As you know if you’ve been reading this newsletter for a while, sometimes I get obsessed with things. Currently I am obsessed with Severance, the sci-fi/thriller/speculative-fiction TV show – because, among numerous other reasons, it makes me think more deeply about sexuality. All my favorite media does.

A brief rundown on the premise of Severance for those unfamiliar: it’s set in a world where a mega-corporation called Lumon has created something called the severance procedure. They implant a chip in your brain, which basically splits you into two selves: your work self, and your personal-life self. These two selves have no memory of each other, and no knowledge of the other one’s activities. When you go to work, your consciousness switches to your work self, referred to as an “innie,” and when you leave work, your consciousness switches back to your personal self, or your “outie.” This creates a situation where the innie is essentially trapped at work forever, since all of their experiences occur at work – while the outie has zero awareness of what they do at work all day, allowing Lumon to get up to some shady shit.

(If you haven’t seen Severance and don’t plan to, you can go ahead and skip this piece, because I think it’ll sound like unhinged gibberish to you and also it’s loooong, but thank you for being here! I appreciate you!)

Anyway, with that being said, sex was barely discussed in season 1 but is becoming more of a thing in season 2, and I’m (obviously) massively nerdy about sex, so I have lots of questions about how it functions in this universe. There are spoilers ahead for all the episodes currently released, so don’t read this yet if you’re not caught up and would like to be. Oh, and (content note:) I will be discussing some dubious-consent-y and non-consent-y stuff, as that is the nature of this show. Let’s dive in.

I’ve wanted to be somebody’s girlfriend before… but have I ever wanted to roleplay as somebody’s girlfriend? What would be the point of such a thing – and, perhaps even more pressingly, what would be the difference?

I pondered this when I saw a recent post on the /r/RandomActsOfMuffDive subreddit – a forum for finding no-strings-attached cunnilingus partners – where a man had specified that he was seeking a woman to whom he could offer “BFE”: the boyfriend experience.

BFE, and its counterpart GFE (the girlfriend experience), are terms commonly used to describe particular types of sex work sessions. Wikipedia describes these sessions as involving “reciprocal sexual pleasure and some degree of emotional intimacy.” The provider expends emotional labor to help the client feel that they are engaged in mutually desired, mutually enjoyable sex between two people of equal standing.

One wonders, then, what exactly an offer of BFE would entail in a non-monetary transaction. What would the “provider” – in this case, the thirsty man shouting into the Reddit void in search of munchable cunt – be getting out of such an interaction, if not money? 

It’s funny how a person can change your whole life with one sentence.

In 2007, I was at a meeting of my high school’s queer-straight alliance, and the author S. Bear Bergman was our guest speaker. In between readings of beautiful excerpts from his new book about gender, selfhood, and love, someone asked a question about compatibility in relationships. I don’t remember the exact question, but I remember Bear’s answer with startling clarity:

Thoughtfully, slowly, he said that in terms of a potential partner, “you want someone who’s similar enough to you to make you feel comfortable, but different enough from you to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.”

Similar enough, but different enough. Both.

I’ve heard a lot of hypothetical questions about clone-sex over the years. (Can you tell I’m friends with a lot of sex nerds?) Sometimes people will wonder if fucking your clone would be considered incest or masturbation. Sometimes we debate the consent ethics of clone-sex. Sometimes the question is just “Would you fuck your clone, if you could?” – to which my answer is always a resounding no, because I don’t find myself sexually attractive and wouldn’t be sexually compatible with myself. (It’s funny for a professional masturbator to say she’s not sexually compatible with herself, but hey, you know what I mean…)

That being said, when I do occasionally permit myself the indulgence/horror of picturing it, one other thing that worries me about sex with my hypothetical clone is that I might not be able to get her off.

See, imagine that I lay her down in my (our?) bed, and get her all turned on by watching the porn I (we) like, and talking dirty about the fantasies I’m (we’re) into, and then I start touching her clit in the exact ways that I know feel good for me (us), the ways I’ve practiced and honed over decades… and then it doesn’t work. What then?

It’s not as impossible as it may sound. Even setting aside the fact that a clone grown from birth would have her own set of preferences forged in the fire of life experience, what if she did like all the same things as me, and I still couldn’t get her off? What if, without the ability to directly feel what each touch feels like from moment to moment (as with masturbation), I couldn’t accurately read her body language and the ascent of her pleasure well enough to make her come? Oh god, the horror!!

One of my oldest and most strongly-held opinions, not to mention one of my most obnoxious opinions, is that everyone should take an improv class. Absolutely everyone. Yes, even if the very thought fills you with extreme confusion and/or terror. Perhaps especially if that’s the case – and perhaps especially in times of global chaos and tumult.

Many people who know me IRL will have heard me give this impassioned speech already, but I realized recently that I don’t think I’ve ever codified it into writing. So here, for your consideration, is my pitch for why you – YES, YOU! – should take a local improv class, at least once in your life. (The last reason on this list is the most important one, FYI…)

(Want to get an essay like this from me every week? Upgrading to a premium subscription costs $5/month and also gets you access to all the juicy paywalled essays in my archive. I don’t know how much longer sex media will be a viable career, but if you want me to be able to keep writing, supporting my work is the best way to help me do so!)

I had a super useful idea once, while I wasn’t feeling well. I don’t recall whether it was during a psychedelic trip or a hangover, but it was definitely one of the two.

Those are two pretty different mental states, as you may know if you’ve sampled both. But one thing they have in common (for me, anyway) is that your thoughts can guide your experiences while you’re in those states, even more than they do in everyday life.

When I’m on psychedelics, for instance, even just thinking about a cute, cuddly cat from my childhood can make me burst into tears, or can flood my body with happy chemicals that feel like the god-given message “Everything is going to be alright.” On the flipside, when I’m hungover, thinking about last night’s hamburger and fries for a second can send me racing to the bathroom to puke.

You can see, then, how either one of these two states – or perhaps both of them – could lead me to the idea that your thoughts are the roiling ocean beneath you, but they are also the ship you use to navigate that ocean. And if you want to find your way out of the storm and into safety, you have to know how to steer the ship.

Content note: This essay contains some discussion of daddy dom/little girl kink, and some minor spoilers for the movie Babygirl, which you don’t need to have seen before you read this (although if you like my writing, you’d probably dig it!).

Imagine you’re at a seedy biker bar, surrounded by surly old men with fistfuls of beer and smokes. They’re milling around, grumbling, drinking. Radiating the misery of repression, their bodies held stiff and strong as pillars of masculinity, load-bearing defense mechanisms keeping them upright.

Imagine the stuff flowing from the jukebox all night was fairly predictable – old-man country, classic dude-rock. And then imagine that someone pressed a few buttons and suddenly, a shiny, sparkly song came on that lit up your whole heart. My mind goes to Carly Rae Jepsen, but maybe yours conjures Chappell Roan, or Prince, or Beyoncé, or some obscure chiptune band you saw at an underground video games festival once… Whatever it is, imagine that the whole room goes still, struck by the oddity of what they’re listening to, its total wrongness in this environment. And then imagine that you lock eyes with the person standing at the jukebox, the person who wanted to hear this song as much as you needed to – and imagine how you would feel toward them, knowing that in this whole big scary room, you’re the only two people feeling what you’re feeling. The only two people feeling that specific shame, and that specific joy.

A reader asked: “What were your favorite new acquisitions in 2024? Purchases, gifts, etc.”

Oh, you have inquired about one of my favorite subjects: THINGS!! Items. Objects. Possessions. Love ‘em. I am a product of my time, unfortunately, and my time is consumerist as fuck.

That being said, a lot of these objects have tangibly improved my life in ways that go far beyond just “Ooh, pretty!” Let’s talk about ‘em.

Did you know: I send out an essay like this to my premium subscribers every week (actually it’s usually quite a bit more personal than this one!), and becoming a premium subscriber also gives you immediate access to all past essays, on topics like sex, love, kink, dating, creativity, trauma, tattoos, & more! It’s a great, cheap way ($5/month) to support my work so I can keep doing it, even as Trump and his cronies make it harder and harder for sexuality content to continue existing. Thanks, babes!

I’ve been thinking a lot about recommendations recently. Maybe it’s because over the holidays I hung out a lot with my mom and brother, who basically speak in movie/TV/music references. Maybe it’s because I have a crush on a cinephile right now who keeps seeming cuter to me with each stellar movie recommendation. Maybe it’s because the internet is somehow both worse and better at recommending things than it’s ever been, with soulless but mathematically-optimized algorithms pumping out “For You” feeds and “Discover Weekly” playlists, as good old-fashioned human art criticism and curation seem to die a slow, sad death.

I miss the old internet, I really do. Much of my early taste in music, for instance, was shaped by the MySpaces and music blogs of the early oughts. I loved that each recommendation had real weight to it, enough to overcome my natural Taurean hesitance to try new things. If a new song or album was recommended by somebody I thought was cool, that would often be the push I needed to seek it out, even if I’d otherwise resist it – and in some cases I’d end up loving it enough that it shaped my entire musical taste thereafter. And all because someone thought to tell me (or even just to write online), “Hey, I think you’d really like this.”

See, any old algorithm can recommend things that are similar to things you already like, or the things that are often liked by other people who like the things you like. And that’s certainly a valid and sometimes-useful way of seeking out new stuff. But a recommendation from a human is often based on something deeper, something a robot might find ineffable. A human (especially a perceptive one who knows you well) can make recommendations based on your emotions, your psychology, your longings, your fears – sometimes even the aspects you yourself are not fully aware of.

Even recommendations from public figures, who don’t know me at all, can hit me harder than anything in a Discover Weekly playlist – perhaps because I see these works of art as windows into a soul I wish I knew better, a soul I want to emulate. I view these pieces of art with an open-mindedness I’d otherwise never afford them, if I know they’re beloved by a writer I admire, or a musician I worship, or an actor I have the hots for.

I truly don’t know why it took me so long to figure out I was destined to become a journalist: I was raised by two journalists, I’ve always gotten good grades in English classes, and I often take notes during conversations. All pretty big clues, I’d say!

While I was always a note-taker, I really honed my skills in that area when I got to journalism school. For the entire first year of our program, we were not allowed to make recordings of our interviews, and instead had to just take notes (either handwritten or typed). This was meant to teach young journalists how to take good notes quickly, and while it was wildly annoying, it worked – I graduated nearly a decade ago but am still pretty good at summarizing key points of a conversation in hastily scribbled notes, and grabbing pull quotes verbatim as they come. It’s a useful skill to me constantly – so constantly that I don’t even understand how other people function without frequent note-taking!

I don’t take notes during every conversation, to be clear. I’m not pulling out my notebook when I chat with a barista or a shop clerk (unless they drop an intriguing movie recommendation). And I don’t typically take notes when talking to friends in-person, because some people find it rude or distracting.

Ever find yourself avoiding something, and you’re not really sure why? Yeah, that’s me with sex sometimes.

After all these years of writing and thinking about sex – and about my own sex life and sexuality, specifically – you would think I’d have enough self-awareness that this wouldn’t happen anymore. But once in a while, I do realize, all of a sudden, that I’ve been avoiding sex or masturbation lately – and that I haven’t even given any conscious thought to why.

Sometimes it’s because I’ve been struggling through a chronic illness flare-up or a stressful life situation. Sometimes I just haven’t been in the mood. All of those are valid reasons to avoid sex (and, as a reminder, you don’t even need a reason to avoid sex – “no” is a complete sentence, and all that!).

But sometimes, if I dig a little deeper, I’ll find that there is a specific thing which has been draining my sexual desire. And often, that specific thing is entirely fixable, now that I’ve identified what it actually is.

’Twas the end of November, when all ‘cross the ‘net,

Not a penis was stirring, not a pussy was wet;

Self-deniers on Reddit got ready for fun,

Knowing No Nut November soon would be done.

…is to pay attention to what they do, not what they say.

I give this advice often – to friends, to readers, to anyone who’s unsure whether their crush is into them – because it’s one of the truest things I know about relationships. You’ve heard it a zillion times before, because it’s simply the case, not just in the realm of crushes but in many other realms as well: Actions speak louder than words.

The trouble with this advice in a romantic context, however – and really, the trouble with any advice about sex and relationships – is that it’s not universally applicable. There are definitely reasons why someone might act like they don’t like you, when actually they do. Maybe they are trying to play it cool. Maybe their phone is malfunctioning. Maybe they are very busy with professional or personal obligations at the moment. Maybe they’ve got a complicated situation going on with a recent ex and they want to breathe for a sec before pursuing someone new. Maybe they struggle with answering messages in a timely way because of ADHD, depression, or other chronic conditions. Maybe they just have no game whatsoever and don’t know how to demonstrate their interest. (I have definitely been guilty of that!)

But by and large, it has been my experience that if someone is into you, there will be signs – and those signs will be most easily spotted in their behavior, not their words.

I don’t know when I’ll ever go on a first date again. Not to be dramatic about it, but like, the amount of energy and vulnerability it would take to seek out and set up a first date – a FIRST?! DATE?! – is just unfathomable to me right now.

I still wish I could go on one, because, while the worst first dates can be hellish beyond measure, the best first dates are a high like no other. Being on a great first date feels like doing drugs and winning the lottery at the same time – at least, to me. I’m sure at least a few of you find first dates categorically nervewracking and are cringing as you read this, and that’s valid too. I’m just a major slut for romance, chemistry, and connection – and I try to remain optimistic in matters of love, as a basic survival strategy in this bleak grey world, so I always try to believe that another great date could be right around the corner, because it always could.

To that end: I sure do fantasize a lot about first dates. Sometimes at night, when I’m trying to get to sleep, I’ll pick a current crush – from celebrities to social-media mutuals to people I know IRL – and just imagine what a first date with them would be like. It’s an oddly calming little game, seeking and pushing all the pleasure buttons in my own brain to help me sleep.

In your head, you can make a date go any way you want, and can all but ensure that anything you do or say will be well-received. For that reason, in these fantasies I often find myself asking questions I’d be far too shy to ask on a real first date, such as…

My dear darlings: I don’t have the words to express my devastation about this week’s election result. I’m so, so sorry that we live in a world where authoritarianism is so readily embraced, time and time again, and where marginalized people are regularly thrown under the bus. It fucking sucks, and I’m furious and heartbroken and scared, and it’s absolutely okay if you are too.

People have all kinds of reactions to strong emotions like these. When the situation in question involves access to reproductive healthcare (or a lack thereof), sometimes people react by proposing a “sex strike.” Usually these strikes involve women declining to have sex with men for the duration of the strike. Sometimes, as in the 4B movement in South Korea (which unfortunately is TERFy), these strikes extend to other activities too, such as dating men, marrying men, or having children.

Some American women have proposed launching similar sex strikes in the U.S., to protest the loss of Roe v. Wade and the re-election of a rapist. Since pregnancy is even more medically risky in a Roe-less world than it already was, it makes total sense to me that many people would become voluntarily celibate at a time like this. Better to have no sex at all, they might be thinking, than to have sex that could end up literally killing them (if, for example, the pregnancy goes awry and doctors are legally forbidden to intervene because of reproductive healthcare bans).

“Sex strike” discourse is often very cis-hetero, because these strikes are largely borne out of unequal gender dynamics in the cis-het dating world, and specifically out of the healthcare disparities between cis men and cis women. However, as a queer person and an erstwhile sex educator, I can’t help but notice that these strikes are usually based on two common assumptions in hetero dating culture, both of which are simply false:

While staying overnight at my parents’ house recently, I flipped through an old journal of mine from when I was 17, and spotted an exhortation I still often give myself today: “You should tell cute people they’re cute more often!”

Sounds obvious, maybe. But it took me a while to understand that it’s okay to give compliments freely – nay, that it’s a good thing, and that it tangibly brightens people’s days.

See, my social anxiety insists that randomly complimenting someone – specifically, someone I don’t know super well – is awkward, because it could make them uncomfortable. It took practice and experience for me to figure out that the likelihood of this is pretty low, assuming I stick to complimenting people on the right kinds of things (more on that in a sec).

I’ve also sometimes feared that complimenting someone might lead them to believe I’m attracted to them, even if I’m not (although, let’s be real, many of the people I compliment are indeed people I’m attracted to!). This, too, is probably a fabrication of my anxiety more than it’s based on actual fact. When someone’s trying to figure out if you’re into them, generally they’ll assess multiple different signs-or-lack-thereof, not just one offhand comment – and anyway, the more I compliment people, the more it becomes obvious (at least in group situations) that that’s just something I do, so it’s less likely to be taken as an automatic come-on.

I kinda hate the way sex writers and sex podcasters are depicted in movies and TV.

I’m sure that every industry is somewhat misrepresented by Hollywood, even Hollywood itself. You have to simplify big ideas sometimes to make them comprehensible and palatable for the masses, and the truth doesn’t always make for neat, easy narratives. I get that.

But whether it’s Carrie from Sex and the City, Joanne from Nobody Wants This, or any of the other major sexual media-makers in fiction these last couple decades, one recurring trope is these people’s insistence that their work “isn’t just about sex.”

The implication, of course, is that there would be something wrong with their work if it was just about sex. In an episode of And Just Like That, for instance, someone calls Carrie a sex writer, and she responds angrily, “What, do I write porn?!” as if that would be the worst thing in the world.

This past month, as I’ve watched all my favorite Twitch streamers play through the new Legends of Zelda game, Echoes of Wisdom, I’ve thought a lot about porn.

No, not because these playthroughs were pornographic in and of themselves – they make me want to beat Ganon, not beat off! – but rather, because they highlight how fun it can be to watch someone do something for their very first time.

I have a pivotal porn memory along these lines. I must’ve been in my late teens or early twenties, because I was scrolling through PornHub trepidatiously, still not entirely accustomed to using visual stimuli during masturbation. I stumbled across a video called something like “HER FIRST TIME TRYING ANAL.” Without even pausing to think, I clicked the thumbnail and began to watch.

What ensued was (to my mind) an over-acted approximation of what someone’s first time having anal could be like: nervous giggling, salacious lube application, cartoonish exclamations of pleasure-tinged-with-pain. I’ll never know whether it was actually her first time, or just a skilled porn performer fulfilling that fantasy for the viewer. But it made me aware, in a way I hadn’t been before, that I like seeing people’s authentic reactions to first times.

Hi! I’m gonna tell you all about polyamory in The Sims today, but before we get into that, I’d like to humbly ask you to vote for my miniseries, Making Magic, in the Signal Listener’s Choice Awards, which are ending very soon. Voting is quick and easy, and will help more people discover the series. Thanks so much! 😘🪄

As I’ve told you on a few occasions before, the Sims franchise has always been ahead of the curve in terms of sexuality and gender representation. Your Sims can be queer, trans, nonbinary… and now, they can be polyamorous too.

Oh, don’t get me wrong; people have been making polyamorous Sims since the game’s inception (myself included). The trouble was, the game – like much of modern society – was created with monogamy in mind. I used to get around this by entering a cheat code to give my Sims the “Player” trait, which would supposedly make it so that they could flirt with/kiss other people in front of their partner(s) and no one would get jealous; however, The Sims is a notoriously buggy game, so this often didn’t work quite right, souring many a birthday party with sudden Simlish arguments when someone got too lovey-dovey in front of their metamour.

(If you want to listen to me reading this piece aloud, the link is below for premium subscribers!)

The first time my now-spouse and I kissed, it felt like a scene from a movie. Like a capital-M Moment. Like it should’ve been soundtracked by a swell of sentimental strings, warbling with wonder.

Notably, it didn’t feel like the end of the movie. It felt like a moment near the beginning, when everything clicks into place, black and white becomes technicolor, and the protagonist’s life truly begins.