Tuesday, October 7

Introduce Sex Toys in a Way That Won't Terrify Your Partner

*The following post was provided by Adam&Eve. Yeah! The website. Cool, right? Enjoy!:*



No matter how old you get, maturity doesn't make talking about sex any less awkward. So if you're suddenly intrigued by the idea of introducing a sex toy into the picture, you can probably count on a bit of an uncomfortable conversation or two about it. It's likely that you'll have to assure your partner that bringing toys into the bedroom doesn't mean that your sex life is bad; it doesn't mean that you're unsatisfied and feeling unfulfilled; and it doesn't mean that you're bored of him or her. However, there are a few extra steps you should take to make sure that your partner is just as comfortable (and hopefully excited) about the idea as you are, especially if he or she happens to be a bit of prude.


Set Ground Rules. 
You know how important communication is in relationships? Well, it's about a thousand times more crucial when you're considering bringing foreign objects between the sheets. People are vulnerable and exposed during sex. Would you really want to hear unfamiliar noises, have something slipped where it hasn't been before, or feel a surprised "shaky" sensation on certain parts of your body without knowing why? Probably not.

Make sure that you've decided on what is appropriate to bring into the bedroom and that you've both OK'd its use ahead of time. When one person is uncomfortable, you both need to agree to stop. Never push someone beyond his or her set boundaries. If you're dating someone with a type-A personality, your partner will appreciate knowing that he or she has equal say and control over the matter.


Do Your Research.
Talking finances and evaluating produce reviews may not be the sexiest thing to associate with sex toys, but the reality is that most of us are on a budget. And a lot of the time, if your partner is conservative in the bedroom, the same probably goes for the credit card. With that in mind, it's important to get the right product the first time.

Not all of us can afford to be as flamboyant with our toys as David and Victoria Beckham. According to The Richest, they're the proud owners of the world's most expensive sex toy. It's a platinum vibrator with 10K diamond encrusted base, that hangs from a 16K diamond necklace to the tune of $1.8 million. That's right, the diamond that Victoria Beckham sticks up her whoo-ha is likely more than you can ever expect to see on your ring finger.

Maybe you're not looking for bling, but if you're inexperienced in the market, you could still end up over-paying. That oh-so-sexy dollar amount is especially important if you have a particularly frugal partner. You certainly don't want to sour him or her on the idea or have an excuse to nix it right away just because of the toy's price tag. For those of us who haven't starred in a hit girl group and aren't famous athletes, a more practical toy (i.e. one that isn't covered in precious gems) is a much better option. You can use coupons from Adam&Eve to save a little money on your first product while reading through user reviewers to find the product that best suits your needs. And if it inspires you both to try something different, you won't have to feel guilty buying something extra with the money you saved.


Take It Slow.
Always start with smaller models of toys designed for beginners and work your way up to larger ones as you both get more comfortable. Awkwardly fumbling with the toy during your first go-around could make an already-apprehensive person even more anxious. Get familiar with using it (and the idea of using it) by starting with something small and discreet like a finger vibrator, fittingly named for being about the size of the tip of your finger.

It won't inhibit your movements or get in the way during your favorite positions, which is great. Also, even adding this tiny device can make a big difference to your satisfaction. You can choose to control it yourself or have you partner control it. Then, when you're ready, you can move up to larger, more advanced items.

If you're still looking for a way to combat the awkwardness, do some light reading together. Cracked compiled a list of 18 of the world's most disturbing sex toys that includes everything from the Sadist Cock Ring, a tiny iron maiden design with spikes on the inside that clips onto his schlong, to the Drilldo. That last one is exactly what it sounds like.

Anything on that list is sure to make an itty-bitty finger vibrator look pretty tame. Plus it's a great way to get a laugh out of the ordeal and ease the tension. And when you find that you're both finally ready to bring a toy into the boudoir, you can open yourselves up to a whole new world of adventure, intimacy, and sexual satisfaction. Happy shopping!



Thursday, July 3

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

Things I should be doing:
Updating this.

Things I am not doing:
Duh.

I know, I know. Life is busy! Finding time for anything besides complaining about exercise is tough! Freelance living as someone who manages her time poorly is trickay trickay, so my dream editorial outline of glorious posts to update here every day (serious!) is taking to the backburner for a couple of weeks. In the meantime, though, I recommend popping over to Instagram, where i regularly use the geometric shape of a square to completely humiliate myself and my existence.



And, because I'm a Grade A dummy, I've somehow never mentioned the young olfactory child I birthed, my podcast, Why We Can't Have Nice Things.


We're on Episode 6. I'm *THE WORST*. But hey, that means you've got all holiday weekend to update yourself on these beauts and all the brilliant things they have to say. Get it below, get it on iTunes, just make sure to do-it-to-it.



And last but not least, keep popping your head into them issues of US Weekly! My jokes being in there is more reliable than me updating this space this month. (Sad, but true.)


HOLLA

x
c

Wednesday, June 11

Old Balls.



I had a lot of mouth problems when I was a kid. Not that I was a brat if I didn't get my way — though, yes, I had a bit of that too — but more so in the realm of dentistry. My teeth (and as I’d soon find out, my entire body) operated on a clock similar to the pace of nursing home jazzercise class. Translation? I’m beyond a late bloomer. I was so behind that my baby teeth never actually fell out, but instead, had to be yanked out so frequently that the smell of those bubble gum rubber gloves still haunts me to this day.

In the midst of my (many) dental appointments, it was also discovered that I was born without some permanent teeth. My dentist at the time declared that one day, when I was much older, I'd have to get a “bridge”. Given that I was terrified of needles — and that a grown man just looked into my baby mouth and told me a mechanism Medieval troops pulled down to charge a castle would be installed centimeters from my throat — I was, naturally, horrified.

On the day when that terrible, horrible no-good mechanism entered my childhood vocabulary, I asked my mom what it was and how soon I should start panicking about it. "Oh honey, don't worry about it,” she replied. “You'll be 27 when that happens. You’ll be all grown up and it’ll be no big deal. It's a long way away."

A few years after that, I had eleven teeth pulled at once, which allowed me to move the bridge conversation from "imminent panic" to "we'll re-explore when you're older." It was great! Except that it left me with about eight tiny Chiclet teeth in front and nothing else. For six months, I looked like I had some sort of crazy Wheel of Fortune board with two four-lettered words between my lips still waiting to be solved. (If given the chance to solve the puzzle, FUCK THIS, perhaps, would have been the right choice.)

Though four years of braces in high school (quite the look!) all but squashed the one-day-you’ll-need-a-bridge discussion, the low-grade, stomach-kneading nerves about its eminent possibility never dissipated. All that kept me calm during those lengthy stares at oral x-rays during each cleaning was one thing: I was a long, long, long way from having to worry about that bridge nonsense. I was young! I was a child with knobby knees and weird gangly legs! One day, I’d plop down my lady work bag and slip off my trenchcoat and muscle through a dental procedure with the strength of a grown woman who can pop out a baby like it’s a microwaved popcorn kernel. I had time. Tons of time! I was living in my world and that grown-up rendering of me was, like, an eternity, a career, a husband and a small home upstate away.

Except for one thing.

Today is my 27th birthday.

I am not that adult I envisioned in any way; all pencil skirt, patterned shirt and black pumps. I’m not that grown up lady, who’s figured out how to do that thing to make her hair look good, whose nails nary sport a chip, whose bank account has more plenty more zeroes than the amount used to spell out “BOOBS” upside-down on a calculator.

I am not that woman yet. I wear dresses that are more Japanese Fruit than Ann Taylor art curator. I used male hair product in my hair today because I didn’t want to bend all the way down again to pick up another one. And, yeah, my manicure is as spotty as my knowledge of where in the hell my tax return is.

I can’t help but feel like I’m instead a paper mache of an adult, all season-old H&M clothing but no real investment pieces, two steps towards the future but one electric slide back.

But, I’m trying my damnedest to not recoil out of disgust and shame that I'm entering the sunset years of my twenties — mostly because it’s taken me exactly 27 years to learn what I want out of life.

It sounds like the drunken ramblings of a teenager, but it wasn’t until about a year ago that I finally realized what “being yourself” meant. I honestly, embarrassingly thought "be yourself" meant “be yourself within the close confines of what everyone else is” for the entirety of my life. I was being myself, dressed in a glittery A+F t-shirt that no one else in my sixth grade class had yet purchased. I was me, watching TV shows and movies I despised, laughing along, trying to understand what everyone else saw in it. I was myself, feeling my heart sink whenever a quintessential New York girl walked by in uniform — so-short shift dress, cool wide-brimmed hat, leather biker jacket, those Rag & Bone boots — while I’m left standing there in something old, feeling blue.

But, for the first time in my life as I stumble slowly towards my thirties, I feel that shifting. I'm starting to care less about everyone else and more about me. It seems innate, but in a way, I’ve always needed someone to tell me it's OK to behave the way I wanted to. It’s OK to stay in on a Friday, It's OK to know you don’t like drugs without having to try them. It's OK to be so fucking over trotting down the street in five-inch platform heels because Alexander Wang says I should. I just didn't realize until now that that person had to be me.

Instead of fighting against my self, I just have to embrace the weird. It’s a new philosophy, and it’s hard and confusing and uncomfortable, but not doing it is always, always worse. Sure, I spent $70 that should have gone towards a solid colored adult skirt on a JCrew children’s pineapple purse last week. And yes, I consider these dummies to be among my bedmates. And you know what? That’s OK. It's finally stuck that it's just as important to know what I want as it is what I don't want.

Last week, I turned down two jobs. And no, not offers — in the interview stages, the chit-chat levels, I took a step back and bowed out gracefully. The idea of insurance and an office that doesn’t have to be paid for and paid vacation (paid vacation!!!) is tempting, but deep down, I knew they weren't the right choice. I've choked that inner monologue down many (many) times before, but this time, I wasn't doing it. Just because it was the right choice for my horrifying bank account did not mean it was the right fit for me.

Turning down money is terrifying, scary and something that’s universally unheard of in my family. But in the past 27 years, I’ve known what happens when you do something simply for numbers — and the effect it has on my entire being. I've learned what it's like to not be true to yourself, and all of the wild, emotional ways it comes out.

27 is old enough to know what your flaws are, and to know and accept that you're different. Not bad, not lazy, not unable, not unwilling. Just...different. Different skills, different talents, different skeletal structure that makes doing a Pinterest-worthy squat near-impossible.

27 is old enough to just start seeing the repercussions for your irresponsibilities — the wrinkles, the scars, the poor posture — and knowing that you’ll feel worse ignoring your problems than doing something about them.

And 27 is old enough to know that, even though I wouldn’t be caught dead in a trenchcoat with a lady work bag at that hypothetical dentist’s office (like, ew), I could still handle any medical procedure that comes my way.

Even if still, to this day, I haven’t the first clue what a bridge actually is.



Thursday, May 15

Back and Back and Back


God damn, it's been a while. While I'd like to say that I've been too busy wrapping my brain up in this Jay-Be-Solange nonsense to write, the truth is, I've been distracted. I was in Los Angeles, I was working, I was writing, and I was uncomfortable. Seriously, most of the reason I haven't posted in so long actually be that I cannot find a chair that's decent enough to sit in and write. Even now, my neck muscles are on fire, but with Barry's Bootcamp on the afternoon horizon, today apparently won't be a day for quitting out of discomfort.

So, what's been happening, you ask? Well, here's a couple a'thangs:




I wrote a new article for Teen Vogue about giving your ex a second chance, because holy christ, do I know from experience. You know that Brokeback Mountain meme about not being able to quit you? Yeah, that was me for about four straight years with this one dude while locked inside a brick building called school. (And attempting to cure my obvious ADD by going in *every single day* for math tutoring help instead of taking little magic pills.) If you're on the fence about getting back with your ex and need some real talk from an honest pal who has lived it a whole hell of a lot of times, click-a this link and you'll be good to go.




The Young The Giant boys came in town, and I fully reaped the benefits of their endless world travels — all without hacking into their account to steal frequent flier miles. I didn't ask a lot of questions, but somehow, they met Eric Ripert on a tropical island where they were playing a show and became friends. And, somehow, that friendship resulted in me eating four gorgeous, delicious, perfect sesame rolls on top of a seven-course meal in a private dining room at Le Bernardin. I know. I still don't understand how it happened. Or what is in those god damn sesame rolls. I'd been to Le Bern before, but going up those grandma-carpeted stairs (!) with no dress code (!) to a private floor (!) was beyond. The night was incredible as fuck, even if we were collectively mediocre at putting on our professional adult faces and attempting to act quasi-normal. If you've ever wanted to know what it's like to attempt to blend in at the Harvard Club with ten of your closest friends, well, I imagine it's something like that. But, undeniable bonus: everyone was so busy moaning about their full bellies that I was able to sneak a tiny caramel shortbread off someone else's plate, into a napkin, and straight into my purse for the next day. Epitome of class, people. EPITOME. OF CLASS.




I finally found The One, you guys. Oh, oh no— I'm not talking about that wedding I'm having next year. I'm talking about this dope-as-fuck jumpsuit up top that floated into my life and directly into my heart. Let me set the scene: I was walking home, starving, swinging a ridiculous salad from the new Sweetgreen Tribeca back and forth in a bag when before I knew it, I was in a florescent dressing room, wearing a pair of pants up to my tits that made me look like I carry a Florida license and play Mahjong in my spare time.

I had never been in or near one of those "club clothes" stores in Soho — you know, where everything is made of mystery spandex or a junkier version of Forever 21's beloved viscose — but my legs took me straight inside once I saw this lil' number. I was in a jumpsuit-oriented fugue state, like a child who hears and ice cream truck and is just physically summoned towards it. I know I joked about wearing this daily, but something about the full-body FUPA it gives me just represents my state of summertime mind more than anything else possibly ever could. Or will.

Bring on the humidity, New York City! I may be sweating through whatever material this is from tit to toe, but i'll be looking good. (OK. Questionably good.)

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