I am over the moon to be able to introduce the very first guest review. Welcome Chloe Goldfinger!
Chloe is a part time trapeze artist who supplements their income by walking dogs for the rich and famous. They live in a cupboard in Central London and count themselves gosh darn lucky to do so. They also have a way with words. Enjoy this review. I certainly did!
Cupid 3 IN 1 Realistic Dildo
Is it odd to be thinking about someone I’ve never been intimate with while using a sex toy for the first time? Specifically: how would I describe this for Dee? In the end, the simplest version that tumbled out from my shaking fingers into the chat window was: Put it this way: I’ve never lost count. Until now…
To fully understand the core of this review, I may need to give you some context:
1. I’m femme-bodied, while being non-binary. I have very little bodily dysphoria – I don’t want to get rid of anything I currently have, though I often enough wish for, well… more.
2. I have a form of clitoral phymosis, so when I talk or think about (or enact) pleasurable stimulation, it’s generally focused inside, or somewhere else altogether. Only the broadest pressure on the external part of my clit is enjoyable.
Suffice to say that the first time someone tried to use a bullet vibrator on me, I nearly kicked her in the face trying to get away from it. Always check in with sexual partners what kind of stimulation they don’t (haha) vibe with, and never assume that what gets you off is going to get them off, despite any similarities between your bodies. (I learned this in various hard ways so you don’t have to.)
So while I was intrigued enough by Dee’s review to try that particular device out for myself, it turns out that it was never going to do more than make me pleasantly frustrated (and frankly more turned on by the notion of someone writhing on top of me, using the shared stimulation to bring themselves off as I caressed them).
I digress.
While shopping on the site I found myself smirking like an adolescent at the frantic pump of the animated illustrations, not something I’d ever seen on a shopping site like that before. And then my eye was caught by something that promised to provide literal heat, and that idea really intrigued me. I’ve been single for a couple of years now, and cold dildos can be a depressing experience. I’ve been known to warm them up using my mouth, but that can likewise be a little depressing (and the taste of specialist washing liquid is no kind of substitute for that of heated, musky flesh, the way it swells and oozes happily beneath your attentions).
I digress again.
After arguing with PayPal for a bit, the devices were on their way to me, turning up in almost excessively discreet packaging. I’m good with a knife, but hadn’t expected to have to wield it through so many layers of unrecyclable, opaque plastic wrap and tape. The box is an uncompromising jet black, with stark white letters: “Electric Dildo” it proclaims, solemnly. “Multi-function.” The sides tell you that it’s phthalate-free, latex-free, and waterproof, and the back all about its material, voltage, battery capacity, colour (“flesh” – though, as usual, that means a particular ethnicity of such) and modes (10 – I’m still unsure about whether I’m glad or not that I hadn’t seen that… before…).
Out of its box, the device, surprisingly heavy, matches the intimidating nature of its packaging – there is literally nothing it can be except a mechanical phallus, modelled on someone circumcised, with a prominent shelf to the glans, and little in the way of curve (to my personal disappointment; soon to be dispelled), with a cursory suggestion of veins, for which I’m honestly grateful – fake dildo veins can be a bit… much… for my sensibilities.
Humans have been making sex toys since, well, they were first humans; stone devices that can be little else have been found in neolithic and palaeolithic sites. In Ancient Greece, the ólisbos (ὄλισβος, from ὀλισθάνειν (olisthánein): “to slide”, “to glide”) were made of ivory, gold, or ebony, and the most sought-after ones were made by women. In Mediaeval France, the godemiches (from the Latin: gaude mihi – “please me”) were lovingly carved from well-polished rosewood and passed on from generation to generation, sometimes in their own carrying cases.
I stare at this device, solid at the core and terrifyingly realistically spongey to the touch and remember that the Greek women would craft leather jackets for their devices for a more realistic texture. I feel they would approve. Men didn’t really start making dildos on a commercial scale until something like the 19th Century, where at least one started tinkering with clockwork to drive the vibrations. When I finish charging the device (magnetic connection point to preserve the waterproofing) and put it through its paces, I feel like they would approve as well.
It turns out that, once a software tester, always a software tester so, being me, I always give any contraption of any nature a dry run to check that I’ve understood everything in front of me. Like Dee’s device, it runs on a remote control, which the sparse (white text on black card, unsentimental language) instructions inform me later is effective up to 15m. I struggle to imagine how such a distant scenario would play out – this is not a subtle device, and I’d personally want to watch someone up close and personal if they were experiencing any of the 10 modes, maybe just enough out of reach that they couldn’t quite reach me, hands flailing in nerveless ecstasy.
There’s that digression again.
The remote is surprisingly shiny and pink. It looks like something Barbarella would employ. It also uses a distinctively miniscule battery of a type I’ve never seen before (A27), and am worried I won’t be able to replace, since there’s no other means to engage the 10 modes.
Like many a nerd before me, I switch the thing on without reading the fucking manual and start pressing buttons. There are various intensities of vibration, though none as scary as the aforementioned double-ended device (which already has me worrying about the possibility of developing the clitoral equivalent of whitefinger). I’m happy enough, though the heating doesn’t seem to turn on, and I long-press the power button on the remote, assuming that this will turn off the vibrations.
RTFM! I think, after I’ve stopped laughing hysterically, having narrowly managed to avoid dropping the squirming phallus, which has developed a life of its own. Overly focused on the heating aspect, I’d forgotten that this is a device designed to thrust. And writhe. It is no longer a realistic specimen, but rather resembles some terrifying cyber-organism that is intent on narrowing the gap between bodily pleasure and abject terror (and possibly widening at least one body cavity).
Once I’ve got over my shock, I continue to press what turns out not to be the power button – well, not in the sense I’d assumed, anyway – and bear witness to a bogling column of fake flesh hell-bent on making an impression as it curves, sweeps, thrusts, and grinds in my palm like it had entered a hula-hooping competition it was determined to win. In all its different categories.
I finally fish out the A6 manual. It informs me that there are nine vibration modes and three “frequency shake telescopic” modes, elsewhere described as “swinging + vibrationg” (sic) while promising to be ultra-quiet.
I suspect that I am likely to be noisiest element of any interaction with this beast, and take it to the bathroom to wash it and consider my life choices.
It sits, with its friend, livid, unmistakeable, and vaguely threatening, for three days until I crack and try them both out.
The jet-black, ice-smooth double-ended dildo is, as I’ve said, not really for me. It’s interesting, but only served to heighten my arousal without sating it. Definitely more something to share with a friend…
The fleshy fellow is another experience altogether. For one thing, despite being girthier, its shape is designed to be moved in and out rather than notching inside my pubic bone, like the small end of the DD. For another, I’ve taken the precaution of doing a little more manual preparation, so there’s more space for it (I am something of a tight fit at the best of times). For yet another thing, I’m already more turned on than usual at this point, and I have taken the small amount of advice I’ve managed to carry away from the instruction card – use plenty of lubrication. I’d initially scoffed at that, as it’s not something I generally find problematic, but the surface of the thing, while altogether firm-yet-giving in an eerily familiar way, is oddly tacky, not at all something that glides smoothly, even through the fingers.
As it goes in, I’m already immediately more excited, though trying not to raise my hopes too high. I find it next to impossible to hit the built-in power button like that, so have to remove it, feel its heavy power-up buzz jolt through my bones, then re-insert. This is going to be fine – just like my 15 year old larger toy – pleasant and nicely filling, but nothing to write home about.
I hit the warmth button, not expecting it to do much, then scroll through the vibrations until I hit a steady set of pulses that work for me. The unpredictable rhythms of some of the other nine options just set my teeth on edge, remind me of arrhythmic lovers of times past (a tip for you: drummers and bass players; that’s all I’m saying – good ones, mark you). Again: just vibration isn’t really my thing, so I’ll need some movement. Laughing a little, remembering its antics during the test phase, I long-press the remote power button.
The laugh is instantly ripped from me and flung somewhere else, a long way away. What emerges instead is a series of incredulous curses and groans. I try the various different swinging, thrusting settings, again noting how much I despise the arrhythmic ones, wondering (very briefly) who would like such a thing, before finding the ideal combination of vibration and thrust, just as the heating kicks in.
Here is where my memory gets… patchy. I remember coming. Very quickly, and then again not long after. I remember biting into the back of my wrist so the neighbours wouldn’t hear me. I remember trying a couple of different positions (the creature has a broad suction base, not really suitable for beds), and vaguely wondering how my knees were going to feel later. But mostly recollection is lost in a haze of persistent, perfect ecstasy. Of stopping caring what the neighbours might think of my cries or whether the “quiet vibrations” were made more apparent outside the room by having other surfaces to resonate against. Of rocking my hips so much in answer to what the mechanism was doing that my abs are still feeling it. Of having to make a conscious decision to stop coming because otherwise I’d be there until the battery ran out. Of realising that I, whose mentition is such that I never entirely lose myself to any sensation, was not only grasping wildly and incongruously at how I could describe this experience in words, but also broadsided by the realisation that I’d lost count of the number of orgasms this thing had thundered through me. Definitely more than seven, but they stopped being distinct entities very quickly.
(I also discovered that it’s easier to accidentally turn the thing off than deliberately switch it on, and no – I don’t really feel up to telling you how. Hard surfaces and unfortunate angles, let’s say.)
I’d wondered if, slippery and flailing, I’d lose hold of the remote. Nothing could be further from the truth – I had that small, shiny, plastic thing welded to my grip – long after I actually needed to maintain contact with it.
When I ease the phallus free of my other vice-like grip, finishing with a coda of swift, gentle fingerstrokes for one last gasp, I feel more calm and peaceful than I’ve felt in what feels like months.
11/10 – would recommend to anyone who likes internal stimulation and isn’t put off by a sound that I strongly suspect means you will never be able to hear one of those wind-up marching toys ever again without some really unfortunate Pavlovian responses.
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