“I don’t stick anything in my ass larger than my thumb,” the conversation started.
I stared at my potential mate’s long, slender fingers and noted that a) my penis was definitely wider and longer than the width and length of her finger, and b), when I looked back into her face, she had cocked her head to the left and cut an eye-rolling glance at me. It was a definite non-verbal cue that there was no way that we were going to engage in any manner of any male-to-female anal activity. Then, she turned to me.
“So, what about you?”
This question presented quite the conundrum. Deep down inside, I’d considered anal. It wasn’t until I was 30 years old that I first achieved ejaculation via penile and vaginal intercourse. By my 30th birthday, due to a laundry list of intellectual stressors and emotional pressures on sex, sexuality, and my personal happiness with the quality of my sexual performance, I had, in effect, willed myself into believing that I was to remain inorgasmic for life.
I’d always thought that if I couldn’t ejaculate, that maybe relieving pressure via direct stimulation of my prostate was an idea. Initially, I figured this was only able to occur via anal sex. Plus, while in college, I’d taken a few human sexuality courses that taught that all sex, when based on safety and consent, was good sex.
“Yeah, I’m down to try it,” I timidly responded.
This sparked a conversation that lasted in the shop for 45 minutes. It included walking around and picking up all manner of vibrators, butt plugs, dildos large and small, plus consulting with the woman who worked behind the counter, who finally suggested a prostate stimulator. The technology and industry behind them were still relatively new at the time, but it seemed ideal for achieving my intended goal.
It didn’t work.
Ejaculation didn’t happen until five years later, when, while fully distracted from thinking about my inability to achieve orgasm while having sex, it happened. Even so, I know that my experience in having that initial conversation about my wants, needs and desires that derived from deciding to involve toys in my relationship, then involving them in a way that created a shared atmosphere of mutual pleasure, was important.
When discussing the need for safe, shared sexual space in a relationship, there’s tree-swaying power, plus honest human emotional and physical connectivity, at risk. Developing sustainable definitions of what constitutes consent and boundaries is important. Instead of discussing why “aggressive clitoral stimulation” is a no go, there’s something more erotic, tactile, and highly entertaining about say, picking up a rabbit vibrator, turning it on, and assessing the potential for mutual gratification. Again, a wedge is a simple machine that succeeds best because it creates dual-inclined motion. Simply put, sex toys evolve discovering consent and boundaries from a necessary challenge to the first, of likely many, pleasurable agreements.