The Best Days of Our Lives

Sometimes, when I’m quite tipsy and out on the town, I’m struck by the sense that my friends and I rule the world. The city is lit up and glittering just for us. We are fearless and stupid and hilarious and we love each other. I feel the swells of hope and bravery reach high tide in my chest.

The problem is, though, that emotional abuse conditions you a certain way. Whenever I start to feel brave, or hopeful, or – God forbid – happy, I also start to feel a cold dread leak into my bones. If you’ve lived through emotional abuse, you’ll know that abusers never let their victims’ happiness go unpunished. You’re used to knowing, consciously or not, that whatever positive emotion you’re experiencing is part of the cycle of abuse – you’re in the honeymoon phase now, but you know that soon, the sky will fall in. Every time you feel like you’re getting less small, someone cuts you back down to size. Eventually, you might stop hoping or laughing or feeling brave altogether.

So when I feel like I’m on top of the world with people I love, my brain tries to slam on the brakes. It isn’t my brain’s fault – it has been taught that the more elevated I feel, the worse the inevitable fall will injure me. My brain tells me, “You’ll grow out of this. Sooner or later, you’ll stop having nights out, stop drinking, stop dancing, stop loving these friends – sooner or later, you’ll lose this feeling forever.” 

The thought is like a bucket of cold water in that it startles me, makes my chest muscles tighten, makes me feel like shit. I know I won’t be a dumbass student full of Jagerbombs forever – my brain is right about that. What if it’s also right about never feeling like this again?


Play parties – especially the chill, lowkey rope jams I often attend – aren’t much like nights out. The music is quiet. The lights are dim. I’m stone-cold sober. 

I’m on a mat, lying on my back with one leg suspended above the rest of me. My Daddy is tightening ropes around my shin just to make me writhe and squeak. It fucking hurts. He closes his fist and starts punching the rope that will later bruise my skin. Harder and harder, up and down my entire lower leg. He squeezes my calf and I almost scream.

From my position on the floor, I make accidental eye contact with somebody else on the floor – another bottom, also being tormented, also writhing and squeaking. I’ve never spoken to them before, but they take one look at my agony-filled face and smile at me. I smile right back, knowing that they feel how I feel, knowing that we’ll both glow with pride and endorphins when we’re done.

When the ropes come off and I’m scooped into a hug, I feel so warm and in love with the world. My legs shake in time to the music. The other bottom, the one who smiled at me, is receiving aftercare, too.


I have nagged and nagged at my Daddy to go and play with someone he likes. I’m in lingerie and full makeup, but there’s an empty bathtub in the venue (for some reason) and I’ve found that it gives me exceptionally good autism to sit inside. I watch, fascinated, as other people play. I recognise one of the songs on the playlist and smile to myself. 

Sooner or later, someone I know reasonably well comes and joins me in the bathtub. We sit side-by-side in our sexiest underwear and talk for at least an hour. I make her giggle a lot. We point things out to each other – interesting scenes that are unfolding and other people’s cute outfits, mostly. Another person comes and joins the conversation, kneeling in front of the bathtub. I let sentences about sex and kink and queerness fall straight out of my mouth, completely unfiltered. 

Every now and then, I remember that one of the loves of my life is in the other room, having pulled with my help. I remember the fizz of affection I felt when I caught the eye of another bottom earlier. I remember that these are conversations I would never have anywhere else.

I might grow out of drinking and roaming the town, but the number of older kinksters surrounding me suggests quite firmly that I won’t grow out of this. Which is good, because right now, I feel like my friends and I rule the world. The dungeon is dimly lit and decorated just for us.

Sex & Kink Resolutions For 2019

An image of two journals: one blue, faux snakeskin journal with no writing on it, and one spiralbound blue and white marble journal that bears the words 'Two Thousand & Nineteen' in a cursive font. They are on a green carpet background and the blue & marbled one is laying over the top of the snakeskin-like one.

I realise that it’s only the 22nd of December and Christmas hasn’t even happened yet, but we explored just last week why Christmas does not inspire horny blog content in me, so I figured instead I could think ahead a little to the new year: specifically, to the New Year’s Resolutions I might make regarding sex and kink.

A couple of Decembers ago, I firmly resolved that 2017 would be the year in which I’d get fisted. A number of factors prevented this, including significant blows to my  ability to trust people, the intimidating hand size of one of the few partners I did trust, and a heightened inability to relax any parts of my body least of all my genitals. When I ended the year only having achieved a measly six (thick) fingers in my vagina at once, sans the palm of a hand, I was devastated.

Six fingers is an insane accomplishment! But because it wasn’t within the framework of the task I’d set myself, I was disappointed and self-critical. I lean towards that pattern of thought and self-talk at the best of times, but sex and kink are a. extraordinarily vulnerable and b. my thing, so I’m that bit more prone to responding to my perceived “failures” in ways that are as non-constructive as they are misery-inducing. With this in mind, I’m keeping these resolutions as nonspecific as possible, so that I don’t have any concrete metrics by which to judge my own “successes” or “failures”.

  1. Wank more. I tweeted about the creation of my Wank Journal, wherein I’ll be cataloguing and celebrating all the wanks I have. At present, trauma and depression have alienated me from my body and I’m still working through a lot of the terror I experience regarding my own arousal (especially when it’s “purposeless”, i.e. not for the consumption of a partner), so I wank once in a blue moon, and sometimes dissociate during or after the process. In 2019, I hope to wank just a little more often and a lot more enjoyably, and I’m hoping that my (super pretty) Wank Journal will help motivate me to do that.
  2. Explore my dominant/toppy side. As I unpacked in my piece on why bratty bottoms scare the shit out of me, I identified solely as a dom and then as a switch for a large part of my kinky life, but let that facet of my identity fall to the wayside as a result of Impostor Syndrome. I’d like to experiment with service topping, but I’d also like to dabble a little more with power exchange. Being called “Sir”, “Miss” and “Daddy” makes my dick real hard, and we all deserve hard dicks after the dumpster fire that was 2018.
  3. Lean into the kinks I feel the most shame about. “But Morgan,” I hear you whispering to your monitor/tablet/phone screen, “you are beyond shame! Your tits are on Twitter! You’ve blogged about ageplay and watersports! Which kinks, pray tell, evoke shame even in your own slutty heart?!” But the thing is that kink is weird, and brains make very little sense. I got into DD/lg roleplay when I was 16, but admitting I have kink feelings around feet makes me feel like my insides are curdling. It might be the relative newness of the kink, the intensity of the feelings it draws up in me, or some nebulous combination of factors… but my foot thing makes me squirm. I don’t think there’s any problem with more squirming in 2019.
  4. Do more S&M, more rope and more butt stuff. I’ve bundled these three in together because the reasons that I’m resolving to do more of them are largely the same. In all three cases, I find myself leaving these activities on a back burner because I’m too tired, feeling unattractive, worried I’m not in the right headspace, and often can’t be bothered. In 2019 I would like to be bothered; I think it’s high time I sent myself the message that my pleasure is worth time, effort and even money, as long as it’s pleasure I want, rather than pleasure I’m pressing myself to seek. Butt stuff in particular I dismiss as being “too much effort”, but every time I do it I conclude that it was worth it – so I’d like to spend 2019 proving to myself that there’s no such thing as “too much effort” when it comes to enjoying my body.

There are a lot more measurable aspirations I kinda-sorta have (get fucked in the butt! Finally get fisted! Do an inverted suspension!) but that I will not set as 2019 goals, because I’m going to use 2019 as a year of recovering, being kind to myself and reconnecting with my body and my sexuality.

What do your sex and/or kink resolutions for 2019 look like? Are they measurable, or more vague? Let me know in the comments!

Why I Don’t Review Sex Toys (Yet)

Image is of a white hand (Morgan's) holding a box with a picture of the blue Fun Factory Stronic self-thrusting dildo on it.

Content note: this post refers briefly to my experience of being sexually groomed and the subsequent dissociation and trauma I experience. If that’s a bit heavy for you, join me next week for some thoughts on eye contact during sex, and take care of yourself in the meantime ♥


You might have noticed that I tackle a fairly broad range of sex- and kink-related topics on this li’l blog of mine, including detailed discussions of the things I’m into and the reasons I’m into them. You might also have noticed that I am a big user of sex toys, since they feature in a lot of my Smut Saturdays pieces and in some of my other essays too. Surely, then, the next logical step would be to write in-depth pieces on my enjoyment (or dislike) of specific sex toys, right?

Well, much like any other question that starts with, “Why do you…” or, “Why don’t you…”, the answer to this one is twofold: it’s the trauma, and the good ol’ autism.

Let’s get the trauma bit out of the way first. I don’t wank much. My first experiences of enjoyable masturbation were in a grooming context, wherein I was being instructed by someone a lot older than me on technique and fantasies. Six years on, I still find my own arousal unsettling when it isn’t “justified” by a partner’s presence and arousal of matching intensity, and trying to get off without anybody’s permission feels dangerous and unfamiliar. Even with awesome porn, if I’m touching myself while I’m alone, I feel unbearably self-conscious and will often dissociate. As you can imagine, this does not make for very good dildo data.

I could, of course, circumvent this by only testing toys in the presence of a partner – which would also yield more data in terms of how a toy can be used by two or more people. However, I’m depressed and anxious, and both of my partners are busy people, so I don’t want to put pressure on the sexual encounters we do manage to have by making them into research projects; nor do I want to put pressure on my partners themselves by bestowing upon them a responsibility to get sexy with me for the sake of my blog when we’d rather be watching Masterchef or snuggling in silence after a busy, hard day.

The only viable solution to this problem, in my eyes, is continued therapy, gentle experimentation, and lots and lots of time to keep recovering. If I ever do manage to produce a review of a toy, y’all should know it’ll be the product of a huge amount of psychological labour, support on my partners’ parts and way more time testing than the average reviewer probably spends.

With that out of the way, here’s my next point: the autism. Being autistic doesn’t automatically preclude a person from reviewing sex toys by any means, and it might even be an advantage to some, since autism can involve, among other things, heightened sensory experiences and a meticulousness that your neurotypical friends will envy during Deadline Week at uni. Unfortunately, my autism also involves a lack of cognitive empathy.

“But Morgan!” you cry, probably gripping your laptop or tablet screen in dismay. “You’re super empathetic! What are you talking about?!”

You’d be right, my dear fictional and overreacting reader. I have buckets of affective empathy, which is the one that makes you cry at videos of raccoons dissolving their own candy floss or bitterly despise your friends’ trash exes – in slightly more technical terms, affective empathy is the type of empathy that causes you to experience the same emotions that people around you are experiencing, and it’s the type I have way too much of.

Cognitive empathy, though, is the kind of empathy that helps you to understand how other people are feeling in the first instance – and I fucking suck at it. Once someone has very clearly signalled their emotions to me, I’m balls-deep in those emotions with them, but they have to be very, very clear signals. As a default, I assume that everybody is fundamentally like me, so I’m surprised to learn that people are straight, or that they like pasta, because I’m a pasta-hating double queer. In terms of sex toy stuff, I’m surprised to learn that some people like very direct clitoral stimulation or that they might dislike intense A-spot stim – and I tend to forget that information even once I’ve learned it. I worry that my lack of cognitive empathy would make my reviews effectively useless to anyone whose preferences didn’t align exactly with my own.

I also worry that my heightened sensory experiences would skew my reviews in a distinctly unhelpful way. Not only do I enjoy things more intensely than some neurotypical folk might, I also find some things unbearable that barely register for allistic folk. I am intensely bothered by certain textures, so I might slate a toy or a lube for a texture that 99% of the population would enjoy (or be neutral on). I’m also sensitive to noise, so my perception of the noise levels produced by a particular vibe might be wildly inaccurate and totally useless to somebody living in a block of flats with very thin walls.

I know that a lot of these problems could be mitigated by understanding and making clear to my readership that my reactions to stimuli aren’t representative and that I’m just describing my own experiences, but I’d hate to lead someone astray with my autistic fussiness and turn them away from a toy that they otherwise might have loved. I suppose, in a sense, this isn’t so much a problem with my autism as it is a problem with my own confidence in my writing; hopefully, over time, I’ll develop enough nuance to accurately and honestly review toys in a way that’s helpful for autistic and allistic folks alike.

Oh, and one final point: I’m broke as shit. Sex toys can be expensive, especially if you limit yourself to only reviewing body-safe ones, and I’m living off my student loan and the Amazon gift cards my uni sometimes gives me for participating in surveys. If any manufacturers or brands want to help mitigate that factor, since it’s the easiest one to contend with, you can reach me at kinkyautistic@gmail.com – which is also one of the many places you can reach me if you’re a reader and you want to share your thoughts on the art of reviewing toys.