Below you’ll find all of the sex toy reviews I’ve written at Of Sex and Love. Find my opinions on vibrators, dildos, media (sex education books, porn, DVDs and erotica), bondage and BDSM gear, lingerie, anal toys, lube, massage products, and more!
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I Love BDSM
$5.99
from Amazon
From my experiences with Ayzad’s books, I would struggle to adequately do him justice as an author. I jumped into the deep end with the first book I read by him BDSM: A Guide for Explorers of Extreme Eroticism that’s an encyclopedic wealth of information for those who are really into BDSM and knowledge in general. But that tome would be intimidating for someone who either isn’t sure about their interest or even the topic in general. Ayzad’s newest book, I Love BDSM falls on the other end of the spectrum. Ayzad kept this book fairly brief at just 124 pages, some of which include photos or illustrations, and his adoration for BDSM shines through. Both of these things make the book approachable. Further lending to the accessibility is the conversational tone he uses.
While other books teach technical skills, and BDSM: A Guide for Explorers of Extreme Eroticism is certainly one of them, I Love BDSM focuses more on how BDSM can be personally fulfilling and rewarding within relationships. That angle can be appealing to those who might be dipping a toe in the water and wondering why they are–or anyone else is–attracted to the idea of erotic power exchange. I think the bold title of this book and the tone Ayzad uses in it both emphasize that BDSM can be a positive in someone’s life.
It’s reasonable that someone who first stumbles upon BDSM through Fifty Shades of Grey or some other media that’s not entirely realistic might decide to further research and happen upon I Love BDSM. For this, this book is a great introduction, not just for the aforementioned reasons but for the way it spells out the definition of BDSM while emphasizing that the images some people conjure of BDSM are devoid of context or downright wrong. Ayzad makes a poignant argument that the same happens with vanilla sex all the time, and we should be wary not to do the same with BDSM. As he says,
The only trick is to remember that the basis of any relationship – even the most casual ones – is always people.
While not about technical skills, I Love BDSM does not gloss over the potential risks and need to proceed safely. It discusses negotiation and safe words, for example. But this section, like all of them in the book, is short, and I worry that some might read only this book and think it’s enough before diving in fully. This isn’t to say anything against Ayzad or his book; some people just always bite off more than they can chew.
After safety, the book includes a section on finding partners both online and off before dedicating a chapter each to bondage, domination and discipline, submission, and sensory exploration. Ayzad opted to move away from “sadism” and “masochism” for this book. I think the effect may be more inviting and less intimidating for someone who is unfamiliar with BDSM, and it’s actually a great descriptor for many activities enjoyed by kinksters. Still, it did throw me for a loop to see the acronym changed up.
Each chapter includes brief descriptions of the people, tools, and skills that might be involved in the specific activity. For example, Ayzard illustrates basic ties in the chapter on bondage and the desired traits of a submissive in that respective chapter. It’s all enough to give an idea and perhaps leave the reader wanting more without droning on. By the time I Love BDSM nears completion, Ayzad assumes that the reader will be ready to try their first not-super-intense scene. Presumably, the reader has gotten that far and feels the same, even if they’re not sure whether this whole BDSM thing is for them.
By now, it might be apparent that I struggled to read this book as someone who might just be coming to terms with the idea of BDSM or their interest in it. I want something meatier, with more science (Ayzad hasn’t ignored research on BDSM; it’s just scant). I Love BDSM isn’t that book but, of course, it’s not intended to be. This is the book that you read before you set out to engage in BDSM in your relationship or local community. You might (read: should) pick up a few more books before you get to that point. And if you stick with it, you might eventually find more Ayzad books on your proverbial shelf.
I’ve also considered how this BDSM primer stands out from other similar books. As Kinky as You Wanna Be: Your Guide to Safe, Sane and Smart BDSM comes to mind; although, these two are far from the only examples in the genre. One way in which Ayzad makes a name for himself is through his real-life experience as a BDSM practitioner and a member–and leader–of his local community. It can seem a little old-school when so much information is available for free online that one doesn’t necessarily need to seek out community to learn.
But Ayzad reminds the reader that not all of that information is accurate. Community can provide safety and hands-on knowledge that would otherwise be missed. Whether someone lives in a city with a thriving community or, like myself, would need to travel for hours to find one, certainly impacts how applicable certain information is, of course.
Another notable difference is the inclusion of black-and-white photos. I could go either way on them, but it probably lends to the air of approachability that Ayzad was going for. The illustrations of different knots/ties are useful, however, but the links to Ayzad’s videos are even more useful. This brings me to my next point.
I Love BDSM feels like it’s only meant to be a digital book. Some passages are highlighted in pink that matches the heart on the cover. Furthermore, Ayzad includes links to other resources, including illustrative videos and articles on his website. This puts additional information at the reader’s fingertips, but I would have preferred footnotes or a list, which would make it easier to see them all at a glance at the end of the book. The link icons make the book a bit messier than I prefer, and you might not realize how helpful they are if you focus on reading rather than clicking them.
Similarly, while Ayzad links to a section of recommended books on his site, I would have found it easier for him to list a few in I Love BDSM.
Finally, because so many of the links go to Ayzad’s own website, it feels a little self-promotional. Of course, there are many helpful articles, and it’s one way to ensure the links remain relevant, but I can’t but wonder if it could have been done differently. Something just a bit more refined or including some other resources, perhaps?
So where does that leave us? I Love BDSM would be ideal for someone who has never read any books about BDSM, but they should remember to broaden their educational horizons beyond this one title (and that’s true for anyone interested in BDSM). It’s a good introduction but less useful as a resource for those who are more knowledgeable and experienced unless they want an easy read to recommend to newbies.
There isn’t much to lose by purchasing this book, however. Even if it doesn’t introduce much new content, I Love BDSM costs less than $6 on Amazon.
It’s still masturbation May, and I am here to give you the first sex toy review in over two years and my first dual stimulator review since 2018 if you count the ridiculous toy Gvibe 2. Otherwise, you need to head way back into the archives to 2014 to find any sort of traditional rabbit vibrator (and it’s actually a butterfly).
Do you all remember the last time I wrote about air suction toys? I’ll forgive you if you don’t. It’s been almost four years! And I wasn’t particularly impressed, so I didn’t write a raving review. I quietly figured these toys weren’t for me until just recently. I figured that maybe the technology had improved, my body had changed, or I had simply used cheaper toys the first time around. This time, I was going to try a premium toy by Womanizer, one of the first companies to make clitoral suction toys, and Lovehoney. That’s how I wound up with the InsideOut, a dual stimulator that combines internal vibrators with clitoral suction, in my hands.
Womanizer X Lovehoney InsideOut
$149.99
from Lovehoney
This toy doesn’t look like ye old rabbit vibrators, of which I tried quite a few before eventually backing away, too. I am sensing a theme here. The InsideOut does look quite bulky due to the clitoral stimulator. And the shaft, while described as for G-spot stimulation, doesn’t have any texture or much contouring. There’s a very similar toy, the Duo, with a shaft that looks a bit more interesting.
This toy doesn’t come charged like so many, so I had to charge it. It’s interesting because the charging light is inside the toy and easy to miss. It turns green when charging and appears red when powered on, making no sense because the nozzle blocks the light. What a strange and unhelpful design choice!
So how is it in use?
The InsideOut runs into the same problems that separately plague both dual stimulators and suction toys: no two bodies are exactly alike. It’s why so many reviewers quickly gave up on rabbit vibrators. It’s also why Womanizer sends multiple nozzles with its toys. InsideOut came with two to ensure the best fit.
My first go ’round with the InsideOut was a bit ill-advised. I was clearly not aroused enough. I didn’t use enough lube–or perhaps the wrong kind, and the thin shaft felt.. pokey. Furthermore, while I never felt like I got the proper seal, the suction was uncomfortable and overwhelming. I figured I’d give it a second go in the future.
A few erotica stories later with my body more aroused, I was ready to give this toy a second shot. This time, I used a thicker lube, and the shaft of the InsideOut was much more comfortable.
I am happy to report that the base, which initially seemed quite bulky, does effectively rest atop my thighs if I want a hands-free experience. If this toy works for you, you can sit back and let the toy do the work. In this position, the buttons face up, which makes them accessible but not viewable to me. I do wish the buttons were more distinct, both from the rest of the toy and from each other–each function has a + and – button, and you can operate the functions separately. The + buttons are raised, but the – buttons are inset and difficult for my fingers to find easily. The diamond layout also makes it a bit harder to discern which set of buttons I’m pushing.
I still find the general shape of the shaft to be rather bland. I think this was exacerbated by the fact that this toy is supposed to be all “Set it and forget it.” Womanizer highlights the contact-less usability of these dual stimulators. Still, I’ve always liked pressure and motion, both of which are limited with the InsideOut just as they are like Lelo’s Ora and most rabbit vibrators. If you move the external portion too much, you break the seal. Although, I have to admit that I never achieved the sort of seal that I was expecting with either of the nozzles. They’re easy to swap out and remove for cleaning, however.
Furthermore, the suction of this toy is ridiculously, distractingly loud. Like, I can’t believe it made it through quality control. I would have sent someone back to the drawing board. We’re not talking Hitachi levels of volume, but you can’t hear the vibrations at all when the suction is on. Combined with the fact that the vibrations are quite weak and buzzy, even on maximum, and this isn’t a good look. I honestly had to turn off the suction to even tell if the vibrations were on.
Once aroused, I no longer found the clitoral suction overwhelming. In fact, at points, I found it to be the exact opposite, perhaps due to me preferring pressure. And while the shaft was no pokey, it didn’t do much, and it still felt uncomfortably.. long? It’s only 4.5 inches long, but it’s so narrow, and you need to ensure the base is lined up properly, too. It didn’t just completely miss my G-spot, it targeted my cervix like an expert swordsman (I guess, I’m no medieval princess) and left me a bit crampy afterward.
Now, it might be due to the distance between my clitoris and vaginal opening, which requires me to insert the toy full to make contact externally. The base of the toy runs more parallel to my body than perpendicular. Some people with a shorter distance might be able to bend the shaft more, which means the base would be at more of an angle. But then I imagine you’d have to force the shaft against the back wall of your vagina, and that would be uncomfortable, too. I just want something a little plusher and more filling.
Anyway, by the end, I managed to get myself off. Not hands-free, of course. I rocked the base as much as possible against my body to get the pressure that I needed, but my orgasm was all due to my own efforts and not because of anything the toy brought to the table. If that’s going to be the case, I might as well reach for a standard vibrator.
Despite every effort by Lovehoney and Womanizer, the InsideOut doesn’t manage to avoid the pitfalls of a dual stimulator. Indeed, it actually manages to make them a bit worse because you don’t simply need to press a bullet against your clitoris, you need to line up the nozzle perfectly.
This doesn’t mean that InsideOut won’t work for anyone. In fact, many people might have bodies that are just more receptive to what this toy does, and hopefully, those people who you (or don’t) will stumble across this review and find it helpful.
To All The Places I've Had Sex Before
$18.99
from Laux
Going back to school has left me with little time for leisure reading. I anticipated that hobbies such as video games would take a back seat, but I’ve been such an avid reader over the last few years that I didn’t see it coming. But with as much reading as I have to do for my classes, I haven’t wanted to do much else of it.
Fortunately, my second semester has provided me a bit more time to read for pleasure. Even more fortunately for me, my to-review shelf includes some very interesting books. To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before is no exception, but let me back up.
A lot of books about sex–or containing the word in the title–come across my radar. Sometimes I’m browsing publisher sites or upcoming lists on Amazon. Other times, pitches land in my inbox. To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before was one of the former, but it makes no difference when it comes to reading and reviewing. Either I like a book for its merits, whatever form they come in, and I recommend it to others… or not.
The sheer number of titles I look at means that they sometimes blend together or I forget the description of a particular book. That, sadly, was the case with To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before. I’m not sure if I did my research thoroughly enough in the first place to forget the facts about this book. I don’t know if I stumbled across Laux, the author’s, IndieGogo page that shows not only how Laux was intrepid enough to publish her book on her own but that the book is about Black sexual liberation. Or I might have landed on Laux’s website wherein she describes herself as a Black, womanist, sex-positive author who tells the truth.
So I was a bit surprised when I finally dove in, but pleasantly so.
And I feel like I need a disclaimer here. I am only some of those things. Notably, I am white, and this colors so many of my experiences. It also makes me wonder if I can accurately describe the depth of this book to readers who may be Black or non-white. It may be that focus on the top notes and miss the mid-notes. If anything, however, this is an argument that To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before is an even better read than I am capable of recommending.
Laux herself does a good job of explaining just what the reader is in for in her introduction. She’s loud and proud as a Black woman who loves sex but who hasn’t always had the words or opportunity to talk about it. It’s prevented her from being as sexually free and potentially safe or satisfied as she could have been. In these pages, Laux addresses the myriad places where she’s had sex before, coming to terms with her past and sexuality, and creating a stronger foundation for a future that is sexually free.
Each chapter is not like you might argue this review is, a love letter to those places. No, Laux is more honest, more raw, than that. Some of those experiences are negative. They toe the line of consent or even step right over it. To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before might be difficult for some people to read. For them, I may not recommend it, but it remains important for those who do have that capacity.
As for me, I was captivated right from the beginning. Laux leads us on a journey. City by city, she recounts the places she’s had sex. Foam parties, public bathrooms, and parks, just to name a few. She is at once a party girl and sexually liberated woman who makes me envious in comparison. But as Laux moves between Michigan, New York, back to Michigan, and Washington, D.C., she takes the reader with her, and we come to understand the parts of herself she hid while she was overexposed. The commentary to each place at the end of the chapter makes it easier to understand now just who Laux was then, but who she is now and who she may become.
Now, Laux and I may not be the same people, far from it. Yet while I cannot ever understand what it means to be a Black woman who is simultaneously expected to allow others access to and shunned for embracing her sexuality and body, I still saw glimpses of myself between the covers of this book. When Laux discusses boundaries or her fear of rejection, I feel a lump welling in my throat. Maybe we’re not so different after all.
There are certainly people who may not be impacted similarly as To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before. There are those who may not be sex-positive or womanist or who do not see the impact of race. More importantly, I think there are some people who will not be able to draw parallels because, fortunately for them, their experiences differed. I would still encourage them to give this book a try.
But for the majority of people, there’s something… universally human about To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before and the way that Laux wrote is that is reassuring and invaluable (if you agree, you can submit your own story on her site). I can only hope the process of writing it was invaluable to her.
Psst, Laux sells autographed physical copies of her book, and you should totally check it out!
Sex and science are my butter and bread. I think my readers know this already. Though, I have sadly fallen behind on Science of Sex posts.
Still, don’t fear! Because I’m here to talk to you about an entire book about science and sex, and one that aims to examine something that we take for granted: male sexual desire.
In Not Always in the Mood, author Sarah Hunter Murray relies on her experience as a couples’ sexual therapist to delve into the complexities of male sexual desire and bring a more nuanced look of the subject — mostly.
This is a caveat that I need to address and early on. In her work, Murray works with couples. She specifically mentions men in their 30s through 60s. While it’s a pretty wide range, these men are presumably in relationships, and she doesn’t mention men in their 20s at all. I think the title and tone of this book suggest all men, but there’s clearly a large swath of them who are left out. And while it can be reassuring to learn that, yes, men are human, too, and their desire reflects that, not explicitly stating who she talked to for this book may lead some readers astray. Men who are younger or prefer casual sex over relationships might differ from the men who Murray talked to. Namely, they may not be as invested in their partner’s emotional and physical satisfaction. If those partners think this information applies to those men, I can see them being let down.
In short? This book might better be subtitled “The New Science of Some Men, Sex, and Relationships.” I wish that were explicit.
In her book, Sarah Hunter Murray tackles common myths about men, sexuality, and desire. As the reader dives in, they’ll see that Murray’s research is qualitative and not quantitative. She crafts amalgamated stories from her past clients and sometimes uses quotes. It’s helpful to know when sentiment has been frequently expressed by her clients. For example, they want their partners to initiate sex more often or sometimes find their desire has waned for no discernible reason.
But I cannot help but wonder if it would often be even more useful to see some hard numbers along with this qualitative evidence. Murray’s research almost seems incomplete without that. Right now, Not Always in the Mood is interesting and helpful to a select group of people, but it doesn’t feel groundbreaking. It’s reassuring. It might spark some conversations. But it’s all sort of common sense.
With that said, we all know that common sense isn’t always that common. Maybe too many buy into the beliefs that men always want sex or measure masculinity by the strength of an erection. These reminders are useful. I can imagine scenarios where I would recommend this book. It’s certainly cheaper than therapy. And once people start viewing male desire with more nuance, they may spread that knowledge to others: partners, friends, even children.
Not Always In the Mood isn’t the perfect book for everyone, however. Despite a disclaimer that it can be useful to those who aren’t straight or cisgender in the beginning of the book, it’s really heternormative. I would hesitate to recommend it to anyone who isn’t straight or cis.
Furthermore, while the author mentions some sexual research, she never really uses scientific terminology, the type which I have discussed on this blog in the past, that might tie her research into existing research on sex and relationships. In several instances, it would have been worth mentioning and comprising spontaneous and responsive desire by name, yet Murray did not. The dual-control method would have fit right in, too. In fact, she did mention Emily Nagoski, whose book Come As you Are, discusses both topics. It would have been a great way to show the similarities, between men and women to hammer home the idea of men as being just as complex and human as women, but this book never reached that point. Perhaps Murray thought the concepts weren’t basic enough for her readers. Or maybe she wasn’t personally familiar with them.
I don’t feel like I am worse off for reading Not Always in the Mood, but it may not be the ideal book for me, a lover of science who has mostly casually sleep with men in their 20s. I would love to have seen some statements made that applied to men more generally, coupled up or not. Quantitative evidence would give this book an edge, too. On the other hand, maybe I just wish it had a different subtitle. For example..
Not Always in the Mood: The Truth About Men’s Desire in Relationships
Okay, so it’s a work in progress. But it’s a bit less misleading.
I know I’ve gone on about this at some length, but I think that these things matter. Had this book simply suggested it was about lessons on male desire from the POV of a couples’ therapist, I would have had different expectations.
Frankly, that angle is precisely what the reader gets, and it’s valuable. Sure, the idea that men want to be wanted, too, have hangups about their penis size or looks, or that their desire is impacted by stress might be common sense if you stop to think about it, but people don’t think about these things as much as they should. We can use another authoritative voice speaking on these things.
Sarah Hunter Murray might yet come to be that authority, but I don’t think she quite proves it in Not Always in the Mood: The New Science of Men, Sex, and Relationships. This may not prevent the book from helping some people, but it may not help as many people as it could if Murray had taken a different approach.
The Vagina Bible
$15
from Amazon
Note: this book is currently free to rent if you have Amazon Prime.
Since reading The Vagina Bible, there have been several instances in which I wanted to recommend it to other women who asked had questions or expressed ignorance about how their body works. I’m sure it’s a combination of me spending time in different online communities these days, but I have been consistently reminded how very little that women — and others with vaginas — know about their bodies. We certainly need a resource like The Vagina Bible aims to be.
Let me start by addressing the misnomer, and it’s one that this book’s author, OBGYN Jen Gunter, explains herself. In her disclaimer, Dr. Gunter tackles the common misuse of the word “vagina” to mean vulva and not just the internal organ. The Vagina Bible is about both, but the good doctor uses the word that is commonly used to refer to both when naming the book.
The other thing that I think needs addressing regards to this book is whether it’s cis-normative. Right off the bat, Dr. Gunter discusses the woman patients she’s treated over her 30+ years in the field. If a reader were, for example, a trans man with a vagina, they might think that this book has nothing for them or find the tone exclusionary. It’s unfortunate because The Vagina Bible does have information that applies to trans folks, not just those men who may have a vagina but also trans women who have a vagina. There are sections in the book that apply explicitly to these situations, yet readers don’t know that until the third chapter when Jen first mentions the word “trans.” It strikes me that including mention of this in the introduction would be such an easy fix.
As a resource, The Vagina Bible can be read straight through like I did. You could also simply use the ToC or index to navigate to the section that pertains to the subject in question. In this way, The Vagina Bible is like a reference. However, the reader might miss some information in The Vagina Bible that is quite interesting if they approach the book in this manner. I do suggest at least glancing over the more preliminary information, such as the anatomy lessons. I was pleasantly surprised at how much I learned just a few pages in (eccrine glands and melanin in the vulva), and the lessons continued.
I’ve already mentioned the chapter for our trans friends, and its information was mostly new to me. Dr. Gunter follows this with a section on sexual pleasure and education, which I wish explicitly used the phrase “responsive desire,” and more than once i thought she was a bit reductivist when discussingtopics. For example, she states that FE comes from the bladder and is, therefore, urine but does not discuss the differences in how the body processes the fluids. Similarly, she does not mention that one of the reasons that spermicide is bad is because of how toxic it is to the delicate mucus membranes, a shocking oversight in my opinion. Although The Vagina Bible is not intended to be a book about pregnancy, Dr. Gunter does include some basic information at the end of the first section.
Readers looking for practical advice might skip right to the second section, which focuses on maintenance and issues such as exams, yeast infections, underwear, Kegels and lube. The author tackles wipes and their potential to cause irritation in a chapter in the third section, which also includes information on cleansing, grooming, and moisturizing. Jen relies not just on her experience as a doctor but also as a woman, especially in this section.
She continues to bash myths as she moves on to discuss the menstrual cycle, products, and the risk of Toxic Shock Syndrome before moving on to a section on menopause that I no doubt might find more useful in a few years but that does paint The Vagina Bible as a useful resource for people with vaginas no matter their age.
I found the information about biofilms and how they interact with IUDs interesting as a person who has had three of them now. The facts that Dr. Gunter presents in the chapter on contraception exemplify just how easy it is to miss out on information related to sex or be actively misinformed. After discussing how various medicines and chemicals affect the vaginal ecosystem, Jen moves on to cosmetic procedures. It is here where she outright dismisses the possibilities of the “O” Shot in just a few paragraphs, and I’ve seen criticisms of the author/book from other medical professionals in response to this.
I think that this highlights one of my main issues with The Vagina Bible. While Dr. Gunter has decades of experience as a doctor and even more as a woman, she’s more than a bit dismissive about some topics. The tone she uses can be offputting, and this is coming from a sex-positive feminist who generally agrees with her position on many things. I would never say that there is any place where feminism doesn’t belong, but I can imagine that there are some people who would better receive this book and its much-needed content if Dr. Gunter would soften her tone occasionally and allow room for new research and ambiguity rather than doubling down on her opinions, which are not always lenient when it comes to men.
With a few caveats, I would still recommend The Vagina Bible as a resource until someone else puts together a book that’s even more comprehensive and updated. This is especially true regarding the conditions and symptoms sections, which provide information that can help people advocate for themselves medically. This can be so difficult, and even more so when things aren’t working quite right.
For anyone who is wary about the tone used in this book, I might suggest looking up topics only as needed, which brings me to my final point.
Rest assured that while the information in The Vagina Bible might seem encyclopedia, it’s not nearly as big of a tome as it appears. The font is huge! It really makes this book bigger than it has to be at 400-some pages.
In previous years my best — and worst of — lists included multiple sex toys. In 2019, I reviewed mostly books and not that many of them. So you’ll find a handful of them on this list along with only one sex toy!
Sex meets tech in this entertaining and informative book by Kate Devlin
The first book I’ll recommend is Revolting Prostitutes, which examines the different legal frameworks and how those affect sex workers. It also explains how sex workers’ rights are ultimately women’s rights. If you want to learn more about how legalizing or decriminalizing sex work plays out, this is the book for you!
While I wasn’t intending to review Screwed, it wound up being a fast read that I enjoyed as well as a compelling argument that looked into the ways that society fails women when it comes to sex.
I thought I knew a lot about the menstrual cycle, but Heavy Flow explained some things that weren’t quite clear and helped paint a picture of menstruation as part of the larger picture and a person’s life and not just compartmentalized, relegated to exist only for 4-7 days out of the month.
If you want to know the state of sex robots and contemplate what this means for you, then I cannot recommend Turned On enough. It’s witty and wise and truly enjoyable to read.
I only reviewed a few sex toys this year, and only one is worth recommending. The revamped Laya II is stronger than the first Laya II and allowed me to enjoy Fun Factory’s Laya line once more.
On the other hand, Vibease and its terrible audio erotica failed to please. And months later, I am still struggling to get Coochy Plus shaving cream out of the broken pump bottle it came in.
Interestingly, while I had a somewhat favorable opinion of Mimi Soft when I reviewed it at the beginning of the year, I actually forgot I even tried it. Oops!
Screwed: How Women Are Set Up to Fail at Sex
$8.69 (Kindle)
from Amazon
You wouldn’t necessarily think that a book about how society sets women up to fail at sex would be fun, but you might be wrong. “Fun” may not even be the right word to described Screwed, but it was a real page-turner, and I found myself eager to pick it back up after a break and reluctant to put it back down. This was a surprise, considering that the book hadn’t even been on my radar before I picked it up.
Screwed would be a brisk read for anyone at fewer than 160 pages, of course. But the content within those pages is shrewd in its wisdom and well-timed, at least, as well-timed as it can be considering that not everyone has pondered these things before. Sex, while it can be great, is generally less good for women than men, especially when the desires and even consent of those women is ignored and when those women are not taught how to get what want — and deserve. Screwed tackles all of this.
The book is written by Lil Boisvert, a French-Canadian and host of the show Sexplora, a six-episode documentary, which is “thirty minutes of orgasmic television focused on sex and IQ.” Unfortunately for me, it’s in a mix of English and French, which I haven’t studied in over 15 years. Fortunately, Boisvert brings the same IQ to her Screwed.
Lili actively avoids staying into telling the reader what to do. There are plenty of resources that do this (including Becoming Cliterate and Better Sex Through Mindfulness). Screwed’s focus is how we got to where we are as a society and not how individual women must remedy that to (re)claim their sexualities. Lili Boisvert is transparent about this from the very start. Her warning prefaces the book, stating what it is not and what it is. That includes a note that the slant is heterosexual because it’s the different ways society handles sex in regard to men and women that is so often the problem.
With that in mind, Boisvert jumps out of the gate, explaining how sex in western society is something done for and originating with the man and being done to the woman. This, she says, is the “cumshot principle,” and she’ll references it many times before the end of the book. She quickly breaks down the different roles that we have been taught: how women are the gatekeepers of sex that they “possess,” how men must make the first move even as women seduce (and must be visually appealing to do so), how women must remain passive, and how women must simultaneously fend off unwanted interest and advances from men while also appearing receptive if they do not want to offend. Boisvert even breaks down how women are expected to act in the bedroom. From here, she segues to a reflection on how this impacts a woman’s libido — as the “prey,” she isn’t allowed to focus on her desires the way a man is. Of course, this all paves the way for rape culture, and the author wraps up the chapter with an analysis of that.
It might sound like this first chapter of Screwed covers a lot, but it set the foundation for all of the arguments that follow. Boisvert paints a picture of the cumshot principal and the hunter/prey dynamic as the string that ties the greater mistreatment of women’s sexuality together.
From here, Boisvert jumps into a critical examination of why young women are prizes the way they are, Cougar culture, and whether those arguments that these preferences are all based in biology hold any water. The author continues her forward charge as she takes on the idea that a woman/girl must be pure and that a sexually promiscuous woman is immoral. Boisvert even examines why other women contribute to slut-shaming, including policing the bodies of girls and women.
We’re halfway through the book, now, and Boisvert isn’t nearly finished. She moves from policing of bodies to the way that the sexes are segregated, starting with clothing and moving on the cosmetics, hair, and body hair. It’s here that she swings at feminity, itself a prison that keeps women objectified.
From there, the author deconstructs the very reasons why women, as a whole, cannot objectify men, as a whole. She argues that men are subjectified while women are objectified and examines the way this unfolds every day. Of course, Boisvert comments on how porn upholds these views.
Perhaps the most contentious claim that Boisvert makes comes in the next chapter, where she explains that women who engage in casual sex are not playing on an even playing field because of the way that women have been socialized to seek love and men sex, and everyone is taught that the other team is only out for their single-minded goal. Yet I do not disagree with the author’s reasoning; it’s absolutely true that we are taught these things. Yet, Boisvert breaks down how this is not actually the case, using science to back up her argument. But even when that isn’t the case, Boisvert continues, these lessons color our sexual interactions and often result in women getting less out of sex than men.
Boisvert is no more fired up than she is in the final chapter, perhaps her coup de grace. What might be the ultimate result of this uneven playing field? That’s right, the orgasm gap. The author rails against the continued prioritization of men’s pleasure over women’s and penis-centric sex, which can make many women wonder what’s wrong with them when they do not orgasm easily (or at all) from vaginal penetration. She takes umbrage with Freud’s persistent teachings that clitoral orgasms are lesser than vaginal ones, which has, perhaps, lead to an over-emphasis on finding and stimulating the G-spot. In this final chapter, Boisvert gives a brief anatomy lesson that so many people dearly need before neatly wrapping up the book with a reminder that advice for women to explore their bodies may be misguided until we deal with sexism in sexuality (and life) on a large scale.
I did not intend to summarize Screwed as I did, but the structure is thoughtful, and the argument only picks up more speed and becomes fiery as the book presses on. While the book isn’t especially long, Boisvert manages to be articulate and pragmatic about complex topics in a way that’s accessible without being too daunting or minimizing. It is a book I wound encourage my teenaged sister to read as she considers becoming sexually active and one that I would recommend to any feminists, not to mention a primer on why so many women find sex to be bad or, at the very least, disappointing.
There are very few things that I didn’t love about Screwed; one of them is the tagline. Women don’t fail at sex; society fails women when it comes to sex. and I think “How society fails women when it comes to sex” is just as pithy and perhaps less open to misinterpretation than the tagline we actually got. However, this is really a small thing to pick at when considering the book overall.
Secondly, I was a bit surprised that Boisvert didn’t take on the issue of spontaneous versus responsive desire more thoroughly. She could have if she wanted to. As it stands, she mentions it but perhaps not to the extent that would impress upon the reader how much it impacts sexual frustation between men and women. Perhaps this would treat too far into the territory of telling women what to do individually, rather than criticizing how society views sex. Unfortunately, Screwed doesn’t include a list of resources or recommended reads, but it wouldn’t hurt if it did.
Still, what Boisvert says in these pages remains valuable, and for many people, the book could open their eyes to these issues and start them on their journey to doing better, learning more, and having better sex, even if the intent of the book is to illustrate the way that women are collectively failed when it comes to sex.
