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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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.”
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.
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.
Coochy Plus Intimate Shaving Cream
$12.95
from Amazon
There are at least three brands that use some variation of “Coochy” for their “intimate” shaving creams. Classic Erotica makes the products I typically use, Pure Romance also uses the same name. The third I found on Amazon under the moniker Coochy Plus made by IntiMD.
The company actually has a review program that will reimburse you for their product, even if you don’t write a review. I guess it’s risk-free for users. I’d also hazard a guess that’s why there are so many positive reviews.
So I browsed the scents. IntiMD does have detailed descriptions, which are described similar to perfumes. That should have given me an idea what this might smell like in person, but I overlooked that. I went with Citrus Elixir, described as:
Citrus Elixir is all about rejuvenation and healing. Natural exotic mandarin and orange can’t fail to stimulate your senses and revive your mind as you pamper your body with this restorative intimate shaving cream.
At the heart of Citrus Elixir is a fruity accord of plum, pear and summer melon, along with a spray of fresh ocean marine muguet to refresh you like a sea breeze. Dry, Citrus Elixir delivers evocative scents of warm amber, sandalwood, and vanilla for an all over shave that leaves you feeling invigorated and brand new.
I like sweet and fruity scents, and this one seemed the best fit. All of the scents are reviewed highly, however.
Thanks to Prime, the shaving cream showed up quickly. I was a little surprised by the size of the bottle. I had focused on photos and not the specs. A squat bottle is usually larger. 8-ounce bottles tend to be taller and more narrow. If you make that mistake, you might not be happy with paying $13 for the product. That’s about what I’m used to, however.
I do have issues with the bottle, though. The pump never worked. I’ve spent almost half an hour turning it, and it never sprung up. This meant I just had to dump product in my hand from the bottle, which negates having a pump at all. Had I read reviews, I would have seen this is a common problem.
It also makes the scent different. There’s something about the pump that seems to aerate the cream and help diffuse the scent. Without the pump, all I could smell was this horrendous perfume smell. This shaving cream just reminded me of old ladies and, man, was it overpowering!
Others have complimented this line for not smelling like typical shave cream but if perfume is a plus, it’s not for me. Fortunately, the smell fades fast.
I have since transferred some of the product to an empty pump bottle, which makes it easier to use and makes the scent a little less hard on the nose. I still don’t detect any of the “notes” – no orange, no mandarin, no plum, no pear, and definitely no melon. It’s just a little less.. offensive.
It’s palatable enough that a good shave would make it worthwhile. But is it?
Eh, kinda. It’s not the worst shaving cream I’ve ever used. But it’s not the best, either. The formula is.. different from what I expected, less slick. I feel like I need either slickness or lather to get a shave as close as I’d like. This means the hair is a little longer by the end of the day that I prefer. It’s doable but not preferable.
My skin doesn’t feel dry or sensitive after using it; although, I haven’t used it where I tend to get razor bumps to test if it helps with those.
I also feel as though I need to use more of this shaving cream than others. Considering that it’s more expensive than what I typically use, I am not inclined to buy it again.
But, like I said, you can try it for free if you join the Care Insider Community, so it may be worth the risk to try. Just beware that your pump will likely come broken, and the scent may not be what you’re looking for.
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.
Betrayal.
There is no other word to describe how I felt after trying the Laya II Black Line.
The shape was similar and the material was upgraded, but the motor was disappointing. Devastatingly so.
While the original Laya Spot wasn’t the most powerful, its medium vibrations were dependable. Deep enough to do the job consistently. The Laya II presented me with high-pitched vibrations that were ineffective.
So I was happy to hear that Fun Factory was doing something about it; although, I almost missed the announcement. I heard it first when Epiphora blogged about the new model and how they it was more acceptable than the last. I also emailed the company to ask about the changes and received the response that they were 30% stronger.
What’s the difference?
For a while, you could find both the Black Line and newer Laya IIs. You still may be able to, which could lead to confusion. The new ones are colorful (purple, pink, or blue) unlike the Black Line, which is black as the name suggests.
Both styles are rechargeable via Fun Factory’s magnetic chargers whereas the very first Laya Spot was powered by 2 AAAs. hard to believe I was such a fan, eh?
Regardless of color, the Laya IIs are the same size and shape, which is a bit difficult to measure. However, they’re not exactly the same as the original. It’s close, to be sure, but Fun Factory states they’ve “tweaked the shape to make it hug your body even better.” The newer Layas are a bit longer, for one. They’re heavier, too, because of the internal motor, and the valley on top where I would have rested my finger isn’t as defined. As you can see in my photo, the original Laya Spot (green and pink) is flatter along the bottom sides while the new ones are rounder.
These things aren’t necessarily bad. The differences aren’t that noticeable aside from the buttons. The three buttons on Laya II are closer to the end of the toy… exactly where I want to press down to achieve pressure. The original only needed space for two buttons so I could place my fingers there. Furthermore, the bubbly buttons of the Laya II are incredibly easy to find and press, perhaps too easy. I would prefer something between the recessed buttons of the original and Fun Factory’s current buttons.
Other than that, you might assume the toys are the same shape if you’re only viewing images online or not staring intently at them in person. Regardless, any Laya is much taller than similar clitoral stimulators — the Lilys and Siris of the world. And the “nose” of the toy is always what’s worked for me. It can penetrate thick labial folds with ease.
It’s firm enough for pressure (but less firm than the original, which was made mostly of hard plastic while the newer versions are coated in a softer silicone), and the bent shape of the Laya Spot sits more comfortably in my hand. It doesn’t leave my hand as cramped as smaller toys, something that’s increasingly become a concern as my pain progresses.
The shape was always my favorite aspect of this toy, and it still delivers. There were times when I’d used my original Laya to achieve pressure without any vibrations at all. I’ll get back to that.
But what about the new Laya II? Compared to the Black Line, the vibrations are noticeably stronger and deeper. It’s not the rumbliest or strongest clitoral vibrator. If you need Hitachi-level vibes, then you should pass on this. The Laya II is absolutely weaker and buzzier than FF’s full-size toys, too, so keep that in mind. Still, it’s an improvement. It’s workable. No, better.
Those vibrations can get me off; although, I usually just skip to the highest steady setting. The new Laya II isn’t as frustrating as the Black Line. Perhaps the biggest sign is that even when the vibrator died, I continued to use the shape to get off.
The Laya II has become a toy that I actually crave using, at least every once in a while. That doesn’t happen much anymore.
It gives me hope because I’ve gone through two original Laya Spots and don’t have one that still works. At least I have something to fall back on that I won’t hate. I call this a win.
I am not quite as much a proponent of the Laya II, partly because there are many more quality clitoral vibes out there, including the Mimi Soft with its deep vibrations. This wasn’t the case over a decade ago when the Laya Spot was one of few. So, while I am glad that Fun Factory has updated my favorite clitoral vibe so that I can use it for a few more years and another generation of users can discover it, I know it’s not for everyone. And that’s okay.
Update: Fun Factory has now released the Laya III.
JIL Olivia Vibrator
N/A
from
This is an archived review of a discontinued product.
Did you ever know one of those people whose personality was a sponge? They soaked up those around them. But when you remove that person from a group and get them alone, you find that they’re lacking in personality. They try so hard to please that you’re not sure who they are. Without a person or group to mimic, they’re bland.
Even worse, you wonder if you ever really knew them at all. You feel deceived.
It’s this way with Olivia, which tries to do so many things but never really manages to do any of them well. Perhaps I should know better. Almost every single toy I’ve used that wanted to be versatile has failed me.
Remember the bendable, twistable vibrator? No one would blame you if you didn’t. You might recall how much I disliked the Gvibe 2, which was advertised to work in 8 different ways but really only kinda-sorta achieved one.
I guess it comes down to this: I want my sex toys to do one thing really well.
If I can find some second use for the toy, that’s fantastic. Many internal vibes can work for clitoral stimulation.
Truth be told, I feel the same about most of my devices. I prefer an e-reader to a tablet because it’s set up to do one thing and do it well.
Olivia doesn’t do any one thing that well. The shape and curve of the shaft suggest that G-spot stimulation is ideal, but the thin, flexible neck means you can’t get the pressure you might like or thrust with any intensity.
It also means a lack of pressure when it comes to clitoral stimulation.
This vibrator just feels awkward in my hand, too. The neck is sooo flexible that the head flops around heavily. I always underestimate what companies mean when they advertise something as flexible, but this is also a case of the manufacturer overestimating how much flexibility a person would ever need. It makes the toy feel impossible to control once inserted it. You really can’t get a lot of precision with Olivia because it’ll bend any which way.
But it’s partially my fault, you know? Because I see words like “flexible,” and I think this toy does so much and sign myself right up. I should know better by now. Similarly, I should had realized that deep raspberry pink color was too good to be true. It’s a brighter, more run-of-the-mill pink in person.
I’m also flummoxed at the size of this, especially when compared with how flexible it is. There are plenty of reasons why a person might want a shorter toy or even one with a more narrow shaft, but those all seem negated by the flexibility. My fingers inch up the shaft in an attempt to gain some semblance of control, reducing the insertable length.
Although it doesn’t look like that extreme, it feels like Olivia’s shaft narrows suddenly after the head, so only the head provides much stimulation. The rest is too narrow or perhaps lacking in texture to do much at all. This would be fine if Olivia was a good G-spotter (I find those straight and narrow G-spot wands a bit boring but effective), but it’s not. But toys can have a wider shaft and still effectively hit the G-spot.
In terms of motor, Olivia is buzzier and louder than I’d like. There’s that “hollow” sound that some vibrators make (many Fun Factory toys used to) that suggests there needs to be more insulation around the motor. The wider base means your hand won’t buzz right off, however. Actually, I really enjoy the shape of the base for holding, and the single button is placed well to be used via thumb (it also lights up). I dislike the controls on most insertable vibes.
Aside from the three steady modes, there are a few pulsation and escalation modes. Some of these are terribly buzzy, and a few just seem like buzzier and/or weaker steady vibration modes. I am not sure why they’re included. Were the shape designed for my body, I would be fine with the steady vibes. Olivia wouldn’t be my favorite, but it would get the job done.
There’s probably someone out there who wants a toy that’s super flexible, can be inserted less than 5 inches, has a maximum diameter of under 1 1/2 inches, and provides middle-of-the-road vibrations. It’s not me, though. Olivia just fails at being enough for me. It’s not long enough, strong enough, firm enough, wide enough.
If I didn’t have to write about Olivia, I’d likely shove it in the back of a drawer and forget all about it. And that’s no vote of confidence.
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.
