Heavy Flow: Breaking the Curse of Menstruation

December 12th, 2019

Heavy Flow: Breaking the Curse of Menstruation
$20 physical/$10 digital from Amazon

I came across Heavy Flow when it was “reviewed” by another blogger. Her review piqued my interest, but I didn’t feel as though I had enough information on the book. Still, I know it’s a topic that deserves to be talked about and taught with information and no shame. I was lucky enough that the publisher sent me a digital copy.

You may already be familiar with the author, Amanda Laird, if you’ve heard her podcast of the same name. She’s a registered holistic nutritionist, which is apparent throughout the book. I must admit that I was surprised to learn a medical doctor didn’t write this book. It may be a bit elitist of me, and I know that doctors aren’t infallible and that other medical professionals have important experience, but Ms. Laird only adds to this skepticism at times when she refers to a holistic approach.

Readers should beware that Heavy Flow relies heavily on Laird’s professional experience and a bit less so on medical research. So while much of what she says seems factually correct, there are times when it may be wiser to take her advice with a grain of salt, at least, until science and medicine have evidence to back it up.

That’s not to say that the book or Laird’s experience are without value. There are times when her experience provides unique insight into the menstrual cycle. When Laird talks about how diet can affect the menstrual cycle, her experience as a registered holistic nutritionist shows. This is a concept that I’ve never really heard discussed before, and I think it’s worth thinking about. It certainly encouraged me to rethink my relationship with certain foods.

Laird does rely on science and medicine in the first section of the book, wherein she introduces the reader to the biology of the menstrual cycle and goes well beyond what we may have learned in health class. Specifically, she describes the complex role that hormones play during the menstrual cycle and its phases. It’s often not represented as complicated as it is.

It is here that Laird introduces the idea of the menstrual cycle as a vital sign. My familiarity with the phrase is limited to TV shows, where they use vital signs to check if a person is alive or dead, so this usage expanded my definition. But it sometimes seems a bit heavy-handed, especially when considering how vital signs such as pulse, blood pressure, or breathing provide such immediate and actional information. Still, there isn’t a ton of consensus on just what counts as a vital sign: organizations recognize between four and eight vital signs. This lends some credence to Laird’s suggestion that the state of the menstrual cycle could be one.

One of the more helpful ideas that Laird presents to the reader is that of finding their own normal and tracking their cycle. The length of your menstrual cycle, for example, may not be the average. She discusses how birth control affects the menstrual cycle and while the “period” experienced by most people who take birth control is not really a period at all. This is something that is often overlooked. Laird also explains how life changes, such as pregnancy and menopause, can affect your cycle.

As she rounds out the biology section, Laird discusses unpleasant side effects of menstruation as well as outlining some abnormalities/conditions such as endometriosis and PCOS, which can impact menstrual cycle. She then takes the time to bust some myths and answer some crucial questions about the menstrual cycle, including:

  • Why does my period mess with my skin?
  • Do menstrual cycles sync up?
  • Can you get pregnant on your period?
  • What’s the deal with period poops?

You know, the sort of things we might have better knowledge about if we talked about periods less shamefully.

Laird’s good advice continues as she teaches readers how to advocate for themselves when dealing with doctors and read test results. In the second section. It is here where she recommends alternative medical professionals, and I had to roll my eyes a bit. However, the power of placebo is strong, and these approaches may be helpful.

The chapter about nutrition follows, and it includes helpful advice about topics such as reducing inflammation, which can be an issue at certain points of the menstrual cycle. There is an entire chapter dedicated to foods that support hormonal health, which includes information about vitamin deficiencies. However, I think it may be easy to overlook this chapter, especially if the reader simply wants to know more about how their cycle works and not change it. The author introduces readers to the concept or seed cycling or adding specific seeds to their diet during particular phases of their cycle. This was one of those sections that seemed a bit too “crunchie” for me, no pun intended.

However, the advice in the following chapter about stress and your cycle is important. I think most of us understand that stress can impact our cycle but not necessarily how. Heavy Flow continues in its goal to educate readers and empower them to make choices about how they view and deal with their cycles. Laird advises against endocrine-disrupting chemicals and makes suggestions for menstrual products, including the suggestion for using natural sea sponges to absorb menstrual blood. This was the first time I’d heard of that option; although, they seem relatively easy to buy. Again, this chapter jumps between alternative methods and those that are more traditional/accepted by science. Laird recommends getting enough sleep just pages before discussing vaginal steaming.

After spending the first two sections educating the reader, Laird dedicates the last to helping them embrace their cycles. The third section lacks in cohesion but makes up for it with information. The first chapter in this section revolves around working with your hormones rather than against them. As the book comes to its conclusion, Laird also has words for parents and people who may have to discuss periods with adolescents.

Laird leaves the reader with hopeful words about understanding and embracing their menstrual cycles to break the societal taboo about menstruation. Heavy Flow can certainly be part of those efforts. For most people, the information in these pages will expand their knowledge of menstruation and the menstrual cycle exponentially, even if some of the author’s words and experience teeter a bit too far to the alternative for my tastes.

And since I haven’t managed to work it into this post before now, Laird uses mostly inclusive language in Heavy Flow to acknowledge that not everyone with a menstrual cycle is a woman. In her introduction, she warns that she may use binary terminology in places when comparing the experience of men and women.

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Categories: Books, Reviews

Good Sexual Citizenship

October 25th, 2019

Good Sexual Citizenship: How to Create a (Sexually) Safer World
$17.95 from Amazon

Although I do not generally list the chapters in every book review that I write, I think it’s important to so to explain how Good Sexual Citizenship strives to create a “sexually safer world.”

  1. The Bases for Our Biases
  2. Standing Up for Sex
  3. Consent – (I Promise) It’s Not That Complicated
  4. Little Kids, Big Questions
  5. The Teen Sex Situation
  6. Getting to Good Sexual Citizenship

Whu do I list these? Because I consistently struggled to understand the overall structure that the author, Ellen Friedrichs, was aiming for. I am not sure if it’s the examples the author uses to introduce each chapter that makes them feel so disjointed rather than work in congress, but it’s so distracting. I don’t want to be stuck on the author’s organizational choices over her words, especially when I agree with what she has to say.

This begins with the first chapter, which delves into sexism. Honestly? I understand why discussing sex (and gender) and sexism is a sensical place to start when it comes to discussing the issue of a safer sexual world, but others may not. Some people may be on the word but haven’t fully formed their thoughts on the subject. It seems a bit presumptuous to me that the reader should have to already know this. At the very least, it could be overwhelming to the reader. There is room to make the argument and it may be necessary to do so that we cannot start a book without first examining gender. Perhaps the author things the entire first chapter accomplishes this, but it would not hurt for the point to be more explicitly, either in the introduction or at the start of the chapter itself.

As Friedrich moves into a history of sex culture and education (and the lack thereof), she paints the bigger picture of how we got to where we are. including casual sex and hookup culture, and what’s wrong with that if you want to build a sex-positive society. I suspect this is where many people would expect the book to begin. From there, it makes more sense to move onto the topic of consent, which includes discussion of how it plays out in college hookups and established relationships as well as how we define sexual assault, in the next chapter. Framing consent as a simple but essential solution to sexual assault is so important. The questions Ellen asks readers to consider about consent at the end of the chapter are especially poignant.

But the segue to teaching children about sex is almost nonexistent. It would be so easy to explain that if we teach children about sexuality and consent from a young age, providing them with age-appropriate information so that we can impress upon them the importance of consent. The chapter that follows, on teenaged sexuality, is the clearest transition in the book.

Her final chapter does reiterate why we are where we are as a society and ties together how all the misinformation or simply lack of education has contributed to that in a way that makes the preceding chapters make more sense. I just wish there was more of a common thread throughout the pages.

With that said, each chapter in this book relies on research, which is referenced throughout the book and listed in the notes, to make points that I do often agree with. And as readers move through those chapters, there are asides that help to challenge the unhealthy, harmful, and sex-negative messages we may have absorbed from living in a society that has created such a dangerous culture around sex. Each chapter also ends with a worksheet containing questions to gauge the reader’s knowledge, opinion, and comfort with the topics discussed in the chapter that encourage the reader to consider the topics on a personal level and rethink the ways they navigate sexuality.

As Ellen Friedrich makes her points and educates the reader to dispels myths, she makes sure to include LGBTQ+ members and to point out how sexism and these ideas about sex hurt men as well. However, she’s careful to point out how these limited narratives depict sex and gender at the same and a binary and how sexism against women has allowed the current sexual culture to proliferate.

The author also takes the time to point out the actions people can actually take not just to change their own minds but to impact sexuality in society from their interactions with other people on a daily basis to how they vote. Good Sexual Citizenship doesn’t just describe a problem without offering solutions. It didn’t leave me feeling hopeless as it very well could have. At points, the advice might have been a little superficial, but the reader is given enough information that they can seek out other resources, which they will have to do on their own because aside from references used, Friedrich doesn’t list any resources that her readers may want to read in addition to her book.

One thing that I found was interesting was that Friedrichs initially uses a couple of footnotes to define terminology with which the reader may not be familiar. I mean literally two in the introduction, and then she never does this again in the book. It’s confusing. But there were also places where I thought that those definitions would be incredibly useful to a reader who has maybe never heard a term before or isn’t quite sure what it means. “Slut-shaming” is a good example; yet, the author quickly seemed to forget about using definitions or decided that the only two terms that would benefit from them were in the beginning of the book.

Although there are many points with which I agree in Good Sexual Citizenship, and I’d like to see them made more often and vocally, I still felt that the book lacked an overall narrative to help the reader progress from one chapter or point to the next. Although I could draw some conclusions because the content was familiar to me, this might not be the case for others. The reader shouldn’t have to make assumptions or have a ton of prior knowledge to understand the overall argument made by a book. That’s the point of the book.

I wonder if the imperfection of Good Sexual Citizenship would leave others frustrated or cause them to set it aside, perhaps before they even pick it up, rather than just leaving them confused like I was. However, I still recommend this book, perhaps just as a starting point. And it’s not only that there are some weak points in Good Sexual Citizenships, it’s just that no one book or source can provide all the information we need to truly become good sexual citizens. As long as the reader understands this and that the onus is on each of us to create a sexually healthy world after reading the last page, I think this book will ultimately be helpful.

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Turned On: Science, Sex and Robots

August 13th, 2019

 

Turned On: Science, Sex and Robots
$9.99 (Kindle) from Amazon

Writing about science, sex, and robots is a daunting task, but one that Dr. Kate Devlin, computer scientist and AI expert, proves she is up to in Turned On. Almost immediately, I found Turned On to be a delight, mostly because Kate Devlin is funny and uses her humor in this book. However, that specific brand of British humor that I became accustomed to when reading authors such as Douglas Adams is also present in this book, which made it all the more entertaining for me.

Rest assured that while Turned On is entertaining, it’s also incredibly educational. Whether Devlin is writing us about the current state of sex dolls and robots (hint: less advanced than some people would have us believe or fear) or examining the implications of sex dolls that might look like minors, Kate Devin did her homework. Devlin’s research took her around the world, and she brings the reader with her to attend English conferences, speak with sex doll connoisseurs in Michigan, meet the manufacturers in California, and more. In this way, the reader gets an overall picture that sex tech is truly a worldwide affair.

Before diving into where we are right now, Kate Devlin writes about the history of sex toys and erotic representations and breaks down the myth that vibrator was created to cure hysteria in women. Rather, its use as a sexual device was known but not discussed. This wasn’t news to me and wouldn’t be anyone who is familiar with the history of sex toys, but the myth is pervasive. I’ve read it in more than one book. Devlin doesn’t settle for pervasive myths, however.

Even if you are intimately familiar with sex toys and their sex toys, you may not really know the current state sex robots or what is on the horizon for teledildonics. This is where Devlin’s research sheds new light on the subject. She goes back to basics when she defines robots and discusses the reality and implication of them. In many ways, robots have improved our lives, and the reader gets the feeling that Kate Devlin thinks they can improve our sex lives as well. As she dives into computers and how machines can learn to think, and the relationship between man and machine, she illustrates the finer details and outlines the broad context that helps the reader understand the significance of sex robots.

While this book is ostensibly about science sex and robots, you can’t help it feel like it’s actually about what it means to be human and to interact with other people. I think that’s the crux of the sex robot debate. When Devlin delves into the more recent history of sex dolls and those who purchase them, she doesn’t fall into the trap of picking fun at the people who choose to use them. She approaches the subject with a kind of necessary sensitivity. Yes, these people are mostly men, but they’re still human, after all, even if their companions are robots.

Turned On isn’t the only book I’ve read recently that tackles how technological changes will affect us. However, it’s the only one that’s thought to broach the topic of sex let alone sex robots.  Devlin gives the subject its due respect. It’s not something that everyone can do well or would even be willing to do, yet Devlin does. Judging from the public’s obsession with sex robots, it’s difficult to understand why so many academics ignore the subject. Kate writes about how the 2016 Love and Sex with Robots conference she attended was moved twice before finding a home at Goldsmiths, University of London.

The questions that she attempts to answer and even those that she admits cannot be answered at this point in time are those that anyone who has given any thought to sex robots has entertained at one point or another:

Just what is sex, and is sex with a robot masturbation? Can sex robots mitigate violence, especially sexual violence, against humans or will it worsen objectification of women? If robots become sentient, will we need to protect them from violent offenders (the author busts the incorrectly reported myth that robot “Samantha” was “molested” at one con) or protect ourselves? How will sex robots affect sex work? What are the legal implications of sex robots or someone else using your likeness to create one? Will people want to marry robots and, if so, what will that mean? Is sex with a robot still sex? Do robot opponents have a point when they say that sex robots only contribute to further objectification of women? Will we see sex robot brothels like the doll brothels that already exist in Japan and Europe?

In Turned On, Devlin spends some time examining why sex robots so often look and sound like women (at least one misunderstood study has been cited by those who choose to use female sounding voices) and the implications of this. Again, she pulls back the curtain to reveal how the state of robots is a commentary on the state of humanity.

Fembots are designed to play to cultural stereotypes, generally taking an eroticized form: shapely, sexy and obedient. There’s an essence of the Femme Fatale about some of them – the perfect woman, but without an underlying potential for danger.

The author’s background in technology is never more apparent than when she considers the privacy risks that sex robots present. She points to the vulnerabilities of one of We-Vibe’s smart toys that were revealed by hackers in 2016 who were able to access information collected from toys. There are so many implications of sex robotics, and Devlin leaves out none.

Perhaps the most important question of all and the one that Devlin ends the book with is where we go from here. After reading Turned On, I found myself curious and hopeful but also with a side of trepidation. Like any technological breakthrough, sex robots have the potential to change the world. But if humanity misuses that power, those changes could be awful instead of awesome. Kate makes a plea at the end of her book for designers to think abstract and fantastic — outside of the box — when creating sex robots. She implores the world to focus on how a robot can give pleasure and why they don’t have to imitate women to do so. It might surprise some that Devlin believes the current fembot style robots will remain a niche market and that true innovation can go much further when those limitations are lifted.

And those changes are happening. In fact, Kate added an epilogue after she wrote the initial bulk of the book about how technology had already changed so much. Turned On may not be accurate for long if changes keep occurring at this pace. Yet it’s still a good resource for anyone who wants to know how we got to where we are. Kate Devlin makes you laugh along the way, which helps balance any worries you may have about sex robots and the influence of technology on our sex lives. Her writing similarly balances education and entertainment, and I’m glad to recommend Turned On to anyone who has an interest in the subject.

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Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight For Sex Workers Rights

June 6th, 2019

Revolting Prostitutes: The Fight For Sex Workers Rights
$9.99 (Kindle) from Amazon

Not two days ago I had an elegant summary for Revolting Prostitutes bouncing around my head. It was the perfect segue into a review, and I’ve gone and lost it. That’s what I get, I suppose, for waiting to write it down. And I really waited far too long to even start writing this review because my memory is not hazy. Good thing Revolting Prostitutes leaves an impact.

Just what impact is it?

This book makes the argument that sex workers’ rights are women’ rights are sex workers’ rights and human rights by extension, and because of this should not be excluded as feminists or members of society. Juno Mac and Molly Smith do this by taking a hard look at the reality of sex work: why people do it, how it can be done safely, whether it’s feminist, how sex work and sex trafficking differ, and how society can protect some of its most at-risk members. Mac and Smith examine laws about sex work around the world to make their ultimate argument that in a world where some people must resort to sex work to make money, decriminalizing and not legalizing sex work is the only way to protect those people. Furthermore, they illustrate how pivotal sex workers have been when it comes to the fight for women’s rights and why excluding them from feminist arguments is not just unethical but grossly ignorant.

Revolting Prostitutes takes us through Nevada where just a few brothels operate legally toward Sweden where it examines the Scandinavian model of criminalization to the UK and, finally, to New Zealand. It is here where sex work has been decriminalized, and sex workers have a voice when it comes to laws that would affect them.

The feminism promoted in Revolting Prostitutes is not white feminism. Even though the authors admit to their own privilege (being cisgender, white and middle class), they examine the issues surrounding sex workers, many of whom are working class or people of color, through and intersectional lens. Among the topics addressed in these pages is immigration, which makes Revolting Prostitutes seem especially timely to this American.

Aside from teaching the reader what they don’t know about sex work, the authors smash longheld myths about sex work, including the idea that legalization is the best route. I once viewed sex work similar to marijuana and fell into the camp of “legalize sex work so it can be taxed.” But this book thoughtfully points out that legalization offers no protections for sex workers when one of the main dangers they face is from the police. In a world where that wasn’t the case, they argue, legalization may be an option. But for now, it remains out of reach.

It is far from the only myth torn apart in these pages. While so many people who argue for sex worker’s rights paint the picture of the “Happy Hooker,” you will not see that imagery in Revolting Prostitutes. This book is more frank than that. The authors would not paint with such broad strokes. Instead, they write honestly about how sex is neither good nor bad by definition, and neither is sex work or people, for that matter. These things can be positive or negative, health or otherwise. And when it comes to people, they are people who deserve our care faults and all. This is why the authors write candidly about the damage done to sex workers by so-called carceral feminists who want brothels shut down, and sex workers deported even if doing so will result in the greater abuse and potentially death of those sex workers.

When disproving these ideologies, Juno and Moll never take the easy way out by simply claiming them false. time after time they are prepared to say it’s more complicated than that and explain why. For example, when they touch on whether sex work is a bad thing because some sex works do not enjoy their jobs or because sex workers sell their bodies, the authors are quick to point out that there are many grueling jobs that do not bring joy to those who perform them. Those workers simply need the money. They trade their time and, yes, their bodies, to jobs that take a toll day in and day out. Revolting Prostitutes breaks down the issues one by one into palatable bites like that, and more.

Those people who have a strict anti-sex work stance would likely not enjoy or agree with Revolting Prostitutes. I’d hope that some people who are on the fence or who have not thought deeply about these issues might find themselves swayed by the book, however. Furthermore, the authors are clearly proponents of socialized elements of society. In this way, Revolting Prostitutes look as society as a whole using sex workers as a litmus test. A society that lacks support will surely fail this marginalized group of people. Readers who disagree with a government supporting its people through socialized healthcare and similar programs will surely balk at statements within the pages.

As for me, I am neither of those types of people. I found the arguments thoughtful and eye-opening. With the words they’ve written, Mac and Smith do an excellent job bringing sex workers, and they work they do from the other. They humanize people that are all too often written off, ignored, and otherwise erased. I am all too happy to recommend Revolting Prostitutes as long as society overlooks sex workers. I am angered that this book needs to exist but glad that it does. I hope that people and governments can learn from words like these and the people who are willing to write and speak them. Perhaps reality could be not quite so harsh for sex workers and women as a whole.

Until then, I can only lend my support to the revolt.

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Tongue Tied: Untangling Communication in Sex, Kink, and Relationships

March 9th, 2019

Tongue Tied: Untangling Communication in Sex, Kink, and Relationships
$10 Kindle/%15 physical from Amazon

I wasn’t intending to read Tongue Tied initially. I was previously unfamiliar with Stella Harris (who I now know is an experienced sex educator and coach as well as an erotica writer) and, perhaps more importantly, felt pretty familiar with communicating about sex. I’ve frequently read about the topic. I’ve argued that we need to talk more about sex and do it in a healthy way that isn’t inherently sex-negative. Hell, I’ve written about talking about sex and provided instructions for readers to do so. Tongue Tied, therefore, seemed a bit old hat.

But I heard Stella on American Sex, and she made a few points that resonated with me enough to change my mind. Soon after, I had a digital copy of the book, and it wasn’t much longer after that I had finished it. Unlike, say, BDSM: A Guide for Explorers of Extreme Eroticism, Tongue Tied isn’t a huge book, and it’s a pretty easy read. Of course, you can pick and choose what you read in Tongue Tied to save a little time and effort, but reading the whole thing gives you a better impression of not just how to communicate but what you need to do so.

Right from the introduction, Ms. Harris draws on her experience as a sex coach, explaining that her most frequently received questions about sex involved communication, even if the people asking those questions were unaware of that fact. A quick look at r/sex on Reddit shows that most people need to talk to their partners to resolve issues in the bedroom, so many people realize this. When our mouths are closed shut about sex, people learn the wrong — and sometimes dangerous — things from less-than-reputable sources. We need to talk about sex. However, like most things, it’s easier said than done.

Initially, I didn’t expect a book on communicating about sex to cover so much non-communication issues. But it’s true that one of the main inhibitors of talking about sex is the way people think about sex. From the very start, the author proposes that every person is responsible for themselves and the way they behave in relationships. She dedicates the entire first chapter to the goal of sexual communication (healthy relationships with boundaries and goals regardless of the specific arrangement of those relationships). In this chapter she addresses how it’s easier to talk about sex when you make a habit of it from the getgo but also how sometimes these discussions are uncomfortable, and that’s okay.

From here, she follows a chapter detailing the common mistakes when communication. Knowing what not to do when talking about sex is as important as knowing what to do. Ms. Harris writes about common mistakes include being selfish, not speaking up about what you want, assuming there’s such a thing as normal, and others. She also advises the reader to check their cultural biases and not to make assumptions or to lie about pleasure and orgasm (ie faking it).

The third chapter reveals how differently we can each define things as common as “sex”. This encourages clarity, specificity and positivity. The chapter ends with a quick anatomy lesson.

If you’re familiar with all these ideas, you might skip ahead to the next chapter, wherein Ms. Harris gets to the specifics of talking about sex, starting with when to do have conversations. I especially appreciated how she guides the reader through talking to friends as a form of support and when people should reach out for professional help to deal with their relationship and sex issues.

Readers who are struggling to define what they want would benefit from the chapter six in which Stella encourages readers to examine their future “perfect” sex lives and presents them with tools such as a Yes/No/Maybe list and a “Sensation Exercise.” It’s not the first time when she suggests tools that originated within the kink community for discussion “vanilla” sex nor the last. Throughout her book, Ms. Harris encourages explicit and practical communication in these ways.

The goal of these exercises is to encourage readers to explore their sexuality and find scenes that represent their desires and interests. This is the last chapter that focuses on setting the foundation for talking about sex.

The chapter that follows is one that provides examples of what to say to your sexual partners. Chapter 6 is where you’ll want to start if you have a good foundation for talking about sex but you just need to know what to say.

There’s some typical advice such as using “I” statements, and Stella suggests questions and exercises that reminded me a bit of sensate focus. The goal, at least, is the same: to learn more about your partner’s body and reactions. She stresses remaining positive, listening without judgment, and the word “No.” There are plenty of examples of exactly what to say that will benefit readers who just aren’t sure what words to use. Chapter 6 is the meat and potatoes of the book and perhaps the longest as well.

In the vein of sensate focus or practicing using a safe word, the next chapter details exercises to get readers used to communicating about sex including giving feedback, asking questions, and communicating without words. No book about communication would be complete without information about body language and nonverbal communication, so I was glad to see it included.

There are types of people who I would imagine find these activities silly, the type whom I suspect need more than a single book to fine tune their attitudes about sex, relationships, and communication. If readers don’t already agree with much of the author’s point of view, they’ll struggle to get much out of the book, I think. Arguably, most people reading a book about talking about sex are at least open to new points of view, but some people will struggle to learn from this book.

Others may find the exercises fun or sexy. But they’re useful if you go into them willing to experience and learn. I imagine readers might use these tools with new partners or over the long run to improve communication and understanding of themselves. Among the tools suggested are methods of tracking arousal, which is especially important to women, and using sex toys with partners. I’m so glad to see that included in these pages.

Incorporated into the book is a (short) chapter on talking about safer sex specifically, an important topic and one that may happen in the confines of a casual encounter with a stranger versus a longterm partner.

I appreciate that Ms. Harris walks us through apologizing and accepting an apology as part of her next chapter about difficult discussions, which also tackled fighting, mismatched desire, admitting a lie, and breaking up.

Chapter 11 had the potential to be one of the most useful in the book. The author lists examples of phrases to use in particular scenarios. However, she goes from examples to anecdotes involving past clients. From here, it seems that Stella becomes much less specific, illustrating fewer examples of how to speak about specific issues. This is especially noticeable when she talks about kink in the next chapter, and the section seems brusque. It’s not that phrases exemplified previously in the book can’t be used for these things. I just think a book that walks you through talking about sex benefits from specificity. Sometimes people know they need to talk about sex have all the right attitudes and goals but don’t know exactly what to say.

Communicating in a healthy manner can feel awkward and stilted to a person who hasn’t done a lot of explicit communication. The more examples, the better. Yet examples seemed sparse the further I got into Tongue Tied. It may not have been as noticeable if the author hadn’t done such a good job providing them in other parts of the book. But it was frustrating as I read on.

I am not sure if Ms. Harris was rushing to complete, felt that expanding on certain topics was too niche or would make the book too long, thought that specific examples weren’t necessary, or had another reason for her change. Unfortunately, this seeming lapse meant the end of the book was a bit of a letdown for me, and that the information on kink isn’t presented as usefully as information from previous chapters, especially chapter six. the final chapter — one self-care — made little impression on me because of my frustration.

This doesn’t mean there isn’t useful information in Tongue Tied, just that it didn’t quite reach its potential. This could be remedied in following editions or, less ideally, perhaps with a sort of companion workbook. But it’s a shame because Stella Harris writes in an approachable way, the book is easy to digest, and the topic is so important.

On a final note, Tongue Tied is gender neutral, a point that Ms. Stella makes on purpose and addresses early on. This should make it welcome to people regardless of the gender configuration of their sexual relationships.

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Buzz: The Stimulating History of the Sex Toy

December 20th, 2018

Buzz: The Stimulating History of the Sex Toy starts with an introduction to home sex toy parties and the author’s own history as a salesperson. We learn firsthand how she was taught to push toys to bored housewives despite the very act being illegal in so many places. In her introduction, Hallie explains to the reader how she always had an interest in sex toys. And while she could no longer support companies that mislead their customers, her curiosity continued — enough to write the history of sex toys.
She continues on with the ancient history of sex toys (there are some photos of ancient devices and early sex toy ads included), which may be older than you think, and continues to bust some oft-touted stories about sex toys. Pop culture doesn’t always get it right, and our author wants us to know better.
In Buzz, the reader learns about the competing factions that helped to legitimize or, at least, make saleable sex toys. This includes seedy porn store operators, dedicated toy makers, feminists (both those for and against sex toys, especially dildos), mom-and-pop shops, and mega-corporations. Lieberman attempts to illustrate these forces while clearing supporting/promoting the feminist-run stores, a point-of-view I also agree with.
As readers, we learn about original stores such as The Pleasure Chest and Eve’s Garden. We discover the history of Good Vibes, Babeland, and masturbation month and feminists such as Joani Blank, Betty Dodson, Claire Cavanah, Del Williams, Susie Bright, and more who fought for sex toys and a woman’s sexual autonomy. Buzz discusses how seedy businessmen will always be businessmen, even while paying million-dollar fines and sitting in jail. The reader also has a chance to learn how far back the practice of using sex toys goes and how able-bodied people were able to experience sex toys due in part to their marketing as devices for people who were disabled.
Two other opposing forces that the author does a great job at depicting is how sex does indeed sell and how the American public and government railed against sex toys for so long. Lieberman lists case after historical case against sex toys. It’s amazing that any of the smaller stores or chains managed to stay in business while they were fighting the law and competing with unscrupulous competitors.
However, by trying to tackle every angle in Buzz, Lieberman has produced a book that is sometimes confusing and frazzled. These opposing forces are working simultaneously but the retelling is not quite as skillful as I would have liked.
For example, the author illustrates how important sex toys were as a way for women to revolt and yet how divisive toys were among feminists. Lieberman also dedicates time to discussing Friedan and Dodson, and while these women influence feminism and female sexuality greatly, this section seems to veer away from the topic (less time may have been spent on the biggest online retailer: Adam & Eve). Yet, we’re thrust back into it (no pun intended) with force when she introduces Ron Sturman, the founder of Doc Johnson and owner of numerous sex toy stores and distribution centers.
A large chunk of Buzz is dedicated to Doc Johnson, Sturman, his many business associates (including Ron Braverman) and the sordid history involved. It’s fascinating (and I have no idea how I didn’t come across more of this information/history before) but, at times, this book seems more like a history of that drama than an overall history of sex toys. Although the author does frame each chapter with a message about the progression of sex toys through the eras, it’s easy to forget that Buzz is not a book about Doc Johnson specifically; although, I suspect there’s enough history there that one could be written.
While Lieberman spends so much time on the Sturman era, much less time is dedicated to changes in sex toy culture in the 1990s and beyond. I suppose it may be too soon to write about the more recent drama, which I’ve experienced as a sex toy reviewer in the last decade, but it seems remiss for the author not to mention that Good Vibes bought out Babeland while referencing other sex toy news from 2017.
The author may have simply published this book too soon to mention smart sex toys and other advancements in sex tech, but there have been a lot of changes over the last few years that I would love to see chronicled. I suppose that will have to wait until the sequel.
Toward the end, Hallie writes perhaps the most forgiving description of Fifty Shades that I’ve ever heard while quickly (phew!) following it up with a warning that the sex toys used within those pages and sold and merchandise are acceptable because they still focus on sex toys as devices for couples to use and a woman’s sexuality as under the control of a man. The reader is reminded that all the progress we’ve made as a sexual society is impeded still.
Ms. Lieberman ends her book with a reminder that sex toys are important and not shameful, that we should not still feel ashamed about using or selling them, and they she personally will not be shamed. It’s a strong ending after a somewhat shaky middle.
Lieberman’s voice is the strongest and possesses the most clarity when she’s making those impassioned pleas. And I would have been thrilled to read a manifesto by Lieberman that lauded significance of sex toys when it comes to a woman’s autonomy and independence while highlighting the ways that sex toys remain unaccepted and in some jurisdictions illegal.
But Buzz is not that book. The strengths of Lieberman’s voice become lost in the making of this historical tome. Lieberman is not a bad writer, she simply attempted to write the wrong type of book. As a writer myself, I empathize. I, too, I’ve tried my hand at types of writing only to realize that they were not my forte. So while I look forward to what she might write in the future. I am not sure that Buzz is the strongest example of her talent.
With that said, I would recommend this book if you’re interested in the sordid history of Doc Johnson, the way that feminist leaders such as Dodson helped politicize sex toys, and the antics of at-home sexually parties. I plan on reading a similar book titled Vibrator Nation and posting my review of that here to compare with Buzz. Perhaps that book will garner my recommendation, but until now, I’m glad that I did read this book.

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Categories: Books, Reviews

A Lover’s Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism

December 15th, 2018

A Lover's Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism
%18.70 (Kindle) from Amazon

Although there are many books about S&M, most of them focus on the erotic or instructional. This isn’t the case with A Lover’s Pinch: A Cultural History of Sadomasochism, a book by kinkster Peter Tupper. This means that A Lover’s Pinch fills a void, and it dives to depths I couldn’t have imagined before I started reading.

A Lover’s Pinch is a deep dive that goes far beyond Leopold von Sacher-Masoch the Marquis de Sade. Admittedly, I wasn’t expected to read analyses of how religion, war, and slavery impacted our sexualities (and relevant imagery is included on some pages), but the author of this book is not afraid to broach those subjects.

I wouldn’t say that tricky subjects aren’t handled with care within these pages or that it’s un-PC, but the tone is sometimes decidedly frank. If you’re especially religious or still experience trauma from war or slavery, then A Lover’s Pinch might not be a book you wish to pick up (or you may wish to skip those specific chapters).

With this in mind, the book starts with a strong historical tone. The author touche on worldwide (sometimes longstanding) stereotypes of sex and power including the Orient as well as Nazis (and the strange, erotic movies inspired by them).  It’s, thorough and interesting to learn but definitely dry and perhaps not applicable to modern kinksters.

I found that A Lover’s Pinch really picked up as Tupper dove into Victorian England’s relationship with sex, one that is similar to that in modern America: both obsessed and prudish. As he analyzes the (not-so) secret kink in this era, describes the lives of specific individuals and introduces the reader to publications that deal with S&M, you really get a feel for how long we’ve been into power exchange in our sex (and lives). Of course, these ongoings are generally fragmented, and there isn’t much to speak of in terms of community.

The reader watches the community come and build together in the 20th century, and this is where I think Tupper does the best at describing how things really were. Yes, some men returned from war, donned leather vests, and continued to live within the structure they’d grown to know in the service by practicing S&M with other men. But the author describes how, for some, the leather community was not one that was sexual.

As the book — and time — progresses, we learn how the kink community overlaps with the gay community and how, slowly but surely, gay women and, eventually, straight people join the S&M community. Tupper discusses some of the better-known groups from across the country and world, including DC’s Black Rose, Janus, and the many gay and lesbian communities that supported — and sometimes opposed — such activities.

I was especially struck by the way that the book describes how some feminists railed against S&M as something that was misogynistic. I learned of similar opposition from feminists to sex toys, especially dildos when I read Buzz.

Tupper’s analysis of gay, lesbian, and straight S&M is important, and he impresses upon the reader how these communities are still separated in ways — and even the division within the leather/gay S&M communities due to an entire generation succumbing to AIDS. If there is a more overarching theme of A Lover’s Pinch, I don’t know what it is. While many people are into S&M, and there are groups in many major cities, it’s still as fragmented as the Android market.

Still, S&M has followed a similar trajectory as homosexuality, first ignored and denied, then pathologized and illegalized, next slowly decriminalized, increasingly understand, and, to some extent, accepted. Tupper skillfully draws the parallel.

It was interesting to see the progression from haphazardly-created communities and risky scenes to planned organizations (and to learn the origin of munches) to the adoption of the “Safe, Sane, Consensual” creed, which was never intended to guide an entire sexual subculture. In some ways, BDSM became commodified alongside these other cultural shifts.

My favorite chapter in this book may have been that on “Alt.sex”. Although I am too young to have used Usenet, I remember the days of HTML-based chatrooms, which may have been my own introduction to BDSM. Tupper discusses the usefulness (and lack thereof) of capitalization conventions and how S&M relationships have existed solely in the online realm. He touches on Gor communities and online roleplaying. I remember many of these things fondly, and while they’re in relatively recent past when it comes to the overall history of S&M (as this book does a good job at pointing out), my own memories from 15-20 years ago seem so long ago.

As the book wraps up, Tupper reveals his own interest in S&M and coming out, and how coming out is different for kinksters than those in the LGBTQIA+ community, especially when it comes to the still-existing ramifications for those who might like their sex on the kinky side. Tupper discusses specific cases as recent as 2001 in which S&M interests left people ostracized and unable to find employment. And this is all despite the strides society has made to accept those who practice consensual S&M.

Finally, the author makes the case that S&M has both expanded sex and brought the idea of consent to the forefront in sexual and nonsexual interactions. He makes a nod to Fifty Shades while arguing that thanks to its popularity, BDSM is more visible than ever but still not part of the mainstream because the story wraps mild kink in a package of acceptable hetero romance. In comparison to this and other pop culture representations, BDSM can much more extreme, and mainstream portrayals still struggle to get it right.

On the other hand, Peter Tupper has worked hard to “get it right” in A Lover’s Pinch. His hard work is noticeable. It’s easy to appreciate the research that went into making this history of sadomasochism.

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Categories: Books, Reviews

Image © MisterUnlucky; used with permission.