Piph Lube, with the glitter settled at the bottom, in front of my sex toy closet. The idea, like all the best ideas, came to me while I was stoned. Lying in bed, half-asleep, it just popped into my head: my April Fool’s joke this year would be a fake lube containing ridiculous and very #me ingredients such as pinot grigio, Portland rain water, and of course, weed. If I wanted my fake lube to seem as believable as possible, I needed some help from my favorite sex toy retailer. SheVibe, the absolute darlings, readily agreed — to design the label, to source the bottles, and to create an actual product page on their site. I was gonna go all the . . . read more

Cupcake butt plug and Shilo. The cliché is true — it feels like just yesterday and like forever ago. This week marks 10 years since I first published a review of a sex toy on the internet. It was fall 2007, my junior year of college. That summer, I’d moved out of the dorms and into my first apartment. I was 20 years old, almost 21. If you’d asked me what my career was going to be, I would’ve hesitated and posited, “…writer? I hope?” A cautious optimism underneath which lied a practical fear. A fear that I could never make a living with writing, that I’d end up in an office job, probably, and that the only skill I’d spent my . . . read more

I’ve had to come out to my parents more than once. When I was 14, I wrote them a letter confessing that I was in love with my female best friend. Almost exactly 5 years ago, I revealed that I was a sex blogger. Then, a little while later, I told them I was non-monogamous and introduced them to my girlfriend, Aerie. (My other partner is my boyfriend of 12 years.) While some parents might begrudgingly acknowledge these identities, my parents go beyond that. My mom, in particular, is remarkable. She doesn’t realize how radical it is for her to embrace who I am with not just acceptance, but active encouragement and genuine love. She’s a very “live and let live” . . . read more

This is the stuff dreams are made of — my dreams at least. This, friends, is my majestic sex toy closet. The culmination of years of collecting, organizing, and fantasizing. It is here where I store my gigantic sex toy collection, which is rapidly nearing 600. How did I get here? Well, shockingly, one does not amass enough sex toys to fill a walk-in closet overnight. In fact, nine years ago, my sex toy collection lived in a single cardboard box under my desk. As I began reviewing more, the toys graduated to a purple zippered storage case, and later to a herd of similar cases. This was an adequate but ineffective long-term system, so when I needed more space, I . . . read more

I never know my name anymore. A few months ago, I was at sex educator friend’s party getting high out of a homemade bong and listening to Dark Side of the Moon. It was the most high school moment of my life — particularly so because, aside from meeting boys off the internet in mall parking garages, I never did anything terribly forbidden in high school. Amidst dramatic readings of Sextrology and attempts at acting out #buttstuff in charades, a woman I’d never met arrived at the party and asked my name. As I often do these days, I hesitated. The same thing happened at the airport coming home from Woodhull, when the restaurant hostess asked for a name to reserve a table. It happened when I . . . read more

Time to come clean: my review of the tiny dildos was an April Fool’s joke. I think most of you knew that, except maybe that one whiny dude in the comments section: (Always and forever, these are my favorite types of comments to get on my April Fool’s jokes.) First I have to credit my mom, who helped me come up with the concept. Way back in January, I got snowed in at my parents’ house, which obviously meant naked mother/daughter hot tubbing. Somehow we hit upon the topic of tiny dildos, and I realized “reviewing” them would make a perfect April Fool’s Day joke. She heartily endorsed it, and moments after toweling off, I was writing down ideas. But . . . read more

It’s still surreal to say. I’m published. My name. Epiphora. On the pages of a book. Followed by my words — about dongs, no less. It’s not something I’ll be showing to my high school journalism teacher at his retirement party next month, but that doesn’t make it less meaningful. In fact, this book is a special sort of validation of my work as a sex writer. My mom already made me order a copy for her — and sign it. Best Sex Writing of the Year, Volume 1 was edited by Jon Pressick, whom interviewed me flawlessly for his Sex City Radio show last year. I submitted several pieces for consideration: “The 2 Weeks of My Sex Life I Lost to Zoloft,” “My Vagina is a Black . . . read more

Aerie greets me at the airport with a bouquet of hand-drawn sex toys. Eleven toys, all of them my favorites, with green pipe cleaner stems. On the romance scale, this may surpass the CD that my boyfriend made for one of our anniversaries which included a Tegan & Sara cover and 5 minutes of our cat purring into a microphone. – – – Aerie lives in a swanky condo on the third level. It has sparkling wooden floors, kitchen appliances that beep at you if you don’t do their bidding, and best of all, air conditioning. We make delicious coffee in the morning with a hand grinder and a french press. Their bed is swathed in comfy grey sheets and pillows. I feel like I’m in a . . . read more

I got my chance to tell my parents about my work sooner than I expected. They invited me over for dinner, and something kept saying to me, “this is time.” So I bought a tiny bottle of Absolut Citron, made a playlist for my iPod, set up my ancient phone so I could send texts to Twitter, and drove. I felt oddly at ease. I had expected my mind to race with the myriad ways of explaining to my parents that I have a sex blog, but I didn’t obsess. I only had time for seven songs, but it was a good mix — “Here, Here, and Here” by Meg & Dia, “Independence” by The Band Perry, “Leave” by R.E.M., . . . read more