn’t know better hurts too. It’s part of growing up, part of living life.

And now? Now I know I’ll never go back to those days. Been there, done that, and I prefer this way, thankyouverymuch. ;)

Feb 202014

What is it like?

The kisses, I mean. No, not just those. The tenderness. A caress down my form. A gaze that takes everything in and approves.

What is it like?

To look long and deep into another’s eyes without fear of what you may discover there or what they might discover in yours, simply drinking from one another in a communication stronger than words?

What is it like?

Being physically close to someone, more than a second or two? Two people fitting together in an embrace and then sinking into one another’s forms in a long cuddle, like puzzle pieces fitting together, meant to belong in that moment.

Just wondering…

Jan 162014

I’m an awfully curious person. In general. It’s just my nature. The question “what are your interests?” has always felt ludicrous to me. Listing what I’m not interested in would be easier.

It’s no surprise, then, that I’m the same when it comes to sexuality.

I’m curious about the sensation of being forced open from the inside without being fully warmed up. Not really rape, but not something I can replicate on my own with dildos. I’m curious about the sensation of my breasts being roughed up, and having control of the situation taken from me. BDSM through and through. Now that I know that everything I ever wanted is possible consensually, I have no interest in abusive situations. Mock-ups of them, with predetermined boundaries, safety considerations, and safewords in a trusted environment are sufficient for my personal exploration.

It isn’t for everyone, but it is for me.

Because I have other interests. I want to know what it’s like to fall asleep next to someone, both of us fully satisfied in every possible way in that moment. I want to know kisses, long and deep. Full body caresses, skin to skin. Inhaling someone without barriers. And I’m fascinated by the thought of expertly pleasuring someone else without thought to my own, rewarding enough simply to see them enjoying it. My mind no longer separates this from my lifelong interest in providing others with amateur, non-sexual massages. The intimacy of vulnerability and beauty where nothing of angst exists. I never thought being on receiving end of it, genuinely being touched to my core, was something I could experience, but I’m beginning to discover that, too, is not too much to wish for.

Orientation and sexual identity feels fluid rather than fixed. I’d probably operate as straight and monogamous simply because that’s what I grew up with, it’s what instinctively feels most stable, comfortable, and familiar. But with the right people, in the right environment, with just the right opportunities? Who knows. I don’t feel the need to explore it, but if it was dumped in my lap with nothing interfering, I’d be interested in the experience.

This is why I could never have too many “sex toys”. If it’s not something I’m into today, it may well be something I’m into tomorrow.

Or I just might be off having adventures of a different sort.

It’s a big world out there. And I’m an awfully curious person.

Dec 072013

Sensuous Young Beauty Riding a Horse on Secretly SensuousPerhaps it was the lack of privacy.

Maybe it was stress.

Or the intermittent loss of internet cutting off sources of inspiration.

Whatever the case, I’ve been having an empty stretch.

Sensuality? What’s that?

It’s easy to forget the power of seduction in the midst of a world gone rushed.

I’m reminded of a short story I read some years back, When Queens Ride By. It was a play written in the 1930s1 depicting a dispirited farmwife and her husband on the brink of eviction. There was stuff to do, particularly food to gather before it rotted. Both of them are haggard and worn down.

A stranger arrives, a lady who’s fresh and relaxed and inspirational. She explains she once found herself in a similar situation along with her own partner. As it turned out, the solution was no matter how bleak things looked or how busy they became she had to stop doing the practical, necessary stuff and focus instead on making life irresistibly enjoyable. It had a domino effect not only on her partner but on others around her.

“There was a queen once, who reigned in troubled days” the stranger explains. “And every time the country was on the brink of war and the people ready to fly into a panic, she would put on her showiest dress and go enjoy a ride.2 And when the people would see her riding by, they were sure all was well… She tided over many a danger.“

As it turns out, pairing beauty with a confident sensuality can penetrate to the core of inspiration. When there’s no spare time or energy is precisely when it’s needed most, when the effect can be shockingly deployed as the real work goes undone and you scamper off for some fun. And somewhere in the heart of it all is right with the world, irregardless. That’s what being touched does to you. And it can be with sex, or with any other number of things – attending a concert, baking muffins, giggles over stupid jokes with a friend, or even just curling up with pjs on a comfy couch with your nose in a good book. Whatever gets through to you, touching that part of your soul that only responds to the beauty in life.

My sensuality is paradoxically the strongest and most fragile part of me. The fragility, from how easily I listen to all the stuff I “should” be doing, which chokes and eventually banishes the beauty it to a distant memory. It cannot compete with practicality. But when queens ride by, when I remember to listen and forget about all the stuff that’s supposed to matter but really doesn’t, then what surfaces is absolutely enchanting. That reaching, gorgeous, breathtaking allurement of the relish of life. I’m enamored with it, along with everyone else around me. Somehow it’s always so much more beautiful than I could possibly imagine, and any tasks either become a delight or are happily forgotten.

So if you would excuse me, I have some riding to do.

Romantic Young Beauty Riding a Horse on Secretly Sensuous

  1. Along with the sexism of the time. Sorry ’bout that.
  2. The actual text here is “go hunting”, but that would have ruined the context in this day and age.