Today is the last day to enter the Orgasmic Tales Sex Toy Contest!

As many of you have seen, some of the lovely judges have shared their own noteworthy sex toy stories on their various blogs.  Here are some of the stories for you to catch up on, if you haven’t already:

• Amanda shared her story about being unexpectedly gifted a dildo that “looked directly off the shelf from the Fisher Price ‘My First Sex Toy’ collection.”
• Dirty Lola told us about the first time she bought a sex toy; she told her friend that the vibrator was for a gag gift, but instead ended up exhausting the batteries in one night.
• Karin Sin offered, quite literally, a tiny (NSFW!) glimpse into her sex toy fantasies.
• Dead Cow Girl shared the experience of helping her mother pick out a sex toy.  

Now that this contest is almost (!!!!) at an end, after a month of being open, I thought I’d send it out with my own story as well.  

The origins of my experimentation with sex toys (or finding objects to, ahem, pose as such) is not unlike the story already submitted about using a showerhead and other powered jetstreams to propel an orgasmic experience.  Even before I really knew what masturbation was, I was an avid fan of wanking, and came up with all kinds of creative ways to get off.

It took some time to discover that there were, in fact, toys that were invented for the sole purpose of achieving the nameless sensation that I enjoyed so much.  A big thank you to my second boyfriend who, when I was fifteen, introduced me to the wonderful world of the glittery absurdities that can fit in and around my vagina.

For today’s purposes, though, I thought I’d share with you a recent experience that proves that even when two people are fairly well-versed in the joys of sex toys and sexy products, things can go horribly wrong.

My current partner and I are pretty kinky.  We have a whole tool kit that we often incorporate into our play, and we’re growing it all the time (especially as I do more sex toy reviews!).  One of the things I was gifted from a friend was some “warming massage oil,” intended not only for massaging your shoulders and back, but also for adding some warming sensation elsewhere too. 

It sat, untouched, on my coffee table (read: I’m poor, so “coffee table” means “$12 trunk with stickers on it that I snagged from the East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse”) for several weeks.  Both my partner and I kept bringing it up as something we should try.  It was intended to be one of those “spice up your love life!” packages, which felt silly for us to want to use, especially considering the other tools and activities in our sex life.  Still, we thought, “Why not?”

Fast forward to one evening where we had gone on a date, gone for drinks, and hurriedly headed home for private time.  We were furiously making out, running each other into the kitchen counters and tripping over solitary shoes that were left in the pathway to the couch.  We started to discard each other’s clothing without any kind of grace.  

Listen, I love the art of tease and denial.  I love building my partner’s (and my own) anticipation, and fighting for who is going to fall prey to their own desire first.  It’s a game that I have loved personally, and a skill that I often use professionally.  The anticipation, even without any kind of release, is its own gift.  The tension and electricity that exists in the ephemeral space where skin on skin contact has barely been achieved is something I wish I could bottle and save for rainy days.  Sometimes, though, it’s necessary to smash faces, rip clothes, and leave (CONSENSUAL) bruises.

We stopped fucking around and he stopped fingering me momentarily to grab the oils from the coffee table.  

He grabbed his choice of oils and rubbed it on my outside of my cunt.

The warm, wet sensation of the oil was just what I wanted to feel.  It was a slight warmth on the lips of my already soaking cunt, and then…

Wait.

Wait.

“OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD!! STOP TOUCHING ME!!!  STOP TOUCHING ME,” I yelled at my partner as I fled to the bathroom in a panic, naked except for the panties still wrapped around my right ankle.

Dumbfounded, he responded, “Okay!  Are you okay!??  What’s going on!??  ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!”

I didn’t have time to respond.  I ran to the bathroom, grabbed a makeup remover wipe as I sat on the edge of the bathtub with my legs spread, and frantically wiped all of the massage oil from my body.

That “warming sensation” had turned into a hot sensation.  

Hot as in burning.  

Burning as in painful.  

Painful as in OW, OW, MY JUNK.

I waddled back into where my partner was waiting for me, still confused and completely concerned.  

“I’m okay, but baby, that stuff…that stuff…is not good.”

We both looked at each other for a moment and started laughing hysterically.

Upon inspecting the package, we discovered that we hadn’t used it incorrectly, but that perhaps it wasn’t the particular sensation that worked out for me.

In retrospect, we both should have figured that this result was a possibility, as we both have had experiences that paralleled this one in the past.  As I said: Even sex toy veterans can make classic mistakes in the heat of the moment.  Whoops.

Now that you’ve read my story, do me a favor:

Enter your own before midnight tonight!  

And hey, let’s say that you really, truly don’t have a story to enter (SKEPTICAL), at least go give the existing entries a read and share the link with your friends.  The prizes are pretty rad, and can be used for you OR a partner (or for some quality time together…hopefully with more successful results that the story I just shared with you!).

Find out more about the details of the contest and how to enter right here.

Sparklespeed, sex positive warriors!

-Tizz