girl stuff

Girl Talk: Dating As A Sex Writer – First post for THE FRISKY

For my first post for The Frisky, I wrote about what my poor boyfriends have to endure while dating a sex writer.

As a sex writer, I can attest to the usefulness of personal anecdotes in writing. (See: This article.) People tend to be more interested in learning about “sounding” (the practice of inserting objects up the urethra) when you can describe a British man exhibiting such a kink in your bed after a tea date than simply an interview with a sexologist on the practice standing alone. Less clinical, more relatable, with a punch of humor. “The truth is stranger than fiction” said Mark Twain, although I don’t think he was referring to pinkies up pee-holes. While the general population tends to appreciate such tales, the one reader group that grimaces, perhaps secondary to my parents, are my boyfriends.

Enjoy the article in its entirety here.


My first post for The Style Con – At Least Try to Make Me Come/Advice for Attaining More Female Orgasms

My first post for The Style Con is up. Enjoy.

Men can get off with just about anything; their dry wind-chapped hand, a bizarre homemade Fleshlight-like device, some dudes (alright, boys) even fuck their couch pillows. So when men are presented with the opportunity for actual human on human copulation, orgasm is pretty much a sealed deal. Of course I am speaking generally, some men suffer from erectile dysfunction, or can’t get off due to alcohol intoxication, SSRIs, or various other physical or emotional explanations. However, it is safe to say that men come more easily than women. Can you imagine a chick gyrating into an apple pie and getting off?

Read the entire thing in the link above.

xo Sophie

On Sexuality and Being Taken Seriously

I’m not an expert on feminist theory and will never pretend to be. The degrees I hold are in journalism and political science. My stance on women’s rights is as simple as this: Chicks should be able to do whatever the fuck they want. Even in that sentence, I’ve already used a word, “chick” that may seem derogatory to some, but I like the word. It’s not as fun as “chick-a-dee” but it’s still fun to me so I use it. If the term “chick” bothers you just don’t type it. There you go, that is SST’s feminist theory in one paragraph.

I’m not naive. I’ve taken off clothes for a photographer but also never worn blinders. I know images of me in my underwear, or graphic sexual writing caused acquaintances to gossip and call me names, and family members to hang their heads, potential employers to doubt my credibility. I’m very thankful to have found my way into a forward thinking circle. As with the word chick, if writing about sex graphically and publicly offends you don’t do it. Keep it for your secret text messages. Ditto to the nakey photos. Keep them to cell phone selfies. The truth is 97% of us have some naked photos and filthy words somewhere. As a writer with my personality and a small internet presence it would only make sense that I put mine out there while you keep yours private. You do your thing, I’ll do mine. I won’t judge if you don’t. I was never pressured into any photo shoots or sex writing. I chose to do them and I throughly enjoyed the opportunity to express myself.

Now regarding how my Googable sexuality relates to my professionalism. I have a butt. It’s small but it’s there. If you do enough stalking you can find a photo of it somewhere, along with a past post about butt sex if you like. A few feet above that butt I also have a brain, that while yes, thinks about sex, also thinks a lot about current affairs. My brain also thinks a lot about death. It thinks a lot about injustice, and wonders why we have a black President but about one in three black men can expect to go to jail at some point in their lives. It wonders why we are capable of a female Secretary of State but women still make roughly 20% less than men in America.

To further question by credibility I’ll quote OMC’s “How Bizarre.” I’m making moves and starting grooves. In many ways I got my start writing erotica, but now I get to write about sobriety, death, even my god damn cats. I’m working on an array of documentaries on everything from music to technology to rape to poaching. There’s a method to the madness. While I am still a young little thing with lots to learn and much progress to make both in my professional and personal life, I without a doubt would not have accomplished all I have if I hadn’t stayed true to myself, and for me, being true to myself means being open about my sexuality.

You just gotta do you.

I Caved. Here are my Thoughts on Blurred Lines.

I met Robin Thicke once. We shook hands, and had a very brief conversation. He was polite, well-spoken, and not at all rapey. After months of ignoring the song, I caved. Here are my thoughts regarding Mr. Thicke and “Blurred Lines.”

1. Earlier this year I was sexually assaulted, and while I was crying and trying to push he-who-should-not-be-named off me, the dude repeatedly said the exact words “I know you want it. I know you want it.” Therefore, I am not really an unbiased judge. But yep, those words are pretty fucking rapey, as actual rapists use it on their victims. Does this make Robin Thicke and/or his writers rapists, or the song about rape? Nope. It’s just a catchy pop song, with a team of writers who either didn’t put much thought into the lyrics, or knew exactly what they were doing, because the controversy that followed gave the song an absurdly more amount of attention than it would have garnered on its own. I realize the majority of listeners didn’t have the same experience, and just listen to the song boogieing in the club, but in case you were curious why people call it “rapey” hopefully that sheds a little insight.

2. What rhymes with hug me? I’ll tell you, “thug wanna-be” does! Contact me about my freelance writing rates.

3. I miss the old days of Robin Thicke when far less people knew who he was and he mostly gave interviews to Essence about the struggles of black women.

4. The video does not offend me. Hot naked girls are the oldest trick in the book. Who cares about the lyrics when there’s a terrific pair of tits in your face! All it takes is a simple Google Image search of my name to see I feel A-OK about women being naked.

5. I’m sober, never go to clubs, and it’s not my type of music anyways, but for a nice replacement controversial song about wanting to tear apart a chick, when was the last time you listened to “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails? You let me violate you…I want to fuck you like an animal! Now that is some fucked-up shit, but at least it gives me a boner. Well done Trent, well done.




This is an important one so I’m going to post it all here. VIA VICE BITCHES.


With that cocky paragraph title, will I be called the next Samantha Brick? I hope not, that shit was annoying.

I’m unsure if it’s due to innate aspects of personality or related to my carefree upbringing, but I am very open about sex, and often wish the rest of the world would be too. I write about sex, I talk about sex, I have sex. However, my sexual candor has gotten me into some precarious situations. People mistake my sexual nature for a desire to have sex with them, or more accurately, somehow mistake my sexual openness with anexpectation that I’ll have sex with them. Not everyone of course, most people are far more awesome than we give them credit, and honest misunderstandings happen. Yet the other day, someone was trying to fuck me whom I did not want to sleep with, and he quoted things to me I had written in this column, as some sort of argument, a harsh rebuttal of my spurning. “Well, you wrote that you’re into…..” Awesome, thanks for the pageviews. Now I’m writing that you can go to hell.

I want a samurai sword to chop away penises. I’ve invented a version in my brain of that  game Fruit Ninja except it’s me, a red-headed Beatrix Kiddo slicing peens flying at me. A reader requested an extra dirty column this week. Sorry, this is not that column. This is a reminder that “no” means “fuck off, bro.” And while I’m at it, I’m tired of hearing this “her words said no, but her body said yes” shit. Sometimes people flirt, sometimes people will even give you a kiss or drunkenly dance with you. I don’t care if a girl has given you permission to fingerblast her or her pussy is in your face, if she says “this is as far as I want to go,” or “stop,” those words MUST be respected. If a girl is telling you “let’s have sex,” or is physically sliding your penis inside her she probably wants to fuck you. If she is pushing you away from her and saying “No, I don’t want this to happen,” she DOES NOT want to have sex with you. I realize it’s hard to think with those things all armed and ready for battle, but please just fucking evolve.

It’s quite simple. NO means NO, for everyone. And if I have to say it more than once, “NO” means “Fuck off, seriously or I am going to chop off your penis with my samurai sword.” You think I’m kidding about this samurai sword thing, but I have a tab open where I’m searching for one on Etsy right now.



Photo of my new tattoo of the quote below, “A prayer for the wild of heart that are kept in cages.” Tattoo and photo by the very talented Joseph Aloi 

“A prayer for the wild of heart that are kept in cages,” the subtitle of Tennessee William’s Stairs to the Roof, are words that have always been dear to my heart, along with a special fondness for Tennessee himself. Beyond appreciation of his work, I feel some deep affection for the man I can’t fully explain. Although it is believed that Tennessee choked to death, barbiturates were also found in the room, a drug he abused throughout his life along with alcohol and amphetamines.

Today barbiturates are rarely prescribed, replaced by their B brother benzodiazepines, which have a lower risk for overdose. Like benzos, they were prescribed largely as anti-anxiety and sleep medication. Common early brand names included Veronal and Luminal, or perhaps you have heard of Seconal. Particularly fascinating to me is the super short-acting Pentothal, known as “truth serum.” I’m often an open book, those close to me might prefer I was prescribed whatever the opposite of Pentothal is, but I am quite curious if it does, in fact, work. Bill, is that what you shot Beatrix Kiddo full of before she stopped your heart? Spoiler alert! But fuck you if you haven’t seen Kill Bill yet, and for fuck’s sake it’s in the title.

By the 1960s scientists figured out barbiturates were pretty fucking dangerous. In 1965 the Drug Abuse Control Amendments were stamped into law, and then came the Comprehensive Drug Abuse Prevention and Control Act of 1970. All those fun drugs got a stamp of their own, the one that read, “warning,” but many of us see and read “fun.” Doctors tapered off prescribing them, although the drugs were still available on the streets through the 1980s.

Many, like my dear friend Tennessee have experienced the haunted merry-go-round of prescription drugs. The user, like Tennessee, truly does experience anxiety, depression, or other demons that lead to their prescription as an illness. However, the longer you’re on the ride the faster you go until around and around and around and eventually the drug itself creates the same symptoms you started taking it for, and you need more, more, more, and the withdrawal process is more painful and difficult than what forced you on the ride on the first place.



Jay Arner’s album cover. Thanks to Jay and Riot Act Media. 

The segmentation of this column is so random, I’m always curious of the artist’s reaction. I’m sorry Jay that you got chopped off penises and dead writers, I oh-so-much dig your songs!

Vancouver’s Jay Arner has played the field musically. He fronted an indie rock band, bopped around in a pop duo, even made up one tentacle of an eight-member collective. If I had a turd of musical talent, I’ve always said I’d be a solo artist, since humans can be annoying and attention is fun, so maybe after dabbling in such numerous groups Jay was finally like, fuck it, I’m flying solo.

Jay bird shows off his wing span on his self-titled debut, from 70s punk to 80s synthy shit to my favorite pop track of the album, “Don’t Remind Me,” which starts out with words we’re all familiar with, “About last night…”sung with a wink and a hint of embarrassment.It feels like waking up on a Sunday morning with flashbacks of stupid yet awesome shit you did the night before and simultaneously laughing yet cringing at yourself. I don’t think I would be in need of breaking out my samurai sword around Jay. We’d make out publicly and act like total fools but he would be respectful and put me in a cab home when I was like “Dude, you’re awesome, but I’ve got to call it a night.”

The self-titled debut is out June 25th on Mint Records. Stream “Don’t Remind Me” below.


Remember a few weeks ago when I wrote about that sexually-assaulting-piece of shit cab driver who felt me up? Well, thanks to the comments and encouragement from friends and xoJane readers I went to the police station with Emily to report the incident.

Well, it didn’t go so well. The cops were assholes. Read the story here at


The latest. Read the entire thing at


You understand what Lady Gaga meant in “Poker Face” – Unless you’re a Mennonite, you’ve heard by now that “Poker Face” is about Gaga trying to keep a straight face while fantasizing about a woman to get off during sex with a man. Ever find yourself being pounded by a penis and imagining he’s a hot tattooed domme wearing a strap-on instead? Perhaps you should stop imagining and change your OkCupid sexual preference.


A few weeks ago I flew back from Australia and the jet-lag brought my insomnia back in a major Tyler Durden way. After about a week of no sleep I found myself spending most of my time either crying or laughing hysterically for no reason, unable to write, and wandering the city with random pieces of bacon in my purse. After trying every other method I could think of with no success, I finally talked to my doctor about Ambien.


My Renny sexual fantasy involves a thrift store disco ball turning very slowly, bouncing light off of two frosty mugs of beer. He’ll then strut across the room, locking eye contact, and hand me my glass. He’ll put the vinyl copy of Sugarglider on, and whisper in my ear that I’m the first girl to hear it. Despite his somewhat dorky looks, I have a feeling Renny could get a girl wetter than Prince can.