Review: the Famous Fleshlight

Posted on June 3, 2009 in swag | 4 Comments

This episode of fucking with gender is brought to you by Babeland, one of the most fabulous feminist, woman-friendly, gender-friendly, and queer-friendly sex toy stores, and the (in)famous male sex toy: the Fleshlight.

Oh boy. Where do I begin?

the caramel color

I’ve never fully written up the Mr. Man dildo – or the ‘blow job cock,’ as I tend to think of it – so let me introduce you to that first. Because without Mr. Man, I have even less use for a Fleshlight.

Mr. Man is by Jollies, and is 8.5″ long (6″ insertable) and 1.75″ in diameter, with balls that hang in front of the base, in front of the harness’s o-ring. The first draft of this cock was not made to go into a harness (you may’ve seen some of those reviews from some other sexblog folks last summer), but let me assure you, this one can strap on just fine. It is dense silicone, hard plastic but high quality, not very squishy but sterilizable, and it comes in “realistic” colors of chocolate, caramel, and vanilla.

The real kicker is this: it has a shallow indentation at the base made to go over the wearer’s clit, and a hollow center, a narrow tube down the middle from tip to base, which means when sucked, the wearer can feel pressure at the bottom. Yes, you can actually get off from a blow job with this cock.

Kristen (ever the willing co-toy-reviewer, I so appreciate that about her) says it’s actually a lot of work to keep that much pressure going while working on this cock. We’ve played with it quite a bit (remember the Rocking Chair Blow Job? Featured this cock) but I don’t usually grab for it when I want to get blown – since I got the Bandit I tend to go for that one. But that doesn’t mean this cock still doesn’t hold a certain thrill – oh lord it does – and I would list it in my top 10 toys, for sure.

I personally have never come this way. But damn, it feels goooood to feel her mouth working on me. I’ve often wondered how I could perhaps get better at using the Mr. Man, so I could come more easily. And I think that’s where I first came to the idea of playing with a Fleshlight or another guy’s toy, to practice the feeling of pressure on my clit that the Mr. Man creates, and see if there are perhaps better positions, or angles, or something, that make it easier for me to get off.

So I jumped on the chance when Babeland offered it up.

First, some information (copied from Babeland’s site): The Fleshlight is 8 inches in length with a removable base for greater length or vibe insertion. Made of phthalate-free “Reel Feel Super Skin.” The diameter is variable, 1/2″ x 3-1/2″. (The “reel feel super skin” part means it is NOT sterilizable, but it tends to be a solo toy, so unless you’re sharing, that probably doesn’t matter. Just something to note.) The inner part – the pink part – comes totally out of the case and can be turned inside-out for cleaning, which should be with warm water. In order to keep it soft, like many of the other “real skin” toys, it should be dusted with cornstarch.

I know, I know, you want to know that good stuff. What did it feel like to stick my dick in it? Did it feel like fucking? Was it possible to get off?

I could definitely feel it – the Fleshlight did create enough suction to pull on the Mr. Man and feel it in my clit. But I didn’t get off that way, and after a while (a few minutes at least, my hand was getting awfully tired) I keep getting increasingly frustrated – why not just use my hand?! It feels like … the cock and the Fleshlight are just in the way. And my hand gets really fucken tired – it’s a pretty tight fit, as you can imagine my cock doesn’t have any give to it, really, so sometimes it’s really tight and a lot of work to get it in and out.

It really wasn’t the fireworks I was hoping for.

But then, I ran across Babeland’s How To Use The Fleshlight guide, and that helped. Read some reviews of it, too, and that made a difference. I soaked it in warm water before using, and I lubed it up a lot better than I had before, which made it more pliable and easier to fuck. I tried it out in as many positions as I could think of, and thrusting into it rather than moving it on my cock is better, but problematic, and still a bit uncomfortable.

I like the idea of having it mounted somewhere, or between the mattresses, or somewhere stationary, but uh, that’s kind of more like fucking a real person, I guess, which is why it feels better. I know it’s not like all of us can just go, “hm, do I want to fuck the Fleshlight, or should I fuck this attractive chick, here?” I assume there’d be no contest. But for me, the options are more like, okay, do I want to wait until I can fuck a real person strapped-on, and get off with my hands actually touching my clit, or do I want to fuck the Fleshlight? And that’s a pretty easy answer.

I haven’t written it off entirely, and there is something about the genderfuckery of it all that is very appealing – and hot. I think I’m kind of hard to get off, in general, and this doesn’t really seem to make it any easier, so while I might get occasionally inspired to get back to it and try something else, I don’t think I’ll use it regularly.

I’m so glad I got a chance to try it, though. I never would’ve known, and I always would’ve wondered.

4 Comments | Category: swag | Tags: babeland, babeland is my favorite, blow jobs, boy toys for butches, butch cock, masturbation, mr. man, strapping it on, swag, the blow job cock

Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part 1)

Posted on February 16, 2009 in stories to turn you on, sugarbutch star | 31 Comments

Did you forget about the Sugarbutch Star Contest? I didn’t – not that you could tell, since the last story was in October. I’ve been working on this one since I finished Maze. Here’s part one – part two will come later this week.

Sugarbutch Star: Matt
ALL FIVE SENSES

It started in the Brooklyn library, the back row, the classics section; the air so thick with ink and brittle paper and crumbling paste. I pick up a worn leather copy of Antigone, its cover so oiled down with decades of fingers and hands opening, turning its pages, breaking its spine. So soft it feels like suede.

I sit on the industrial carpet and flip it open, easily absorbed: Nothing painful is there, nothing fraught with ruin, no shame, no dishonor, that I have not seen in thy woes and mine.

When I look up, a few minutes later, there she is: sitting on the floor in a row I can hardly see, at first she is only visible by her bare legs on the dirty carpet, seated like I am on the floor, knees all bent, one tucked under her gray skirt which is a small mess of cover for her thighs. I slowly shift my body further into the aisle. Her back is to me, and she holds up a mirror in front of her – I catch glimpses of her face reflected. The dark nerdy frames of her glasses, the line of her jaw, her chin, then her mouth.

She takes out a tube of lipstick, twirls it erect, and paints the perfect outline of her lips. Slow, real slow. She presses them together and presses them forward in a kiss, makes an O with her mouth and touches just the tip of her finger to the edge.

I hold my breath.

I find my hand brought up to my face without really noticing. Pads of my fingers against the butch stubble on my chin, I didn’t shave this morning, I didn’t think I’d need to, and now the tiny hairs are strong as teeth and my fingertips are burned with the day-old five o’clock shadow. I watch the soft smooth pillow of her lips over her shoulder in the mirror. I imagine smearing that lipstick across her cheek with my thumb, hard enough that the trail of red would feel like it was made without paint.

Carpeting scratching at the palms of my hand, I’m leaning so far forward that if I was in a movie, this is the moment I would knock over a pile of books and she’d look up at the crash. Instead, I feel a tickle in my nose and the ink and paper and dust smell is suddenly amplified. I scurry back to my small stack of collected books and satchel, but I don’t get to my handkerchief in time, and I let out a strong sudden sneeze.

“Bless you,” I hear, softly, from across the aisle. I can hear each letter in her words. I imagine the way her red mouth looks forming the shapes of the sounds.

I swallow, blow my nose gently, mumble, “Thanks.” I don’t look back over to her, but go back to the library stacks, sifting through the Dewey decimal numbers on the spines, fingering the worn covers, the different textures, letting my fingers stroke the books as I take a few steps and follow the books around the corner.

Soon I’m in the next aisle from her. I can see right through it and I try to justify that I’m here looking for books, classics, something to support a recent article’s thesis that there were some butch/femme roles for women in ancient Greece and Rome. The library is so quiet, I can hear when she shifts on the floor, still reading, now with her back to the stacks of books and both feet on the floor, knees bent and separated, short skirt sliding up her thighs.

I’m going to get caught, I know it.

But it is as if hands are pressing on my shoulders and I sink lower, eyes wide, praying my knees won’t creak or pop as I crouch, strain my eyes to get a look at her thighs. I quickly grab a big picture book out of the stack to flip through, to cover up my voyeurism.

She’s pinching her dark brown hair that is falling over her shoulder between thumb and forefinger, swirling her fingers around it, twisting. I see her eyes darting across the page of the book she’s holding in her other hand, the cover against her thighs. I can’t tell what the book is, but it looks modern, it does not live in the dust of the classics section, it is paperback and skinny.

She glances to where I just was and sees my small stack of books, but she lost track of me. Her eyebrows curl for just a moment, and she glances around the other direction but there’s no one there either. We’re alone – she thinks she’s alone. I hold my breath and try not to move. I know it’s voyeristic of me, but she is in public. She must know someone could possibly see her. That must be part of the thrill.

She shifts, knees together, pulls her feet closer to her body, and I catch the sight of her simple white cotton panties between her legs, thin, so thin I can nearly see through them. She pushes her skirt up her thighs just a bit farther and slides her hand into them. The fabric strains.

Her fingers move slowly and she keeps her eyes on the pages of the book. Clearly a good one, I wonder what she’s reading, if its contents are queer or kinky, if she’s thinking about the taste of sweat and salty skin, the sounds of moans that emerge out of places where bodies collide, the sight of a fist disappearing at the wrist, the sting of an open-palm smack on the ass or cheek or cunt, the scent of desire, like musk, like the ocean, like a fertile ground.

Her fingers move faster. Hair falls into her eyes and her jaw drops open just a little. (Really, this is really happening?) Her lips pinken, eyelids flutter as her eyes dart across the page. Her strong thighs are quivering a little and I can see if I fucked her she’d want them pressed together, bent deep at the hips. It’s the way her knees want to close but her hand is in the way.

My hand goes to my zipper. (Should I?) Hard packing today, as I often do on weekends, just for me, to feel the weight and bulk between my legs, the strain of the seam of my jeans. No one has to know, no one usually does; just a private, personal experience between me and my cock. I run my finger down the shaft of it, through my jeans, remember its girth as I watch her bite her lip, hand still moving slow and vigorous between her legs. I thumb the head, the little ridge, catch it in the instep of my hand between thumb and forefinger. I get enough of a grip to press it back into my clit and start pulsing against it.

I feel a stab of guilt and fight the impulse to unbuckle, unzip. Nearly unbearable. I can barely breathe.

She’s getting lost in the sensations, spreading from her pelvis to her thighs and belly and down and up. Her breathing is getting faster, hand is faster between her legs, fingers working her clit, I can see through the thin white cotton through the stacks of books. She leans her head back and closes her eyes entirely, lets the book start to slip from her lap as her thighs squeeze and close and she presses her hips forward. I have a perfect visualization of how her back would arch if she was on her stomach on my bed, ass in the air, thighs and knees strong together, my own hand buried in her cunt.

I stroke my own cock harder and feel my breath quicken to match hers. She’s gasping as she breathes in, I can hear her. I watch her hips buck, face flushing, as she comes in a quiet flourish, calm and sudden, eyes closed, head bent back. She brings her fingers to her lips and sucks, then opens her eyes, looking straight forward for the first time, right at me.

Panic. Does she see me? She glances right back down to her book as her eyelids flutter and adjusts her skirt and glasses, gives herself a minute to catch her breath, picks up her book and purse, and, slightly wobbly on her feet, leaves the classics section.

I let out a breath, lean back against the stacks, take my hand out of my pants, zip up, and head toward the checkout.

It’s nearly dark outside by the time I gather all my things and make it through the line. I finger the spines of the books and flip my wallet in the palm of my hand, remembering my cock just minutes before, thinking of this girl and her strong legs, swift fingers.

That should’ve been the end of that.

But ten minutes later, picking up take-out extra-hot red curry at my favorite thai place, I hear behind me: “Well, well.”

… continue reading Part Two of All Five Senses.

31 Comments | Category: stories to turn you on, sugarbutch star | Tags: exhibitionism, girls who wear glasses, library, masturbation, nerdy sex, sugarbutch star contest, voyeurism, white cotton panties

Protected: how to do me right

Posted on September 6, 2007 in Joy | Enter your password to view comments.

Enter your password to view comments. | Category: Joy | Tags: dating, masturbation, tools

for a good cause

Posted on May 24, 2007 in PSA | 2 Comments

So, the Masturbate-a-Thon is this weekend – Saturday, in fact. Why have I completely missed that May is (annually!) Masturbation Month? Usually I am well aware of this fact ahead of time. I have in fact participated in the Masturbate-a-thon three times in the past. I’d love to do it again.Also? On the Masturbate-a-Thon webpage is a fabulous little musical ditty by the Wet Spots: “masturbation, it’s okay, we all get to do it in a special way …” which then goes on to describe the different ways various animals masturbate … porcupines, a lioness, a spider monkey …

The Wet Spots – a “sophisticated sex comedy” duo – are somewhat infamous now from their YouTube video Do you take it (in the ass)?, so I was happy to run across their webpage & their other work.

But. Back to the subject at hand: masturbation.

I’ve actually been feeling somewhat scared & traumatized about masturbation lately. Don’t get me wrong – let me explain. Not to get too into my own private … um, practice, but I usually don’t really have any hangups or issues or blocks when it comes to getting off. I just do it, it’s pretty easy (I do know what I like, after all) and that’s that.

But lately? Since the breakup. I just haven’t been able to do it. Haven’t been “in the mood”, no, which is fine, I’m not rushing it, but sometimes I guess I kinda have been in the mood, or at least, I’ve been at home alone for multiple hours, which in a usual case scenario would involve me getting off, at least once.

But now … when I get turned on, I think of her. I still have so many bodily memories of her, of us together, especially when it comes to sex, which is where she was at her most raw, and where I was at my most … perfect. Everything snapped right into place. Jigsaw pieces. I knew exactly how to read her, how to respond to her body, her eyes, her movements, how to shift myself, how to take, how to give. I’ve never had anything like that, I miss it.

It’s hard to write that, actually. Hard to feel that grief well up in my chest. Impossible to feel it, when I’m also simultaneously trying to get off.

Her fantasies wove themselves deep in me. She tapped into so many things that I wanted, so much of my desire. It’s hard not to think of sexy things when getting off, and sexy things, right now, for me, are, well, her.

I’ll unlearn that, right? I’ll find other women attractive again, someday, somehow?

I used to walk down the street and just swoon, fall in love with every third girl, and it’s summer now, god, the strappy sandals and swirly skirts and bare legs … I have been so easily influenced by the sidewalk parade of femininity the last two summers I’ve spent here in New York City.

But this time? Barely. An occasional redhead catches my eye. An occasional perfectly shaped ankle, or swishing skirt. I even worry that if – when – I get back into bed with a girl, I’m going to freeze up, thinking of her (or saying her name, lord).

There really is a very small, small percentage of the population to which I am attracted. Femme women, yes, but even more specifically: poise. Legs. Posture. The way she looks when nobody’s looking at her.

I guess this comes back to a new resolution of mine, which is to date myself. For a year, approximately. I will be in an open relationship with myself, which means I am free to date other people too, but I am going to be my primary partner. I am going to focus on my needs, emotionally, creatively, sexually. I am going to take myself out to fancy dinners on occasion, to films, to museums, to days in the park. If there’s one thing this relationship has taught me it’s that I am good – good – at seduction, at courtship, and I am going to turn my own charms inward and see if I can sweep myself off my feet.

2 Comments | Category: PSA | Tags: activism, community, masturbation, strappy sandals

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