Aug 232019
Supplies for Mirena IUD insertion laid out at the doctor's office, including forceps, lube, gloves, and the Mirena box.

The morning of my IUD insertion began with me desperately driving across town to retrieve a sex toy. I didn’t necessarily want to masturbate, but I needed to. It had occurred to me the night before: fuck, what if penetration is forbidden following the procedure? I needed to finish testing the Velvet Thruster Mini prior to my trip to sex toy trade show ANME, where I’d be participating in an influencers’ meeting with the company. That was less than a week away, and the toy was stranded at my girlfriend’s house.

If my vag was going to be out of commission after this, I needed to act now. So I drove, unshowered and hardly awake. As Aerie emerged from their apartment complex, opened my car door, and handed me the toy bundled in a pink hand towel, I had to laugh at the weird shit I do for my job.

Porn feels strange to watch at 9 am, but I powered through it like a professional.

After some copious masturbating and note-taking, I took a shower and got ready. To properly prepare for a T-shaped bit of plastic to be shoved into my uterus, I had a list of the internet’s and my doctor’s advice:

  • Eat an actual breakfast — no, self, a single banana does not count
  • Drink a bunch of water — to arrive with a full bladder
  • Poop — to avoid feeling bloated
  • Take four ibuprofen (800 mg)
  • Wear comfortable clothes — I chose a breezy dress
  • Wear a pad — in case of bleeding
  • Get a ride home

But that list doesn’t cover the mental aspect, which may be the most important thing of all: go into the appointment embracing the unknown. The insertion could be excruciating or bearable, and same with the recovery. Birth control is a highly charged topic, with scads of anecdotes to both ease — and terrify you out of — your mind. (Did you know? If you mutter the phrase “birth control” on the internet, someone is legally required to pop up and yell at you about how wrong your choice is.) My followers’ experiences were so varied, there was no way of predicting anything. Or worrying about it.

My decision to get an intrauterine device was not made willy-nilly; it came after many years of dabbling in other birth control options. The first birth control I used was the NuvaRing, which I liked but found incompatible with my lifestyle — it was constantly getting dislodged by dildos. So I tried the slut stick (commonly known as the implant, but that’s so boring), which bought me 3 years of protection but caused enough irregular bleeding that I didn’t want another one.

More recently, my gynecologist sent me home with some old-fashioned birth control pills, but taking them felt… archaic. Not to be a snowflake millennial or whatever, but it’s been 60 years since the pill came out and at this point I deserve a birth control I don’t have to remember to take daily. So, after discussing with my gyno (who has had multiple IUDs herself), I chose the Mirena, which lasts for 5-7 years.

Did you know? If you mutter the phrase “birth control” on the internet, someone is legally required to pop up and yell at you about how wrong your choice is.

Aerie was gracious enough to take me to the doctor’s office; they busied themselves working on fursuit stuff in the lobby during my appointment. My first task was proving that I wasn’t pregnant, so I peed in a cup and delivered it to the in-house lab. Then they brought me into the exam room, a bigger one than usual, and took my blood pressure. The nurse explained that I could wear my dress instead of the shitty paper gown. GOOD. When she left I immediately began snapping photos for this post, like a creepazoid, until the doctor came in.

I tried not to focus on the long shiny metal object laid out in the corner.

I’d never met the doctor before, but my gyno assured me he was the quickest person in the practice at inserting IUDs. He explained the process, showed me the IUD (it’s tiny!), and asked if I had any questions. I inquired about getting an anesthetic on my cervix, which my followers correctly predicted would not be offered unless I brought it up. This is where I dock points for the doctor, because he essentially acted like it was unnecessary. “I never do that,” he stated flatly, ending the conversation. Yeah, why offer people the option of feeling less pain?! (Seriously, why are doctors like this?)

Exam table at the doctor's office, lined with crunchy-looking paper.

It was time to get down to business. I laid back with my butt on the edge of the table and my feet resting on the plastic stirrups, which were covered in fabric but still obscenely uncomfortable. “Who designed these foot things?” I wondered aloud, thinking to myself, men.

“Men, probably,” the doctor said.

(He gained some points back.)

He put a speculum in my vagina and cranked it open. I knew what was coming next: he was going to insert that long metal thing, the uterine sound, to measure the depth and direction of my cervical canal and uterus. What I didn’t know was how soon that was going to happen, and how it was going to feel like being punctured by a knitting needle.

I was in the middle of talking, probably about the existence of men, when he inserted the uterine sound. The pain was sudden and sharp, a searing penetration deep in my body. Definitely not a pinch, definitely more like a stabbing, and unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I can’t endure this, I thought. I gasped and cried out, and the angel of a nurse put her hand on my stomach and reminded me to breathe, which I desperately needed. The pain was acute. It only lasted a few seconds, but boy did they drag on.

I caught my breath and looked at the ceiling. It makes sense why some people pass out during this procedure — I was on the precipice of a cold sweat. I braced myself for another stabbing pain, but the insertion of the actual IUD was much less intense in comparison to the sound. “Is that it?” I asked, and he confirmed he was finished. He didn’t trim the strings; he suggested letting the IUD settle first.

The pain was sudden and sharp, a searing penetration deep in my body. “I can’t endure this,” I thought.

I sat up on the exam table, relieved, then practically demanded the doctor tell me anything unique about my body that he had discovered. He had: my uterus is tipped slightly downward! Hell yes! This is the breaking news I crave! I didn’t ask how deep my uterus is, and I regret it, but I did ask about using a menstrual cup with the IUD. Once again, as in prior appointments with my gyno, I was told not to risk it. (I’m still skeptical; discuss your experiences in the comments section.)

I asked the doctor if I should avoid penetration just to be careful. He shook his head, not remotely worried. “Okay,” I clarified, “but what if it’s with a sex toy that thrusts back and forth?” Same response. Alrighty then; maybe my frantic masturbation was not as dire as I’d assumed.

He handed me a piece of the Mirena brochure, which listed a serial number. “So the government can track me,” I joked.

My dry delivery whizzed right past him. “The government isn’t tracking you,” he replied. “It’s in case there are recalls.” He wrote the expiration date on the brochure: July 8th, 2024.

This was an easy IUD insertion, according to the doctor, and indeed that seemed to be true. I wasn’t light-headed as I put my flip-flops on, and I could’ve easily driven myself home. After Aerie dropped me at my house, I curled up in bed with a heating pad, a computer game, and a glass of wine. The alcohol idea was from a family member, and honestly, it helped smooth everything out. I was crampy, but not debilitatingly so. I took it easy, read about a person who can taste words, snuggled with Boris (he loooves heating pads), and the cramps subsided by the next day.

Sometimes I’m frustrated by my body, but other times I’m proud of what it can achieve. My IUD insertion day was a proud day.

Since then, my periods have been different. The first one lasted about 2 weeks, but it wasn’t heavy, and I mostly subsisted on pantyliners. The next came on time and has also been light enough that I’ve used almost nothing — I notice some blood when I pee, but it’s nowhere near the crime scene I usually produce. Cramps ebb and flow, helpfully reminding me that I am on my period, but it’s a dry sort of period.

When I visited my gynecologist for a follow-up, I told her that I hadn’t been able to feel the IUD strings myself, and my partner’s spindly fingers hadn’t either.

“Ugh, I wish doctors would stop telling people to check for the strings!” she replied. “I could never reach mine.” It’s normal, she said. She peered into my vag and eventually found them, laid up against my cervix all stealth-like.

Now we wait, and we hope my periods dry up even more. To those morbidly curious about the clusterfuck that is the American healthcare system, the Mirena IUD itself was billed at $1,158, while the consultation, surgery, and labs totaled $390. I paid $0 because we once had a president who gave a shit about people. Thanks, Obama. Your legacy lives on in my uterus.

Jun 172019
To all the men wanting to talk their wives into sex toys Don’t you want them? Vixen Johnny and Magic Wand Original, coming at you.

I can see through you, and I don’t like what I see.

You email me under the guise of caring. Of wanting your wife to experience something new in the bedroom. You love her, your wife — you make sure to state that outright. You tell me her age, and yours, for some inexplicable reason. She’s gorgeous, and you’ve been married for many years. You’ve tried to convince her to try sex toys before, but there’s just one nagging detail: she’s not interested.

You’re a modern, enlightened man. [. . . read the rest]

May 182019
My big summer project: a blog overhaul

In middle school, while others played wall ball, I taught myself basic HTML. I was one of the kids staying inside during recess, because the internet was calling to me. I built countless websites on Geocities and Angelfire, peppering them with visually-painful neon colors, blinking text, and weirdo fonts. If I was feeling particularly saucy, maybe an embedded MIDI file that belted out a crude “Desperado.”

The cool thing about that time period is that literally nobody was looking at what I was doing on the internet.

I of course parlayed that field experience later in life with this blog, teaching myself more technical skills along the way, like CSS and how to wrangle WordPress. [. . . read the rest]

Apr 012019
Review: Vintage vibrators

Masturbating like it’s 1925 with the Polar Cub Electric Vibrator, Oster Massagett, and Vanguard Vibro-Massager

[I published this on April Fool’s Day ’cause it’s fun, but everything here is real. I tell no lies.]

The inventor of the first electrical vibrator, doctor Joseph Mortimer Granville, called his device “Granville’s Hammer” — and if that’s not obviously named by a man I don’t know what is. It was for male pain relief; he expressly didn’t want women to use it. “I have avoided, and shall continue to avoid the treatment of women by percussion,” he wrote in 1883, “simply because I do not wish to be hoodwinked, and help to mislead others, by the vagaries of the hysterical state.”

Joke’s on you, Joseph. [. . . read the rest]

Mar 242019
Review: Jellyfish 2.0 + MagmaTantus Magma, Tantus Splash, Whipspider Rubberworks Jellyfish, Uberrime Jellyfish 2.0.

Being a veteran sex toy blogger is a pretty sweet deal sometimes. I get to live to see most of my enemies disappear into the ether; I’m around as technologically-advanced sex toys become commonplace; and I’m still here when long-discontinued favorites are reborn. It’s the ciiiiiircle of liiiiiiife.

Today, what’s old is new again. Two textured dildos that have been out of production for years, the Whipspider Rubberworks Jellyfish and Tantus Splash, have risen from the dead — and my vagina is throwing a freaking all-night rager. [. . . read the rest]

Mar 192019
Giveaway: get goth with an all black vibrator!

The last vestiges of winter are stubbornly hanging on, but I know just how to melt your frozen hearts: a sex toy giveaway! My top vibrator of last year, the Fun Factory Volta, now comes in ALL BLACK and obviously, it is cause for celebration. I know many of you love a good spooky aesthetic, as do I, so when Fun Factory offered up a free black Volta for my readers, it was a no-brainer.

With its versatile fluttering tips, the Volta can please a variety of genital configurations, and the shiny black handle is just so sleek. Come, enter to win your own! [. . . read the rest]

Mar 102019
What, you don't want a dildo with your boyfriend's face on it?

Why wouldn’t you want this smug bastard smiling at you while you masturbate? He looks like the kind of guy who works in sales. Or no, tech. But he’s a team-building captain or some bullshit, so he thinks he’s above everyone else — they’re all nerdy losers. Used to wear baseball hats religiously, but ditched them in his thirties in favor of hair gel. Wears his suit jacket from work to the party, where he gets riled up about separating the art from the artist and gesticulates so hard he nearly spills his craft beer. His laugh is the kind that pierces the air suddenly, startling everyone in the room. [. . . read the rest]

Feb 262019
Review: Rumble Seat

The Jimmyjane Rumble Seat in front of my sex toy closet.

When you arrive at the sex party and present the guests with your vibrating sex chair, you don’t exactly want the response to be “that looks like a toilet.” But that’s where I was. I was the guy bringing the sex machine to the party, and my sex machine immediately turned everyone off. One guest stated bluntly, “that’s not attractive enough to fuck, not at all.” “It looks like something a toddler would sit on,” another added. Nobody disputed it.

Clearly, we were all super aroused.

The subject in question was the Jimmyjane Rumble Seat, and it was getting quite the icy reception for a contraption that retails for FOUR HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS. [. . . read the rest]

Feb 112019
Sex toy news: inclusive marketing and a vibrator with a butt

One of my favorite dildos — which was tragically discontinued years ago — has risen from the dead! Once known as the Tantus Splash, it’s now called the Magma and comes in a softer silicone. Hopefully I can still feel those stimulating drips!

Our old friend the Hitachi Magic Wand is getting another iteration, and my vulva is flushing with excitement! It’s called the Magic Wand Plus, a corded vibe with a smooth silicone head and the same settings as the Magic Wand Rechargeable, finally at a lower price point. YES YES YES.

Dame, the company responsible for the nightmare that was/is the Eva, has released the kind of toy I suggested people buy instead of the Eva: a simple, compact rechargeable vibe. [. . . read the rest]

Toronto Escorts

/* ]]> */