Diy: The Wonderfully Weird History and Science of Masturbation

July 31st, 2025

Diy: The Wonderfully Weird History and Science of Masturbation
https://amzn.to/40ebzIV from Amazon

I wasn’t planning to post another book review so soon, but I listened to Dr. Eric Sprankle’s book, Diy: The Wonderfully Weird History and Science of Masturbation, on a whim and I couldn’t not review it!

Dr. Sprankle hails from Minnesota, where he teaches, researches, and treats issues related to sexuality, making him more than qualified to write such a book. He’s been on my radar and follow lists for some time, so it’s wild that I think I missed the announcement of DIY last year. I wasn’t initially super thrilled because I’ve read a lot of books that cover similar ground to this book, including Buzz. And while Dr. Sprankle does discuss many things with which I’m familiar, such as the advent of Frosted Flakes or semen retention practices, he consistently does so in a way that prevents it from feeling redundant. I truly can’t say this about every book. Many books are a struggle to get through because of my familiarity with the subject.

Sprankle’s sense of humor, which he describes as “irreverent,” is certainly part of the reason this book was such a joy for me that I found myself binging nearly half of the audiobook, which he reads himself, during my first listen. That humor won’t be for everyone, but I get the feeling that the author knows this and leans into it because people like me, who do enjoy his wit, will enjoy the book all the more for it. The humor is consistent as Dr. Sprankle takes us through arguments and movements against masturbation, from protecting the children to porn addiction to sex toy bans to homophobia to the infantilization of older adults. The organization was so seamless, no doubt aided by the author’s narrative approach, that I almost didn’t notice the transition between chapters. With just nine chapters and the conclusion in addition to the humor, the book is a breeze. I finished it in just three sittings, and one was quite short.

Despite its relatively short length and many contents being familiar to me, I was surprised by how much Dr. Sprankle included that was new to me, including information about jack-off clubs. Yet despite knowing his shit, the author never comes off as condescending or pretentious. This is an incredibly accessible book that doesn’t require the reader to be overly familiar with research or medical terms. He wants readers to feel okay when exploring their solo sexuality because it’s natural and healthy, and so many people do so anyway. There’s just no reason to feel or pretend otherwise. I imagine many in the general public will like it.. as long as they don’t ardently disagree with the premise.

And people do disagree. The book addresses some of those people, including conservative, religious groups, and incels, directly. I especially appreciate the latter because most books of this nature don’t, perhaps because it’s a relatively new phenomenon. With that said, Dr. Sprankle’s nonchalance about the mythical risks of masturbation and the people who want to sell them to the public will likely ruffle some feathers. It’s why, I’m sure, I’ve seen a number of negative ratings online that weren’t accompanied by names or reviews. You can’t write something like this without making at least a little target of yourself.

I’m glad he did, however. If it helps at least one person feel better about masturbation, it’s worth it. If it can become a tool in the arsenal of professionals, even better! It’s the cherry on top that the read (listen) was so damned enjoyable!

When adding DIY to my completed list on Goodreads, I was glad to see that its rating is over 4 stars. This is the book that I’d love to give 4.5 stars to because I think books essentially need to be perfect to earn that rating. Yet, there’s no glaring omission to point out. Perhaps I just want there to be more to this book because I enjoyed it. That’s it. That’s the review.

P.S., I love the clever cover.

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Categories: Books, Reviews

Sex in Canada

June 23rd, 2025

Sex in Canada
$19 from Amazon

I first came across Sex in Canada when another Sexual Health Alliance student was looking for recent research to incorporate into a class they were teaching. While Indiana University and The Kinsey Institute research how people identify and what they do in the bedroom here in the United States with their National Survey of Sexual Health and Behavior, the most recent information in this study focuses on condom use and young people. More generalized findings about American sexuality are less recent. I know that there’s a thriving sexuality research culture in Canada and thought that by the nature of being Western countries, there might be enough overlap that American sex educators or therapists could rely on Canadian data to fill in the gaps. This led me to Sex In Canada, a book published earlier this year by Tina Fetner of McMaster University.

Fetner’s book is the culmination of years of sexuality research, essentially Canada’s sexual census. Like Justin Lehmiller, who laid out his research about sexual fantasies in a book rather than a paper, Fetner opted to publish a more accessible overview of her studies. I appreciate this approach because it’s the first time Canadian researchers have attempted such a comprehensive survey of the country’s citizens, and they asked some questions that have been left out of American sex research. 

Sex in Canada is still relatively short while remaining more accessible to most than an academic paper. Fetner dedicates a chapter each to sexual identity, frequency, relationships in which sex happens, sexual activities, pain–both wanted and not–and the social organization of sex before wrapping up. She also includes inline graphs for each finding she discusses in these pages. These choices make it easy to follow the research from basic to more advanced concepts. It also contributed to my quick realization that there are more differences between American and Canadian bedrooms than I initially thought. This latter fact is bolstered by Fetner referencing existing research, which sometimes focused on American participants.

Admittedly, it was a little challenging to get into Sex in Canada at first. It can be dry, and while Fetner provides some background research in each chapter, she writes like an academic and isn’t trying to create a narrative like a novelist. I don’t think a book like this needs to do that, but I’ve seen a review that touches on it. That said, the graphs and sections in each chapter make this book fairly scannable, and it’s easy to put it down and pick it back up again.

My interest was especially piqued by learning how Canadians go about sex differently than Americans. They generally seem to be a bit more conservative than Americans. I was particularly taken by the legality of common-law marriage after just one year in Canada, which has never really been a thing anywhere I’ve lived in the States. This approach means marriage rates are lower overall than their neighbors to the south, although they’re falling in both countries.

There are also specific demographics within Canada that differ from the U.S., starting with French Canadians. However, the differences aren’t as easily described as more or less sexually permissive. Canada’s government and academic institutions also have a specific relationship with First Nations people than their American counterparts due to our native population. Fetnet addresses this sensitively when she touches on First Nations’ sexuality and encourages readers to learn about the oppression they’ve experienced directly from the community. However, I could see how someone who wants to use this book as a primer might be annoyed with this approach.

For some, Sex in Canada may not offer enough to chow down on, but they’re likely expecting beyond the scope of a book explaining research findings. Fetner’s words are straightforward, lending to the book’s brevity. Her prose ultimately repeats the graphs, and someone could rely on the visuals alone if they want. The conclusion also sums up the previous research, and readers could flip to this final section for a high-level overview of what’s going on in Canada’s bedrooms instead of reading the entire book. But Fetner can only write about what she and her team revealed by their research.

Because Sex in Canada is relatively short and well organized, it would make a great reference book on the shelves or in the curriculum of many educators, and therapists might benefit from it, too. It would be especially helpful for those practicing in Canada or who want to discuss sexuality on a global scale, although I think some things do generalize. Casual readers may not find it overly engaging, and some academics may prefer a paper in PDF form to a book like this, but for those who need a book like this, I’m glad it exists.

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The Rise of Digital Sex Work

May 21st, 2025

The Rise of Digital Sex Work
$30+ from Bookshop

At first, Kurt Fowler seems like an unlikely candidate to write about sex work. As a researcher and instructor, he isn’t directly connected with sex work or even the general field of sexuality. However, as a criminologist, Fowler is in the perfect position to research and educate on something that is illegal, even if the topic is often overlooked by academia. Although I have opinions about our judicial system–including sex work’s illegality–I hadn’t thought much about criminology as a field before reading The Rise of Digital Sex Work, and doing so prompted me to consider it. Similarly, Fowler made no statements about his opinion on the legality of sex work. Although he clearly feels compassion and respect for the sex workers with whom he spoke, Fowler’s book is a platform for their voices.

From the very beginning, Fowler weaves his research into a narrative that includes himself. He’s a skillful writer, and this will be more engaging to some readers. Perhaps more importantly, doing so explains how he had to work to build trust with the sex workers whom he interviewed, including them screening him with his employer, and highlights the unique humanity of every single participant mentioned. For those who would rather read a more succinct paper with a more structured analysis of the research rather than relying on the narrative he crafted, this book might not be the perfect fit. But I think Fowler’s decision to write it this way makes it appealing to a wider audience, and that means more readers have a chance to understand the nuances of sex work.

Although the book’s focus is digital sex work in its various forms, physical sex work is mentioned multiple times. This was sometimes the case because sex workers did or had done both, including those who moved online because of COVID-19. It also naturally came up as sex workers discussed their privilege in relation to others, which happened frequently. Much like his participants. Fowler was very open about the class, racial, and even geographic privileges most of the participants experienced. They are whiter and more educated than sex workers at large, and their experiences and thoughts can only be generalized to other sex workers so much as risk is not experienced equally–one of the reasons Fowler suspected a more diverse demographic did not respond to his study. Yet he painted a picture of sex workers as generally thoughtful, intelligent, and compassionate people, something that may be overlooked or entirely denied by those who might oppose sex workers or the work itself.

In general, sex workers simply want to be allowed to do their jobs without the fear of criminalization, and more than one takes on arguments about selling their bodies by pointing out how this is true in many jobs. Multiple sex workers expressed a preference for the freedom and autonomy in these roles as opposed to traditional careers, some of which they’d left without ever looking back. Interference by police and politics was also a common thread in these discussions. In an ostensible effort to decrease trafficking, these people and organizations often set their sights on sex workers, who reasonably seem to think they understand the difference between sex work and trafficking better than those who make and enforce the laws. Similarly, the assessment that these efforts waste the time and resources of both the police and sex workers seems quite reasonable, and readers gain an understanding of the world’s attitudes and legislation through sex work.

Because this book focuses on digital sex work, Fowler dove into the use of technology used by sex workers, specifically screening and communication tools. The fact that workers must carefully balance communicating in an appealing manner with clients while minimizing the unpaid time spent doing so quickly became apparent. Like all of us in the age of smartphones, sex workers are expected to be perpetually available to those who want their attention, even when it is costly or detrimental. The workers expressed their annoyance with time wasters, including those who wanted free sexting and law enforcement setting up traps. However, the people Fowler talked to also showed their savvy when weeding out potentially dangerous or unpleasant customers, and the importance of community to accomplish this was acknowledged repeatedly. Furthermore, the sex worker community was repeatedly mentioned as a source of support for a group of people who are so often treated poorly–by clients, law enforcement, and society at large. It’s no wonder many sex workers do not reveal their jobs to protect their privacy and well-being. Online communities offer a place where sex workers can speak freely and reduce isolation.

It is easy to see how the Internet provides resources that keep sex workers safe like never before but also how the internet poses a risk and those resources have become harder to find due to legislation, which Fowler discusses. One sex worker whose work was revealed to her family and friends (aka doxxing) took extreme care to protect her identity when talking with the author because she knew all too well the risks that come with digital sex work, even though it usually doesn’t include violence against sex workers. As sex work has moved online (in part to avoid COVID-19), those who do the job have had to surreptitiously master online marketing and branding in addition to safety measures. Here, Fowler discusses some of the specific tools used to accomplish those goals. The author always respects digital sex workers as entrepreneurs or freelancers, whichever you prefer, and readers learn how much there is to succeed in the field, which shares many similarities with other digital work or arts that similarly require self-promotion and branding.

The timing of this book is prescient because so many people are more aware of digital sex workers because of the COVID-19  pandemic and the popularity of OnlyFans. However, Fowler found himself at a disadvantage because he wrote the majority of the book before the pandemic, which he commented on. If there were any area where the author could expand, it might be in discussing the increased competition and, potentially, visibility due to OnlyFans and the pandemic, which I have heard about. This would have required more time researching and writing, of course, and every project needs to end at some point. While the book stands on its own without a chapter dedicated to the changes in sex work ushered in by COVID-19, a dedicated chapter would be most welcome.

There is some room for improvement in the book’s organization, which could be streamlined. It is not pithy and is heavy on dialog. Aside from headings, there isn’t a lot of formatting, which could be used to draw the reader’s attention to or reify important information, potentially as chapter wrap-ups. I also wish that Fowler had been able to connect with a more diverse group of sex workers, but there is plenty of opportunity for him–or others–to expand on this work and accomplish that goal. While Fowler discusses specific technological tools or platforms in the book, an entire book could be written on the technology that is so pivotal in (digital) sex work, not to mention sex work advocacy.

The Rise of Digital Sex Work pulls back the curtain on a world that I am sure many people find intriguing. However, it could also be useful professionally, by sex therapists, law enforcement, or politicians, for example, to ensure sex workers are treated fairly and respectfully. It is a frustrating fact that people need constant reminding that sex workers are, in fact, human, and Kurt Fowler has done the legwork to produce a book with academic quality that can be used as a resource by anyone who finds themselves having to make that argument. I recommend it to anyone interested in the topic and hope to see more academics follow in Fowler’s footsteps.

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What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire

January 4th, 2023

What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire
$15.99 from Bookshop.org

 

Although I meant to sit down to write this review months ago, I’ve actually done it in far less time than it took to actually read this book since placing it on my to-read list (which badly needs and update). In fact, that delay contributes largely to my review as you’ll see when you keep reading…

The field of sex research is an interesting one. Because it was for so long viewed as inappropriate or unimportant, it has lagged behind other fields. This simultaneously means that we missed out on opportunities to learn about sexuality, and now that sex research is well underway, it’s happening at a rapid-fire pace. The downside of this frenzy of activity is that research or publications about research can quickly become dated, even painfully so. This doesn’t bode with for Daniel Bergner’s book What Do Women Want?

Published in 2013, this book isn’t quite a decade old. Yet, I was shocked at how unfamiliar I was with some of the researchers Bergner interviewed or cited aside from Lori Brotto. Some of the names I know indirectly because they’ve been cited by researchers with whom I am familiar. As I read this book, it almost seemed to focus on a different generation of researchers–and thus their research–than the articles, books, and podcasts I’ve consumed about sexuality over the last decade. Without more recent research, What Do Women Want? seems lacking.

Although I hesitate to say it, I think a project of this nature might have been overly ambitious, given the state of research in 2013. Of course, hindsight is 20/20, but Bergner’s book just doesn’t stand on its own two feet. Because the author’s ultimate point is that, yet, women do want to have sex and not necessarily in relationships. Yet that hardly seems groundbreaking or all that helpful, at least in 2022 2023.

After finishing the book, I was left wondering, “So what?” What are readers supposed to do with this argument, even if it’s the first time they’ve considered it (and I concede that this book might have been more revelatory when it was first published). There’s no thoughtful analysis about why we’ve come to a place where we believe women aren’t interested in sex, or women may not feel comfortable expressing that interest, let alone suggestions about what to do with this information. If women want to have sex, how do we get them there? Of course,  the answers to these questions are inextricably related.

Rest assured that plenty of researchers and sex educators, often women, have discussed both the causes and potential solutions. They’re written ad nauseam about how society slut-shames women, how sex education has failed us, and how we prioritize men’s pleasure over women’s to such an extent that we view women’s sexuality as lesser than men’s to the extent that we have pathologized it and normalized misogyny and rape culture.

And, you guessed it, all those things contribute to women’s inability to speak up about their desires and get what they want. Advocating for our sexuality can seem a losing battle when the sex we wind up having, the very sex that’s accepted as “normal,” is so subpar that we’d rather do literally anything else.

Of course, understanding these causes directly suggests what we need to do to improve the situation and both Emily Nagoski and Lori Brotto have written useful and timeless books that touch on ways women can improve their sex lives–from desire to orgasm. I’m talking about Come As You Are and Better Sex Through Mindfulness, respectively. Even Peggy Kleinpart’z Magnificent Sex, which is written less for the lay reader, offers more actionable advice.

But Bergner doesn’t touch on any of this. He only cherry-picks data that indicates women want more sex than they’re having or are willing to admit. While I think that’s ultimately true, it doesn’t make for a riveting book in the 2020s. It feels like I picked up a dusty relic, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it became forgotten as so many books do.

Perhaps that’s to be expected. Bergner, as both an author and journalist, doesn’t focus on sexuality–or even health. His choice of research and argument might reflect a base unfamiliarity with the topic, and this might still be true for many readers, even in 2023.

Emily Nagoski once replied to me on Twitter, saying that she and Bergner used much of the same research but came to different conclusions. I am not sure that’s entirely accurate. The two authors stopped their research at different points, which is why Bergner’s conclusion in this book is where the conversation should really begin, not end. It’s why this book didn’t knock my socks off and likely would be frustrating for anyone who wants to better understand their sexuality or that of their women partners.

Fortunately, other books have done both of those things, and there are many more options since this one hit the shelves. That leaves What Do Women Want? for those who are more interested in research that affirms women’s desire or learning about how sex research has changed through the ages, and an actual textbook (Justin Lehmiller’s Psychology of Human Sexuality comes to mind) inevitably does it better.

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Erato: Flash Fiction

June 30th, 2021

It has been a good while since I’ve read any erotica, let alone reviewed some. But I couldn’t pass up the newest anthology from the New Smut Project. You might remember me reviewing Between the Shores a few years ago.

Scratch that?

2015?!

I guess that’s more than a few years.

But I digress.

That erotica anthology tackled something that some people (erroneously) consider unsexy: consent.

I’ll be honest, I don’t remember the specifics, but I do recall the stories being unique, enjoyable, and well-written. So I agreed to review Erato when the opportunity arose. Let’s start with its official description.

Short, short tales from 50 experienced storytellers and hot new talent bring readers to Paleolithic caves and far-flung planets, seducing them with magic, mythology, and dreams while wryly acknowledging the reality that sometimes sex requires stretching. Alongside old favorites like temperature play and strap-ons, have you considered the erotic potential of shaving or a handful of coins?

Erato: Flash Fiction
$6.99 from Amazon

While the New Smut Project’s other books were themed by subject, the thing that pulls each of the 50 stories in Erato together is their length: they’re brief. You might recall that I am a fan of flash fiction when it comes to my erotica. To this day, I still have both Five Minute Erotica and Got A Minute? on my bookshelf. And while I haven’t gotten around to it, I fully intend on rereading them both at some point. Erato will soon join these volumes. Like them, this anthology spans a variety of themes, from Sci-fi/fantasy to period pieces to BDSM to queer erotica.

However, there are some keys differences that make this anthology stand out, and I think some of them have to do with this being a more recent book. It might seem arbitrary that Erato is a much newer book of flash erotica, but I can’t imagine an anthology as inclusive as this being released even just a few years ago. In fact, few organizations would strive for inclusivity the way New Smut Project has with Erato. Heteronormativity? No, sir! The stories include trans and nonbinary and characters requesting and using pronouns other than he, she, or even, they.

I think anyone who finds most erotica too limiting or irrelevant, might find Eratot to be much more accessible because of this. Of course, there’s a subset of people who would criticize this move or claim that this book is all clear, but that’s not true (and the overlap with my blog readers is probably small). Many of the stories have different themes but just happen to have characters that fall a little outside the gender and sexual binary.

Another consideration, which is true for all collections, is that if you especially like a story, it’s just one in the bigger collection. Because Erato focuses on shorter stories, you might find your interest is piqued but your appetite isn’t sated. Fortunately, some of the pieces in this book are chapters or snippets from the authors’ own longer works. There’s something.. wholesome… about the promotion that authors might get from Erato.

The other distinguishing feature of Erato is simply the quality of the stories. Multiple times I found myself thinking not just that something was interesting or hot, but that it was literature. Erato is the book you give someone if you want to prove that erotica has artistic merit. It’s not a guilty pleasure because there’s no way to feel guilt about something so excellent. Editors Alex Freeman, Guinevere Chase, and T.C. Mill so carefully curated this collection, and it shows.

So which of those stories are my favorite?

Erato starts out strong with Gerri Green’s “Anthing For the Mission,” a story of exploration that’s out of this world.   The momentum continues with “Touch” by D. Fostalove, a story most certainly inspired by COVID-19–but with a sexy twist. The visuals of R.F. Marazas’s “Dressing Dana” are topnotch, and Alain Bell’s “Contentment” is a story imbued with the universal feelings being in love brings forth from us.

Don’t even get me started with the second of Lawrence Schimel’s three pieces (expertly translated by Sandra Kingery), which includes a line that makes me want to cry. Somehow he uses words that perfectly capture the how pain and arousal can become intertwined after loss. I even laughed out loud a time or two while reading the stories in these pages.

No matter how fantastic the plot, there’s always a reminder of how human we are–and by extension, sex is.

Like I said, it’s literature.

And that’s just the first quarter of the book.

If you want to experience Erato for yourself, you can purchase digital or Kindle versions on Amazon. And if you’re trying to boycott Amazon, I get it. There are a few purchase options on the New Smut Project’s website, including some with discounts!

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I love BDSM: Beginners Guide to Erotic BDSM Games

June 7th, 2021

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.

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To All The Places I’ve Had Sex Before

March 23rd, 2021

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!

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