A few days ago, I found myself lying on the bathroom floor, collapsed in a heap, with a huge robot dildo in my hand. As I rocked back and forth, grinning while recovering from the strong aftershocks of a few deep orgasms, I realized how silly I must look. Then I considered how much my life had changed in the past year, and I started laughing hysterically. Literally, rolling on the floor laughing.
You see, being a sex blogger is a world away from my previous role: As a pastor’s wife. As the one who’s asked to constantly keep up appearances, to be inoffensive. Because in that role, people will judge you for anything and everything. They’ll play nice to your face—smile and ask how you’re doing every Sunday—and then complain about you, and especially your small children, behind your back.
Today, it’s hard for me to describe a religious institution that literally is headed by patriarchs as anything but “oppressive.” (And when my partner and I came to know some of these autocratic leaders—these despots—we found out how bad it really could be.) But when you’re so young, and insecure, and a little depressed, then you’re susceptible to a lot of ideas that may (justifiably) seem kooky to the outside world. This was my story, and my husband’s.
But my purpose here isn’t to shit on religion. I’m no Christopher Hitchens. That era of my life has come and gone, and after this, I’ll have nothing more to say about it.
So what happened? My first step toward becoming a sex blogger was to discover the unrestrained joy that sex can bring.
I’d been having sex for nine years before I started to really, really want it. Ever since I hit puberty, sexual shame and body-image issues had nagged at me. No one had ever told me that sex is normal, OK, even thrilling. It didn’t help that I was still part of a religious group that either stigmatized pleasure or made it a second priority, something that cishet married people might do occasionally for the purpose of strengthening their relationship (or, more importantly, begetting children to join the flock). Around the time I had my first child, I began to realize what a load of bullshit this was. Maybe it was being nude from the waist down in front of a bunch of strangers in the delivery room, combined with the incredible oxytocin high of labor.1 Also, in the months after that, I’m pretty sure that I kegeled myself into stronger, multiple vaginal orgasms. My first orgasm during PIV sex was like a lightbulb going off in my brain: Oh, so that’s what I’ve always wanted!
As I grew more secure, less ashamed of my libido, I began to think about buying sex toys. I played with the idea for a while; I was shy about it. (I am shy, actually. Don’t let all my sexy stories fool you.) I didn’t know what in the world I was doing, and my first purchases were pretty darn unfortunate.
Fast-forward a few years, and I’d learned about body-safe toys (enough to eventually write a couple guides on them!). I kept reading reviews and figuring out what options might work best for me. But as I searched, I read over and over again about other people buying potentially toxic junk to insert into their bodies. And I thought, Life’s too short for jelly toys.
And so this blog was born. My first goal was to help other people find their own pleasure, by giving them access to accurate information about quality, safe toys. Since squishy dildos seem to be my thing, this took the form of a Silicone Dildo Guide. I can’t tell you how long I spent poring over Dangerous Lilly’s suction cup dildo listing when I was buying my first silicone toys. The options can seem overwhelming, right? I’m hoping that my constantly updated Silicone Suction Cup Dildo Solutions, with linked reviews, is equally helpful to somebody out there.
And, to be honest, I started writing because deep down I knew I would be good at it. As a book editor, I’ve critiqued enough manuscripts to know what works and what doesn’t. This doesn’t mean that my own writing is perfect; it’s still very much a work in progress. Crafting a review that’s both informative and readable is hard—especially when the next review, the next clever tweet, the next (pornographic) Reddit or Tumblr post is just a click away. I’d like to think that my work is becoming clearer. And any positive feedback helps me believe I could be a better writer.
So that’s my confession. This post has been a little dark because life can be dark as shit. (Black as Hades, one might say.) Writing it has been cathartic for me, for sure. Plus, every now and then, I think it’s a good thing to reflect on where you’ve come from and where you’re going. I came from a place of insecurity and depression, and now I’m having a blast writing about fake dicks. (I’m still laughing about this, btw—all the time.) So where am I going? My plan is to just keep having a great time analyzing all the silicone dildos (and plugs, and rings, and things!).
Thanks so much for reading. For more-light-hearted sex-positive pieces, check out the rest of my Sexploration series.
If any of my writing touches you/is useful to you, consider using my affiliate links (here or on my sidebar [footer in mobile]) when you’re ready to buy your next toy. This will cost you nothing (you may even save money by using my discount codes), but will earn me a small commission so that I can spend more time writing instead of doing (better-paying) editing work.