Why I'm angry with this vibrator
I’m angry with a vibrator. That’s not a very cool thing to admit, is it? But I am. Specifically, I’m angry because I allowed a brand to send me a press sample of their latest clit-sucker even though I know full well that clit-sucking vibrators do absolutely nothing for me so now I’ve been lured back in to trying to get this thing to work for me and feeling cross and confused that it doesn’t.
My relationship with sex toys has changed a lot over the years. As an old(er) millennial, I did not grow up with a wealth of online retailers where I could research and buy toys discreetly. The only remotely accessible or acceptable place to look at or buy them was Ann Summers and sure enough it was at an Ann Summers party in my first year of uni that I purchased my first ever vibrator: a Rampant Rabbit. I’ve written about my experience with the rabbit before so let’s just say it wasn’t for me. I know lots of people love them (and it’s also fair to say the design of rabbit toys has improved a lot since the early 00s!) but my experience with it was enough to put me off sex toys completely.
For a long time I thought I just wasn’t a “sex toy person” and this was and is perfectly fine. As I’ve discussed before, I never had a problem with analogue wanking and when it comes to partnered sex, I’ll take good head over a gadget any day of the week. But as I got older and more secure in my sexuality, my curiosity returned and I started to experiment again. I realised that while fingers and tongues were always going to be my favourite tools, I did actually enjoy the different sensations that toys bring for their own sake.
So this is more or less how I feel now. But occasionally something will come along that will upset the balance, and this clit-sucker is a prime example. It’s actually hard for me to describe how little it does for me. I literally sit there going “Well, this is boring” and “Sorry, is something supposed to be happening” and then suddenly out of nowhere I’ll have an orgasm and it’ll all be over before I even knew it had begun.
A friend described it as “having an orgasm extracted from me” as opposed to being “given” one. I’d say that’s spot on. But when I went on Twitter to express my ire I was met with people telling me how much they enjoyed the sensation, how – in some cases – it had made them squirt (which is a whole other thing that we’ll talk about another time).
Suddenly I felt annoyed again. Why couldn’t I get this bloody thing to work for me?
If I was advising someone else, this is the point where I’d jump in and ask them why on earth it matters. I’d point out there are myriad ways to experience pleasure and just because something is “popular” or “critically acclaimed” or “patented” does not mean you have to be into it. I’d say that all bodies work slightly differently and what one person enjoys doesn’t tell us anything about what another person will enjoy. I’d add that the best sex happens when you tap into what you really like and ignore the marketing spiel of brands promising bigger and better orgasms. I’d link them to my newsletter on how capitalism fucks with our sex lives and I’d remind them that sexual liberation is not a five-step plan or a tick-box exercise, that there’s no badge of “Ultimate Sexual Enlightenment” when you complete all the levels. Finally, I’d gently suggest that anyone who says otherwise is toxic af and probably best to steer well clear of.
That’s what I’d do if someone else came to me, worried that a certain vibrator didn’t do anything for them. But because it was me, I told myself it was because I wasn’t trying hard enough. I was a quitter, I decided, because I’d given this toy one try and then dismissed it.
A very normal, healthy thing to think. Honestly, I can’t even believe I’m admitting this to you. I’m supposed to be better than this! But that’s precisely the point. I’m not better than this. I’m just as susceptible as everyone else to the social scripts around sex that tell me I ought to be constantly horny, constantly up for trying new things, constantly chasing bigger and better orgasms. Furthermore, as someone who writes and talks about sex for a living, I feel like I ought to do it for work.
I know this is something other sex writers and journalists have experienced. Alix Fox talked about it incredibly honestly and poignantly a few years ago on Vice’s “My First Time” podcast (CW for coercion and boundary violation). The experiences she described were more extreme than what I’m talking about here but the basic feeling – that as someone who specialises in sex and relationships, you need to have either done things yourself or be willing to try them – is one I know is shared by many in the field.
Given how aware I am of this, you’d think I’d be able to give myself a break, wouldn’t you? The idea of telling someone else they have to be up for certain things in order to call themselves sex-positive or have a valid sexual identity is antithetical to everything I believe in and work for. But it’s one thing to uphold a set of values for other people, it’s another thing to always be able to effectively apply them to yourself. So the real reason I’m writing this newsletter is not to express my anger, but to acknowledge my vulnerability to those feelings. I still feel insecure about sex sometimes. I still worry that I’m not “liberated” or “enlightened” enough sometimes (I actually did a podcast episode a few years ago entitled “Am I sexy enough?”). Rationally, I know it’s nonsense. But it goes to show what a powerful hold these narratives have over us.
Anyway, back to that clit-sucker. Having decided I needed to give the thing another try, I got myself set up, got undressed, dimmed the lights, lit a candle, all that clichéd stuff, and sat back to wait for the air suction technology to do its thing. I sat there for ten minutes feeling almost nothing and then, just as I was starting to get to a point when I felt like pleasure might be around the corner… the battery died.
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What’s on my mind this week…
The burden of self-awareness
I found this thread on why people aren’t always good at knowing or setting boundaries really interesting. Even for neurotypical people with no history of trauma, self-knowledge can be an evasive thing. To know our boundaries, we must be on top of our needs, limitations and desires, all of which are fluid. It’s a big ask. And if we’re struggling with other things, or have unresolved issues around intimacy, it may well be hard to tap into this level of self-awareness and vulnerability.
This actually reminds me a lot of some of the stuff Katherine Angel said in her book, Tomorrow Sex Will Be Good Again, which I read back in March and something I hope to talk to her about when I hopefully interview her for BAD SEX. She wrote about how the pressure to “know what you want” and be able to communicate it can be a burden in itself. This idea really resonated with me and I think this all ties in with why communicating about sex is so difficult – because to the extent that we’re taught about it, we’re taught about it in very black and white terms. You either want something or you don’t. But it doesn’t always work like that, does it? And so, if anything, I’d say greater emotional (and maybe sexual) maturity comes from knowing you don’t 100% know where your boundaries lie and in acknowledging that setting them can be difficult.
A couple more things to (over)think about…
I loved Natasha Lunn's latest Conversations On Love interview with Bolu Babalola, particularly the way she described her parents’ relationship
Somehow I managed to miss this piece, back in March which is credited for coining the phrase “hot vax summer” but I just read it this week and it’s fun
I practically inhaled Detransition, Baby by Torrey Peters during my recent holiday in Wales. Witty, poignant and the fullest, most authentic and nuanced trans characters I’ve ever seen on the page. Go read it, immediately.
While I was battling with my own vibrator-related insecurities, I also wrote about vanilla sex for Cosmpolitan and why the only sex that matters is the sex you *enjoy*
This story about a Danish journalist who recorded herself having sex at a swingers party and then said it was just “part of her job” is a bit eye-opening, especially considering the topic of this week’s newsletter.
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The Overthinker’s Guide To Sex is written by freelance journalist Franki Cookney.
To read more of my work, or to get in touch with me go to frankicookney.com. You can also find me on Twitter, and Instagram.
