Sex Furniture: Trading In Your Sofa For a Sex Swing

BannerYou’ve probably heard before how sex toys can help spice things up in the bedroom. While you’re mind might immediately go to vibrators and prostate stimulators, there’s a different category of adult products that you may have overlooked—sex furniture.

No, I’m not talking about an 85″ couch with special remote controlled gadgets and transforming capabilities (that would be pretty cool though). And for those who might be under the same misunderstanding as a writer for The Frisky, I’m not talking about “a fetish wherein one person pretended to be furniture.” Rather, the category of sex furniture includes pieces and products that help you position yourself and guide your movement during sex.

While you’re not likely to see them listed among the list of “must have” decor items in the next homemaker issue, once you experience these pieces for yourself, you’ll definitely wonder how your bedroom seemed complete without them. Take a look at a few reasons why you should make room for sex furniture in your sex life.

You Can Try New Things

Sometimes you can just be physically incapable of pulling off a certain move—your arms can only stretch so far. For example, there’s a lot of people who enjoy watching their partner pleasure themselves, while mutually receiving pleasure. This can be a bit tricky, but it becomes a lot easier if you have a Hot Seat. A vibrating dildo attached to the seat allows one person a hands-free way to pleasure themselves, giving them the ability to pleasure their partner at the same time.

Then there’s also the problem of not having the right equipment—literally. A strip tease isn’t a newfound move in the boudoir, but chances are you’ve never been able to put on a show with your own personal pole. Installing a fantasy dancing pole can make your foreplay all the more tantalizing.

It Can Inspire You to Branch Out

Along with being physically capable of more moves than before, whenever you bring something new into the bedroom, theres always a good chance that it will inspire you to try new things.

Maybe you want to try some light bondage for the first time? There are plenty of toys to help you do so, but there are also pieces of furniture that you can bring in to help the transition go a little smoother. An Under The Bed Restraint System can be attached under your mattress, and neatly tucked away, out of sight when not in use. A reviewer from Adam & Eve raved about the product, saying “I was fairly experienced with bondage and my partner was not. This was a great way to ease her into it….She was turned into a bondage fan after just one session.”

It’s Much More Comfortable

Rug burn on your knees is about a much of a sex trophy as hickies these days. You might have fun getting it, but it’s annoying to deal with after the fact. And for most of us, it’s something we’d rather avoid all together. With the right piece of furniture, you can eliminate the “battle wounds” that come from a hearty romp.

Want to have sex against the wall but last time you ended up throwing your back out? Get a door swing and your problems are solved. The sturdy suspension allows one person to comfortably keep their legs in the air while sitting on a padded seat with the door supporting their back. You can have sex against the walls for as long as you want without either of you having to hold the other up.

For those who prefer to have things up close and personal during oral sex, it can be difficult for a person to keep their balance while crouched above their partner’s face. With a sex stool, you or your partner can comfortably lay down on their back. A hole in the stool allows the person underneath to give maximum pleasure to the person sitting.

It Adds to Your Pleasure

A lot of sex furniture is specifically designed to put you at a better angle, so that penetration is more comfortable for both involved. As noted by Kinkly, one of the best things about sex furniture is that they can better your experience by “supporting your pelvis and spine in a position that’s healthy and that improves your alignment with your partner.” Whether you’re wanting to stimulate the G-spot or the prostate, there’s furniture and pillowed wedges that can position you into the right angles for doing so. Trying to form the right pillow mound underneath one of you while the other awkwardly alternates between standing on their tip toes and crouching down to find the right angle is anything but sexy. With a wedge, you’ll be in the perfect position every time.

Today’s sex furniture goes far beyond a lumpy couch and wobbly kitchen table. Even if you’re still skeptical now, after trying out some of these new pieces, you’re sure to want to do a little redecorating of your own.

Mexican Farmworker With child circa 1960

Cockroach Day

TW: See Tags

Our apartment was sprayed for cockroaches today. My girlfriend and I stayed up late last night, pulling dry food, utensils, appliances, paper products, and AS SEEN ON TV kitchen gadgets from every dark corner of our kitchen cupboards. I even had to move the microwave, which serves as a kind of medicine cabinet, covered with plastic pill holders, CVS prescriptions bottles, and green glass jars of herbs, salve, oils, and tonics meant to soothe pain, elevate mood, and alleviate anxiety.

I picked the big metal box by its base, hugged it close to my chest, and wondered if doing so would hasten the tiny lesions that will almost inevitably fill my breasts one day. I can’t help it, microwaves make me uneasy. I think they must be like cigarettes, and that people in the future will shake their heads, smile grim smiles and ask each other, “How could it be, that they didn’t figure heating their food with radiation would make them sick?”

An advertisement for cigarettes from the 1930s. The image is of a woman with red flushed cheeks and pursed lips. The caption reads “To Keep a slender figure, no one can deny…Reach for a LUCKY instead of a sweet. It’s toasted.”

I’d never even owned a microwave until last summer when a lover came to stay with me for a week. I had been working every day for a month, saving money to take time off to spend with Lina, saving money to take time off work in the weeks leading up to and after my mother’s mastectomy, and lastly, for school which would begin just a day after Lina arrived.

I had been so overwhelmed with the urgency to earn more money, be more responsible, be an ideal lover, and a good daughter that I didn’t realize I’d taken on too much. I had completely forgotten about school starting and buying a microwave seemed like the only way Lina could stay fed.

I thought about all of this as I watched the bottles slide across the surface of the microwave oven. I watched my vitamins jiggle in pill box windows that hung open like advent calendars.

“This is a bad idea,” I thought with a pang of regret, as the bottles slid across the black metal surface of the microwave. They teetered dangerously close to the edge.

“You knew what was going to happen,” I admonished myself again as the tiny containers crashed down onto the cool beige tile beneath my feet. Miraculously, every bottle remained intact and only a few mysterious oblong vitamins slid beneath the couch.

At four AM, my girlfriend and I stumbled into our bed.

The exterminator said he’d be there sometime between nine AM and noon, so we woke up at a quarter of nine, got dressed and went back to sleep. The doorbell rung just before noon. I tried to yell “Just a minute,” through the door as pleasantly as possible while Kat wrestled with the skinny jeans she’d somehow managed to peel off in her sleep.

I chatted with the exterminator while Kat ran around the apartment hunting for her keys. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and smoothed my rumpled dress as I explained to him that we weren’t lazy but that we worked swing shift and that we’d been up all night emptying the kitchen cabinets.

He and I agreed that doing irregular shift work was unhealthy. Then he said that we should stay out of the house for at least two hours after he left. I wondered if he wore a respirator while spraying the place, but I didn’t ask. If he wore one, I did not see it.

It only took the exterminator twenty minutes to douse the perimeter of the apartment with poison, for some reason we had gotten into our minds that was only going to spray the kitchen. Kat and waited out in the hall slumped over one another while we waited for him to finish so we could lock up.

Suddenly my eyes became teary, “I hate this,” I said, wincing through my sunglasses.

“I hate being asked to leave the house,” We sat slumped over each other in the hall as I told her about the way my father would kick my sister and I out of the house for the whole day during the summer, whenever the voices told him that his little girls were playing tricks on him. Most of the time he was very kind, other times he’d grow grim in his dark corner of the living room where he sat all day drinking cheap beer and writing in spiral bound notebooks. He’d stand up, menthol cigarette smoldering between his lips while he turned out the pockets of his cutoffs and turning up the couch cushions looking for change to give us.

When the exterminator was done, she hopped up and locked the front door. She helped me up, my joints still stiff from sleeping, hugged me close and asked me if there was anywhere I needed to go.

I told her I was hungry and we began to walk toward the trendy part of the neighborhood where we live. We’ve lived here together for almost six months, but I almost never leave the house. We walked toward the bourgie shops and I told Kat about how my sister and I would almost always walk to the library to read books. When we got hungry, we’d walk across the street to the Civic Auditorium and buy snacks from the vending machine in the hall. My big sister, always saved one quarter to call home with, just in case, then she’d throw the remaining pennies in the air and onto the lawn in front of the auditorium. I felt sad when she threw the pennies in the air, I wished she’d give them to me.

“Those are for poor kids,” she’d say, when she saw how disappointed I was. I told Kat all of this as I fiddled with the GPS on my phone, trying to find a place where we could both eat. She asked if there was anywhere in the neighborhood I like to go and I laughed because the map program on my phone lists only the pharmacy, my therapists office, my rheumatologist’s office, the allergist, my godmother’s house, and the apartment we share together.

We ended up going to this healthy yuppie fast food restaurant I’ve wanted to try, but have been avoiding because I have social anxiety and also because it has the word ‘Skinny,’ in the name. The food was good and cheap and wished that my sister was there with me because I thought that she would love it too.

Kat ordered a fountain soda and I wanted one too but I can’t have one because I’ve become so allergic to mold, that I’ve discovered that every fountain machine drink and ice machine on the planet is filled with mold. But I was very tired and this is a relatively new ailment, so I forgot and ordered an iced soy latte.

My sister called me as we trudged back to the apartment. She told me my mom had been admitted to the hospital again. She has had another psychotic episode. I had known it would happen soon. I have been waiting for this since Christmas. I sucked up my latte greedily as my sister spoke fast into the phone. I felt the familiar heaviness in my chest. It’s the feeling I get when I’ve been exposed to mold. I hold the phone away from my ear so Kat can hear too.

For my mom, the madness is slow, and can take months to creep on. I talk to her every day and so I know when she’s moving in that direction. I have known for a couple months now that I’d need to go up to the country and have her admitted soon. But I’ve been waiting for her to be undeniably stark raving mad. I knew that neither my brain nor body could take multiple trips up the coast, trying to chase after Mom and get her to take her meds and get her admitted. I decided that this time, I needed to step back and just wait until she got sick enough that no psych nurse could send us home.

It’s been really painful, to detach enough to let my mom be sick without going into full blown crisis mode. I’ve been reading books on co-dependency and that has helped a great deal.

I was planning to go up Monday but apparently my crazy countdown clock was off by two or three days. Mom has a different kind of schizophrenia than my dad had, so most of the time she is just depressed and anxious, but rooted in reality. This is probably about the seventh or eighth time that she’s had a psychotic episode. The last time it happened was about two years ago and I spent about six weeks going up and down the coast on a bus, trying to take care of Mom at home without dropping out of school.

When Mom got very sick last time, the year before last (check my older posts) I read all I could about the likelihood of developing schizophrenia at my age. Having two parents with schizophrenia has gotta put me at greater risk, right? I found articles for parents of kids with a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia, the article said that the kids should avoid drugs, trauma, and in vitro exposure to poison. The article made me laugh.

A black and white photo of a Mexican farm laborer in the 1960s, his hands full of plants, a child about three years of leans against a wooden crate his face to the camera.

When my mom and her six brothers and sister were growing up they had to work in the fields picking grapes, strawberries, oranges, cotton and whatever else was in season. Crop dusters flew over fields and sprayed grey clouds of poison on the sticky green leaves of the plants they picked, poison settled in the black of their hair, the pink of their lungs, through their smooth brown arms, and through their tiny fingertips until it seeped into their blood. I wonder about the poison and about the trauma of racism and wonder if that’s why three of the seven children have had schizophrenic disorders.

When we got home, the exterminator stood in the hallway speaking Spanish quietly with our building’s superintendent. I heard the maintenance man ask if we had animals living in our house, or if it was just bugs. I laughed, but I can only joke in English.

“Hey!” I shouted down the hall to the exterminator, “Stop telling everyone our secrets!”

The exterminator laughed, translated the joke, then raised his eyebrows smiling, ”He takes care of the building,” he said to me in English, “He knows everything.”

We laughed together, and I wondered if he thought I meant the leather whips hanging from hooks on the wall, the chains in the clear plastic bins by the bed, my Santa Muerte shrine, or the other queerness that litters our apartment.

We unlocked the front door and my lungs start to sting and I began to cough. I didn’t know if was the poison in the air or the mold back at the coffee shop.

It would seem that Everything make me sick. Everything makes me hurt. I decide to take a nap. It seems like the right thing to do, but first there is one unpleasant task that must be attended to.

The cockroaches had come out of their crevices to languish on the floor. They laid there on their backs, motionless until I came close with wadded up baby wipes to smash them and wipe their guts off the floor. My stomach turned as I wiped cockroach guts up off the kitchen floor. I smelled the air and something smelled like being little. It was the smell of cabinets beneath the sink in the house I grew up in and the roads that run through the fields on the way into town. It is a scent that is thick and sweet like syrup you’re not suppose to too touch.

It smelled like danger and uncertainty, the smell of something that is both toxic and familiar. It was the smell of something that you don’t even know is making you sick. And so I did the only thing I could think of. I opened up all the windows, and turned on all the fans and let clean, fresh air blew through the house. I washed up my hands, peeled off my clothes, jumped into bed and pulled the covers up past my nose. It’s going to be a long hard week and I’m going to need the rest.

Psychiatric Disaster Relief

From Melinda Gebbie And Alan Moore's Lost GirlsI wrote this on November nineteenth but, I didn’t feel safe putting it online until I ‘got better.’ I’ve since taken a semester off school, begun to chart a new course, and have begun to take much better care of myself.  I wish I didn’t worry quite so much about what others think about the symptoms of my illness but I do. More than anything it’s the  fear that I might get passed over for a writing or performance gig if folks knew how sick I get sometimes.  Fortunately it looks like I’m all better for now, so here you go. 

A friend of mine posted this in an online support group for queer people of color with psychiatric disabilities:

 What do you do when you can’t get out of bed? How do you feed yourself? I’m so sick I can’t get out of bed and I don’t have any friends who can bring me food.  

I know just how she feels. Sometimes I’m so checked out that I don’t even know I’m hungry until I notice that my brain is unable to think clearly or that I’m in some kind of physical pain  that I’m unaccustomed to. Lately, I’ve been feeling so dissociative that I have a hard time calling it ‘my body,’ and more frequently find myself thinking of it as ‘the body.’ It’s difficult to even conceptualize my brain and body are a single entity and not two things at odds with one another. My first response to Andrea’s post was: 

Peanut butter. Keep a jar of peanut butter by the bed. And a bag of apples.

She replied almost immediately:

Yeah, I have done that before but I just didn’t want to acknowledge that this is the direction that things are moving in.

I could imagine her chain smoking and hunched over her laptop in her sweaty little apartment in Buenos Aires, little bird like heart racing as she frantically she clicked and clacked at the keyboard.  I didn’t remind her that I had gotten the idea from her the winter she was so sick she’d holed up in a mutual friend’s spare bedroom. It was then that she’d commandeered a family size jar of peanut butter which she ate directly from the jar. Two years ago, just after my husband and I had separated, I found myself occupying the same bed in the same spare bedroom  where she’d been lying a year before. I was despondent and unable to even perform the most basic tasks. I can remember staring up at the gnome shaped pattern on the ceiling when that mutual friend of ours, the fellow with the habit of taking in wounded birds, recalled with affection the weeks Andrea had stayed with him. He reminded me of the peanut butter and I told myself that I would remember this little trick to add to my metaphorical Psychiatric Disaster Relief toolkit.

So I started thinking about the things that I do to prepare when I know things are going to get bad. Typically the first thing I do is stock up on drinking water. Last week I asked my girlfriend (not without some shame) if she could take me to the grocery store. She agreed without  hesitation but still it felt critical that she knew that I wasn’t just asking but that I really needed her to take me. I didn’t want to be able to back out or play it off later as though my request were some inconsequential whim.

“I need your help and so I’m asking for your help. I’m out of food. And I don’t think I’ll be able to make myself go to the store alone.”

I wrote a big note and stuck it on the bedroom door where both of us would see it.

Ask K To Drive You To Store: Important

This Fall I’d driven to the grocery store several times only to sit in my car overwhelmed by anxiety until I was so hot and filled with shame that I drove away feeling as though I had just failed at life.  I needed to ask someone for help.

We walked through the aisles and I heaved a crate of shelf-stable soy milk into the cart. I felt certain she was judging me for buying food with excess packaging,

“These are for when I run out of milk and I am too depressed to take myself to the store,” I laughed even though it didn’t feel funny.

There was a yuppie lady pushing a cart past ours staring absently at the cereal. I wondered if she’d heard me. I wondered if she thought I was lazy and incompetent. If she did hear me she certainly didn’t seem to care but when I get in that place I feel certain that everyone must despise me as much as I despise myself. There is actually a note by my bed that says “Not everyone hates you. In fact, most people don’t.” If you sometimes think this way, you should also consider writing yourself a note.

When I am feeling well (as I am in this moment) and I read that last line out loud, that sometimes I despise myself, it seems somewhat melodramatic. But the fact of that matter is that the world and even your own reflection are often frightfully distorted when you’re in the thick of a storm.

I felt ashamed for buying all that food wrapped in plastic and felt obligated to justify my frivolous behavior  to my girlfriend as she watched me pretend to examine overpriced fruit.

“I know how to shop and get good deals and be healthy but I really can’t do anything better than this right now,”

I gestured to the cart filled with things wrapped in plastic. She wrinkled her brow and stopped in the store to squeeze me.

“I know,” she said,” You’re doing the best you can.”

Before bed I poked back into Andrea’s thread to offer one more solution to the hunger problem:

When you’re doing really good you can buy a lot of one or two things and eat them every day. For example, for the past few months I have mostly been eating yogurt, cottage cheese, apples, and hummus and arugula on lavash bread.

There is no response and I realize that my suggestions are of little use from the perspective of someone who is having difficulty managing daily self-care tasks that most people take for granted like eating and drinking.

I was lying in my bed stroking and patting at the dip just above my girlfriend’s clavicle when she asked me tenderly,

“Why do you think you have a hard time doing things for yourself?”

“I don’t need you to solve my problems!” I responded, feeling indignant.

I was immediately embarrassed by my inappropriate response. I expected her girlfriend’s  body to grow rigid in my arms, but she remained soft, unflinching.

“I wasn’t trying to solve your problems,” she said.  Her brown eyes brimmed with empathy.

I took a deep breath.

“I know you weren’t. I was feeling defensive because I feel ashamed.”

I took another breath.

“I feel shame when others know how little I care for myself.”

One of the exciting things about entering my thirties is that I feel  so much less judgmental than I was when I was younger. Until very recently I would have judged people who buy all their food at Trader Joe’s. I would have gushed and gloated about the ten pound sheets of tofu I scored from the Hari Krishna’s at the free market or my $20 South Central Farmers produce box. But right now the best I can do is ask someone to take me to the store and lay a bag of apples next to my bed.

I wish I could apologize to everyone I have shamed because they were too sick or too tired to shuck their own corn and soak their beans overnight.

While my current economic success often leads me to believe like I’m doing better than I have in my entire life, this may not be the case. I am certainly ‘doing more’ than I ever have but my capacity has diminished and now it would seem I am simply doing a poor job at many things simultaneously.  I say this with the knowledge that we measure success in terms of goals accomplished, money made, and how many roles we can fill at once. In other words, things that are not easily attained or sometimes even possible when you are struggling with chronic illness.

I feel ashamed for people to know that I think of the functions and needs of my bodies are problems that need fixing.

I want everyone to believe that I am happy and confident all the time and that I have a great relationship my body and the  natural whole foods I fill it with but that’s not the case right now. And the only way I know to move through shame is to open up the wound and rinse it out.

When I woke up it occurred to me that me that Andrea  does not wish to believe that she will ever be that sick again.  For me the past two years have been filled with lessons to teach me to know both my capabilities and capacities and just as importantly,  to accept them.

I ducked into the Disabled Queers of Color group again to read everyone’s responses and to leave one last comment:

If you live in a place that frequently experiences hurricanes than, when you have the resources, you should stock up on hurricane supplies. At the very least you’ll need clean drinking water and shelf stable food that requires little to no effort to prepare.

But I’m not really talking to her because that last note, that last note is really for me. I know I live in a body and a brain where disasters are a frequent occurrence. I want to work on my relationship to food and my body but right now the best thing I know to do is be prepared to hunker down and wait until the storm subsides.

Skate for Change Fundraiser

Ofelia del Corazón:

“It’s Wednesday night! What are we going to do?”
“Oh! I know! Let’s go GAY SKATING!”

Originally posted on SoCal Queer Events:

skate for change
October 16. 8-11pm.
Moonlight Rollerway, 5110 San Fernando Rd, Glendale
$13 advance tickets, $15 at the door.

To benefit TransYouth Speak, a social project in LA.

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I Stand With Trans Women #istandwithtranswomen

istandwithtranswomen 3Istandwithtranswomen 2 istandwithtranswomen 3 istandiwithtranswomen 4 istandwithtranswomen 5 istandwithtranswomen 6 Istandwithtranswomen 1

[A series of six images. A woman holds a hand written sign close to her face. Each of the signs she holds has been printed with the words”I stand with trans women because:” Text is transcribed below.]

I stand with trans women because I stand with women.

I stand with trans women because I stand with my community.

I stand with trans women because every woman’s voice is important.

I stand with trans women because women are my mentors, friends, and lovers.

I stand with trans women because I want my community to be safe for all women.

I stand with trans women because all women deserve to be treated with respect.

I also made this blog because I want every woman to know that feminism wants YOU.

Feminism NEEDS you.

Please submit your reasons for standing with trans women here: and stand up to cisexism and transmisogyny when you see it. Every movement for the advancement of the rights of marginalized people needs allies.

Tell the world why you care.

Things That Are Hard (Unless you are super entitled or are like the Yoda of mental health)

image of author laying on her side, face resting in her hand. she appears tired and wears no makeup.

image of author laying on her side, face resting in her hand. She appears tired and wears no makeup.

  • Asking for help
  • Accepting help
  • Believing that you are deserving of good things
  • Pulling yourself out of a shame hole
  • Pulling yourself out of an anxiety loop
  • Feeling anger
  • Saying “No” to others
  • Saying “Yes” to yourself
  • Being honest with yourself about your own limitations
  • Accepting and operating within your own limitations

The Poetic Research Bureau presents… STEPHEN BOYER, SOPHIE SILLS, ZACK HABER


[Image: A plain red book entitled “PARASITE” by Stephen Boyer]

Friday, 7 p.m. August 30 2013

The Poetic Research Bureau presents…


Friday, August 30 2013

Doors open @ 7pm, reading starts 7:30pm

The Poetic Research Bureau @ Telic Arts

951 Chung King Rd.
Los Angeles, CA

Stephen Boyer is the author of the novel “Parasite” (Publication Studios), “GHOSTS” (Bent Boy Books), “The Form of Things” (2nd Floor Projects), they curate the blog, with the help of countless others they spearheaded the compiling of the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology, recently they exhibited an installation at The Center for Book Arts (Jan-March 2013) showcasing both the Occupy Wall Street Poetry Anthology and the Peoples Free Library, which Stephen was a member.

Sophie Sills’ book of poetry, Elemental Perceptions: A Panorama was released from BlazeVOX Books in the winter of 2010. Her poems and reviews have appeared in Elimae, Cricket Online Review, thethe poetry, Jacket2, Manor House Quarterly and other journals. She lives in Los Angeles, teaches at National University and publishes Peacock Online Review.

Zack Haber is a poet who lives in Oakland and curates The Other Fabulous Reading Series and co-organizes The Oakland Youth Poetry Workshop. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Dusie, Poetry is Dead,, Red Lightbulbs, and The West Wind Review.

Poetic Research Bureau
951 Chung King Rd., Los Angeles, CA

Poem: Demons And Other Monsters

Trigger Warning: Burns, fire, house fire, disfigurement, death, death of a parent


In July Something shifts two degrees to the South

I spend lots of money, drink too much, laugh for no reason

In August I peel off my linen halter dress

long bars of sweat form sour shadows

beneath the dark skin beneath my tits

remembering the Indian summer  I spent in

Fort Wayne the summer I turned 22

sifting through fire singed artifacts,

and signing forms so doctors could stretch pig skins

over my father’s ruined monster face.

when the long month was over

I flew back to Los Angeles,

my friends took me to the Presidential lounge

to  drink whiskey straight up

beneath greying oils of Democrats

made uncomfortable by grief.


We blow ashes from our noses for weeks

Every morning I wake up

demand she tell me

why the bathroom stinks

of smoke and purple vomit

I stand at the porcelain sink we share

stained the color of old bones

I can’t seem to scrub away

the grim imprint of death

pressed into my pale face

swollen like tortillia dough

No one has the heart to tell me

the woods and the hills are no longer burning

the sky has stopped raining its twisted ash

it is time to wash the campfire smell from my hair