Confession: I have never successfully used a pair of love eggs. I say ‘successfully’ because I have used love eggs, I have just never managed to get one iota of joy out of them.

It’s easy to write about sex toys I love – glass dildos or massagers or butt plugs or what have you. It’s trickier to rant about the things you hate, because it isn’t particularly sexy. But this love egg incident is the most Easter-y story I have, so pull up a bag of mini eggs and bear witness to my sex toy downfall.

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Top of the list of ‘things I never expected to write’: butt plugs for men. Why? Well, because we all have butts, and the things which plug them will plug them the same no matter what your gender. In the course of my everyday life, I’d be as likely to utter the phrase ‘male butt plugs’ as I would to walk up to a Starbucks counter and order a ‘female caramel latte.’

And yet…

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The question we usually ask about robots is this: ‘could a human ever love a sex robot?’

I don’t think that’s the right question. In fact, I think it’s the opposite of the right question.

What I’d ask instead is this: if a robot were programmed to care for you, speak to you, hold you, and do all the other things a lover would do… how could you not fall in love with them?

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As a certified grumpy bastard, I can tell you that it’s always much easier to be negative than positive. As someone with access to web stats I can also tell you that if you want to get clicks, and you’re not writing porn, you’re always better to be critical than optimistic. I’m throwing all that out of the window today, though, because of a conversation I had the other day that went a little something like this:

“Know what’s brilliant?”

“What?”

“We could have sex now if we wanted to.”

“I’m not really in the mood, but…”

“Ah, but you don’t have to want to, you just have to appreciate how cool it is that we totally could if we wanted to.”

Sometimes I go through miserable phases when I look down at my body and think ‘huh, there are some things that have happened here that are basically irreversible.’ I worry about stretchmarks or consider the fact that I’m no longer able to do the things I did when I was eighteen. I may still be able to get my ankles behind my head to brace against the bedposts, but I’ll no longer do it without a groan of effort. I can bend over sexily, but I’ll say ‘oof’ when I get up. Cramp is not so much an occasional visitor as a permanent unwanted house guest.

But, while it’s easy (and certainly more clickbait-friendly) to snark about the negatives, it’s also worth remembering the benefits of having sex in your thirties. This post is about giving credit to all the things I often take for granted…

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