Sex toys. Big, black, double-ended bum-worriers. Possibly.
On sex toys, airport security, Victorian medicine and dishwasher maintenance.
Stories of queer life and even queer-er sex.
Always interesting, definitely amusing, Probably True - the repeatedly-award-winning, slightly filthy storytelling project tackling LGBTQ issues in a fun and engaging way.
Much like its creator, it is a smutty-but-charming collection of personal misadventures working to make the world a better place, one silly, sexy story at a time.
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I’m probably not the best person to talk about stuff like this, to be honest. I mean, I did recently have a lump of silicone stuck inside me for the best part of a week. It was only one of those earplugs that you have to roll into a sausage and squidge into your earhole, but still, it broke off while it was in there.
If that’s the kind of luck I have with shoving things into my body, I can only imagine the sort of thing that’ll happen with anything bigger. And the doctor probably won’t be able to get it out with some tweezers and a bit of suction. At least, I hope not. Jesus. I mean, the ear doctor was rummaging around in there for a good half hour before I could hear properly again. I don’t want to think about anything else in anywhere else…
Anyway. Toys. And when you think of sex toys, your mind automatically goes to massive black dildos and cocks of all different sizes and shapes. Well, my mind does. That’s normal. I’m almost certain.
I don’t have a lot of advice in that area, to be honest. I should learn and get back to you. Maybe that’ll be something for season 5...
I mean, the first sex toy I got, I only owned it for about an hour. One of the companies I used to work for did a leaving party for me and another girl, as we’d started at around the same time, and were leaving in the same month, too. She was about to give birth, and I was sick of the place and ready to burn it to the ground.
So they threw us a joint leaving party, and there were gifts and everything. It was really sweet. She got a ton of new baby clothes and shares in the company. I got a £20 vibrator from Anne Summers and one of those shitty tray-cakes that I had to share with everyone at the party. It wasn’t even a Colin the Caterpillar. And the vibrator they bought me had a ‘clitoral stimulation’ arm on is, and I’m damn sure I don’t need one of those. So, after I’d hugged everyone goodbye, and there’d been a few tears, I walked around the corner, threw the dildo in the nearest bin and blocked all of their numbers on my phone. I was going to make a joke about how it started rattling around in there as I walked away, but they hadn’t even sprung for the batteries, so you’ll just have to imagine that bit.
So, yeah, that was my first vibrator. I”ve been meaning to buy a proper one since, or maybe a few in different sizes and start working my way up, but I haven’t yet. I’m not sure I’d like it. But that is the key, apparently - start off small and work your way up. Don’t go vaulting straight onto something the size and shape of a traffic cone or you’ll do yourself an injury, and have to explain it to those nice nurses at A&E.
Even the Victorians knew to start small. I saw a set of increasingly-sized victorian buttplugs, recently. Starting with a little tiny dinky one, and working up to what can only be described as a whopper. Apparently the cure in the 1800s for everything from seizures to depression was cocaine and vibrators.
“Oh, Doctor, you ‘ave to ‘elp me - I’ve got the vapours sommin chronic!”
“Ah, yes, malady of our age, I’m afraid, Mrs Stephens. Nothing to to be done other than some self-stimulation and a lot of hardcore drugs. Stick this up your nose, and this up yer chuff, or even the other around. Fuck it. Why not? Mind how you go, and call me in the morning.”
I mean. Going to the doctors with mental health issues back then must have been amazing. “We’ve got your results back, Mister Jones, and it turns out that your brain is being what we in the medical profession call “haunted”. Now, there’s no proven cure at this time, however, there is a rather experimental treatment available, where one gets completely off one’s tits until the ghosts decide to leave. Let’s give that a try, shall we?”
I have a friend who lives in the states who is very into his kink. Like, very into that stuff. Whenever he comes to London, he brings a backpack with his clothes in, and a huge, wheely case that’s just full of… implements. He finds it very funny to have to explain things to the customs people when they search his bag, which happens without fail. Because if I saw a bag full of kinky sex things, my firth thought would definitely be “Ah, yes, almost certainly a terrorist. All the signs are there.”
I’m very sex-positive, as you know. I wouldn’t currently be sitting in a cupboard with a hangover talking about dildos if I wasn’t, but I don’t know how I’d manage in that sort of situation. I always feel awkward enough having to put a couple of sachets of lube into the see-through toiletries bag when I go through secruity. Couldn’t imagine having to stand there while they x-rayed my bags and found a 12-inch double-ended bum-worrier.
Yeah, I don’t have a lot of experience, but I’d say go for it. Try something out, see how you feel. Just start of gently and small. Always the best way. And if you’re not sure, find someone who knows who can play with you.
It doesn’t have to be stuff you stick up your bum, of course. There’s plenty of other sorts of toys, too. Like, fleshlights, for example. They’re kinda toys that are the opposite of dildos. Rather than being something you stick in yourself, they’re designed for you to stick bits of yourself into. If you catch my drift. They’re usually made of softer rubber, so it feels a bit more “real” as you pop yourself in. Apparently the best way to do it if you’re by yourself is to tuck it under a couple of cushions on your bed, and then hump away at it, as it there were some disinterested lover laying rigidly beneath you. So, just like the real thing.
Speaking of just like the real thing, have you seen the dildos and stuff you can get that are casts of porn stars’ real-life willies? So you’ll know what it’s like to be shagged by that particular porn star. At least, you’d know what it was like if he was made of rubber, had no body at all and only worked if you stuck two double-A batteries up him…
Apparently you can get fleshlights that are modelled on real people, too, although I think that might just be more of an endorsement, rather than actually feeling the way the inside of a porn star feels. I mean, how would you know? It’s not like you could recognise someone from that. As if you could close your eyes, slide inside and be like Richard? Is that you? I’d know that sphincter anywhere!
So yeah, I'm sure fleshlights can be fun. At least, until you have to wash them out, or empty them, or whatever you do. I think it would be slightly obvious to head for the shower in the morning with the thing tucked under your arm. You’re bound to bump into a housemate, and other than directly addressing the issue with a “Yes, this is a rubber thing that I fucked earlier while thinking about Jason Momoa. And how are you today?” Although that would be less awkward than a housemate catching some entirely inappropriate and unattractive late-night booty-call leaving your room the next morning. I imagine.
Maybe you can just pop your fleshlight in the dishwasher to clean it? Probably not. I mean, the wine glasses come out of the dishwasher covered in white streaks as it is, without adding something like that...
I dated a guy, a few years ago. Who was gorgeous. Turkish, arty, stunningly handsome and great in bed. He had a really intense way of looking at me while we were going at it, as if he were actually there in the moment with me and not just closing his eyes and thinking about someone hotter. It almost put me off my stride… He had a fleshlight, and one morning after I’d stayed at his, we played with it together. Which was a bit frustrating, to be honest. I’d much rather have shagged him again, rather than essentially watching him have a wank into a rubber sleeve. Still, his body was crazy hot, so we both had fun. Only then he rolled over and fell asleep, and I had to get up for work. So I thought I should probably clean it up. Long story short, I ended up leaving him a note on his pillow that read “Hey, Hope you slept well. I had a great time last night, I’d love to see you again. xx Ps, your vagina’s in the sink.”