How to Do It is Slate’s sex advice column. Have a question? Send it to Stoya and Rich here. It’s anonymous!
Dear How to Do It,
I’m a 24-year-old woman from Austin, Texas, and I recently stumbled across this cool job - becoming a sex toy reviewer. According to the job post I found, they want all their reviewers to show their faces in the reviews. They seem to think it makes things more authentic and relatable, I guess. I’m pretty open-minded and I think this job could be fun, educational, and maybe even a little empowering. But I’m kinda stuck on the whole “showing my face” part. Right now, I’d be okay with people knowing what I do and I feel like this could be a good way to help normalize conversations about sex.
But then, I start thinking about the future and I can’t help but worry. What if I decide to “switch careers” later? What if I end up regretting this decision? I mean, it’s not just about future jobs, but also about how people might see me differently. What do you think? Should I let my worries hold me back from trying this out? Is there any way to kind of “future-proof” this decision? And how can I balance my current confidence with the possibility of future regrets?
—An Austin Gal
Dear Austin Gal,
A few years ago, I would have wondered what you were worried about. Weren’t so many of us naked in public? Wasn’t the world on a path to acceptance of sexuality and sex work as legitimate professions? Today, I say don’t do it unless this field is absolutely a passion for you.
There’s no way to future-proof this decision. Between the way that the internet functions as a copy machine—making it impossible to fully wipe photos—and the rapid increases in AI technology, it seems likely (not possible, likely) that employers will be doing a search of candidates’ faces one day. These pictures would surface if that happened. And they may bite you in the butt.
Jobs you might want later aren’t the real concern though. It’s infrastructure. Stuff like your ability to have a bank account somewhere other than one that was tanked by the Silicon Valley fiasco—somewhere more stable. It’s about the fact that we have no idea what kind of bigotry will be allowed in the future because people who work with sex aren’t a protected class. My former colleagues and I often have a hard time renting apartments, maintaining bank accounts, using dating apps, using PayPal, having social media accounts regardless of the content posted, and engaging with other basic facets of modern life.
With all the wild laws being passed in the U.S., and the Supreme Court voting the way it has been, I think it’s time for all of us to batten down the hatches. We’ve seen the idea of a constant path toward tolerance debunked. If your neck (and actual, literal face) isn’t already stuck out there, think about how important it is to stick it out there right now. This gig is something you describe as something you’d be trying out, not as a passion or a calling. I’d advise that you keep looking for less sexual jobs.
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Dear How to Do It,
So I’m having a hysterectomy this summer. I’m mid-40s, I’ve got some giant fibroids, there are no plans for children, so it’s time for the uterus to go. But I really like the way sex feels and don’t want to lose any of my much-beloved nerve endings! My surgeon has said it’s entirely up to me whether I want to keep my cervix. Part of me says no, it’s ridiculous to have a cervix without a uterus. Part of me says yes, the farther the surgeon stays from my vagina the more likely I am to keep on having my usual orgasms. Any chance you can hook me up with some reliable information about sexual satisfaction post partial and full hysterectomy to help me keep the hookups with my boyfriend as good as they are now?
—Yeet the Uterus, Save the Cervix?
Dear Yeet the Uterus,
Ah, the plight of people with internal genitalia, relegated to doing our own research. I reached out to an anonymous gynecologist (and friend of the column!) for some insight. He sent over several papers, from Cochrane and the National Library of Medicine. This one compares several partial and total hysterectomy side effects, short and long-term, including sexual function. This paper takes a look at different risks and different methods of hysterectomy (the ways they get into the body and get the parts out) and includes some discussion of sexual function after the fact. This meta review addresses sexual function. And lastly, here’s this study looking at quality of life for Canadian women post-hysterectomy.
That should be enough to get you started in your research, and help you get your footing. Do ask your doctor—if you can trust them to operate you should be able to trust them to give you advice on this. Consider a second opinion.
Meanwhile, your hookups will likely change, and your relationship to your body may as well. “Better” and “worse” may be connotations you’re tempted to put there, but you don’t need to do qualitative judgment so much as accept that life brings changes and bodies change. You can do the same things we all do when our bodies change, which is to experiment and find out what feels good now. Look for acts and spots that may feel better than they once did. Appreciate the inherent novelty of being a human who is alive. And give yourself space to say goodbye to who you were yesterday. I think you’ve got this.
Dear How to Do It,
I’m a 42-year-old woman married for almost 18 years to a 43-year-old man. We’ve never had a really active sex life due in part to my vaginismus diagnosis and a low drive on his part. However, I was almost always able to climax with clitoral stimulation. I delivered our second child eight weeks ago and have been cleared by my doctor to resume all activities. My husband and I haven’t tried anything together yet, but during my few solo sessions, I’ve noticed something unusual. I know I’m having an orgasm, but I can’t feel the rhythmic muscle contractions that make sex so good. It’s nice, but certainly not the waves of pleasure I’m used to. Is this just a matter of time and patience, waiting until I heal more and regain muscle tone? Or could there possibly be nerve damage? Online articles seem to focus on a lack of orgasm entirely, not loss of sensation. Will I continue to be disappointed or is there a way to make sex satisfying again?
—Not Feeling It
Dear Not Feeling It,
This isn’t the kind of situation that can be understood based on a letter, so my advice is to see a specific kind of medical professional. Friend of the column and sexological bodyworker Sylvie Bee once told me that she believes everyone recently postpartum should see a pelvic floor therapist. Yep—she didn’t say a sexological bodyworker, like herself, she said a pelvic floor therapist. The pelvic floor people can help you with questions like whether you have nerve damage, whether your muscle tone is returning as expected and whether there’s anything you can do to speed that up, and whether anything else might be contributing to your loss of sensation. You may be referred to a sexological bodyworker—and Bee told me that responsible sexological bodyworkers will ask what your pelvic floor therapist said, so it’s best to do this in proper order.
Much like the writer above, who will be going through physical changes, you’ve been through some changes, too. Your body is different now, so the responses are different. Try to focus on what is satisfying now, and what might feel better, over trying to replicate what used to work. Do your best to think of this as a re-exploration rather than a return.
—Stoya
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My boyfriend is, uh, huge. Long and thick as my wrist. We go slow and use lots of lube, but my vagina has a tendency to get really tight when I’m close to coming (and I’ll be close for like 10 minutes before it happens) and it leaves us both quite sore—though because of endorphins, I tend not to feel the pain until the next day.
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