Will Anyone Else Want Strap-On Sex the Way I Do?

You might be worried that you love strap on sex too much.

You might be worried that you won’t find someone who wants to receive strap-on sex as often as you want to strap on. In general, as we get more aware of what our particular sexual interests are, it can seem like what we want becomes harder to find.

Which is true — we’re narrowing down what we want, so that means there are fewer things out there that will match our wants. But what’s also true is that our chances of being satisfied are getting higher and higher, because we better know ourselves and what we want.

In addition, we’re getting more specific with what we want, which actually means what we’re looking for becomes easy to find. If we’re looking for “someone to have sex with,” sure, there are lots of people who might fit into that scenario, but just anybody willing to have sex might not actually make for a satisfying time.

Getting more specific about our desires gets us more likely to get what we want, and also more likely to have a satisfying experience.

A Little Personal Story …

As I was coming into my own as a cock-centric person, I was worried that my interest wouldn’t match up with anyone else’s. I wanted to be strapped on when I had sex at least ninety percent of the time, and I didn’t know anybody who wanted that the same way I did.

I got a lot of push-back from other queer women I was dating at the time. One person even told me that if she wanted to have sex “like that,” meaning with some sort of penetrative instrument, she’d have sex with a man.

Associating strapping on with any particular gender is not only untrue, it deeply limits our abilities to explore and experiment with what our bodies do and the ways we can connect and play through sex. Wanting to play with penetrative sex, whether with fingers, a factory-installed penis, or a strapped on appendage, has nothing to do with gender and can be enjoyed — or rejected — by anyone of any gender. A few of the most cock-centric people that I know are high femmes, and I know a few gay men who do not want penetrative sex, giving or receiving, at all.

It took me some time to feel comfortable owning how frequently I wanted my sexual experiences to include me strapped on. It took talking to my friends, talking to lovers, and talking to other sex-positive educators to feel like I wasn’t the only one who wanted that, and to trust that I wasn’t a weird pervert freak because of it. It took trusting that someone was out there who wanted equal-but-opposite thing I wanted — for their partner to be strapped on for ninety percent of their sex life. It took experimenting and playing and being open about what I wanted.

Eventually, it has become one integral part of my personal sexuality, and if I was talking to a new potential sexual partner, it is something I would screen for.

On Stereotypes

It might seem like lesbians or queer women have rejected penetrative sex, because they are not attracted to men. It might seem like straight men would not be interested in being pegged, because they are heterosexual.

But liking the sensation of penetration and one’s sexual orientation are not the same thing. In all of my travels and coaching and teaching of strap-on technique, I have met with thousands of people, and I assure you: plenty of queer women enjoy penetration, and plenty of straight men enjoy pegging, and plenty of nonbinary folks and genderqueer folks of all kinds of genders enjoy things in their holes.

It might seem like you are looking for something that doesn’t exist, but I assure you: it does! You may have to just take it on faith for a little while, but if you look around and be open about the kind of sex life you want, you will find people who want the same things you do.

There are many, many people out there who want to receive. They might be looking for you, and thinking you’re hard to find, just as much as you are looking for them.

Take My Whip: Fantasy Date Night, Guest Post by rife

It’s Friday night and we keep this night blocked off on the calendar. 5:30 rolls around and you send me around the block to walk the dog once I wrap up my work for the day. When I come back, you’re sitting on the porch in your jeans with the leather crotch, a tight new black t shirt and the chest harness. All the deck furniture has been pushed off to the side and your Bluetooth speaker is playing a mixture of jazz and romantic pop music. You are wearing your heavy harness boots and you let your goatee grow out a little.

I giggle, suddenly feeling underdressed in my daytime pajamas and sneakers. I prance over and get up on my toes to kiss you. You let me. “Hi, Daddy! What’s all this?”

“I’m taking you dancing, boy. Go get dressed.”

“Mmmhm. I mean, yes, Sir.” I say softly and pad inside to feed the dog and put on that slinky grey dress you like and my combat boots with the soles that have worn down to slick nothing and the chain wrist cuffs that match my collar that you like to see on me. I wash the work day off my face and scrub dry until I’m pink.

You raise an eyebrow at my outfit choice but you’re smiling underneath it.

We dance for days and days on the porch as night falls and the bats come out to play. Sometimes the tempo is slow and our feet barely remember to shuffle while we kiss with lots of tongue and you run your fingers through my fresh soft buzz cut. The smell of wisteria finds its way to us across the breeze and if our neighbors see us, they pretend not to.

Sometimes the tempo is faster and you throw me across the boards in controlled chaos. It takes every ounce of concentration to just follow, to listen for the cues in your palm on my back, to remind myself of the rock step-triple-step beat, to give over to the music and your direction. There are moments when it is effortless and we are just flying, one creature.

Finally it is fully dark and you press me back against the one oak tree, breathless and sweaty on the warm summer night. Ed Sheeran or some other sensitive white guy is still crooning on but all I can feel is your dick hard against the fly of your jeans against me.

You press me hard enough that I’m sure the rough bark will leave marks, pinning my hands over my head, looping the chains around my wrists into that hook that usually holds the wind chime. I’m impressed by your forethought but the nation is quickly swept away my your hands doubled up on either side of my rib cage, stroking the length of me up and down from exposed armpits to the bottom curve of each hip. I shiver and swoon under your firm big hands that make me feel so small. You inch the bottom of the dress up teasingly slowly. I really hope the neighbors aren’t watching now.

Just when I can feel myself start to squirm and rub my thighs together anxious of the wetness I can feel coming on… you pull back. I whimper a little and sigh involuntarily, which of course is what you want.

“Not now, pet. You’re going to wait.”

“Mmmrf. I mean, yes, Sir.”

Inside, we make pizzas — yours pesto and salami with a cauliflower crust, mine sourdough and jalapeños and onion. They are delicious, but I am distracted thinking of the packer still between your legs. After dinner you tell me to ignore the kitchen mess and follow you, so I do.

You strip my dress off like someone who has done it a hundred times before and nod approvingly at what is revealed: just mounds of tight exposed flesh with no underwear. I feel you press up against me from behind and your arm wraps around my throat.

“You’re going to take my whip, boy, and then you’re going to take my dick.”

“Mmmmmm… ! I mean, yes, Sir.”

The wood of the coffee table is shockingly cold at first and my nipples flinch against it, but I relax into it as you layer gentle strokes with your big fat deerskin flogger all across my back. I moan despite myself as you ramp up in intensity and land a few solid strikes across the curve where ass meets thighs. You always were a leg person.

You pause to lean over me and grow into my ear. “Mmm, beautiful. Good boy. Ten more. Count for me.”

This time, I do not hesitate. “Yes, Sir.”

You step back but your fingers trail across my reddening back like it pains you to be separated. I can still feel the energy of you reach out to me across the room.

Until it is concentrated into a fiery pinprick of the kiss of your single tail.

“One, Sir.”

I try to remind myself it is just sensation. I try to erase pain from my vocabulary and just feel it. Easier said than done.

“Two, Sir. Three, Sir. Oh…! Four, Sir.”

Now we are both flying, drunk on your power. You push me harder to see if you can draw blood and break in this whip. Make it bound to me like i am to you.

The lash falls hot across my shoulder and i squirm hard, but the trickle raised is just sweat.

“Five, Sir..!”

You love me but you quiet that part of yourself with reserve to get what you want. No, it’s not want. You will be nice later. You need blood.

“Fuck! Six, Sir. Seven! Ah!”

I squeak out with difficulty eight and nine. You tell me a hundred times i am a good boy for taking it so nice and it lands every time.

Finally the warm droplets are pooling for you and you can feel your dick hard and straining in your jeans. You laugh aloud as i flinch hard out of habit while you barely tease me with number ten.

“Ten, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

You run the tails and your fingertips over my back and ass, drawing in the red, savoring my flinching as you pass over the already raised welts. My breath is heaving and so is yours, in time, I think.

In a moment your fly is open and you are crammed against me, sliding in easily to the hilt of your open jeans. You pull my hips back into you with both hands and groan as you start thrusting slow and deep the length of you. You wrap your hands around my face and shove your fingers hard against my tongue. You are growling a steady stream of filthy words but my brain isn’t even processing it anymore. I am overwhelmed by you.

“Fuck, that’s so nice. That’s right. You just take it for me, you little whore. That’s Daddy’s slut. Unh, you feel so good. So tight baby. Daddy’s going to give it to you. Fuck…!!!”

I guess I came too, because the next thing I remember: I am in a puddle, dripping into the carpet and high and there is no pain anymore.

You scoop me up and guide me into the shower, lather down my dully aching back with peppermint soap and wrap me in your big soft Daddy robe.

We eat Girl Scout cookies and watch Steven Universe until I fall asleep on your shoulder.