Silicon Valley makes everything worse: Four industries that Big Tech has ruined

Adapted from “A People’s History of Silicon Valley: How the Tech Industry Exploits Workers, Erodes Privacy and Undermines Democracy,” by Keith A. Spencer, on sale now from major booksellers. © 2018 Eyewear Publishing. Excerpted with permission.
The word “innovation” has become synonymous with Silicon Valley to the point of absurdity. Indeed, the tech industry's entrepreneurs and "thoughtfluencers" throw it around as casually as a dodgeball in a middle-school P.E. class; what it really means is perpetually unclear and purposefully hazy. It is vague enough to be suitable in nearly any situation where a new product, service or "thing" is advertised as superior to the old — never mind if the so-called "old" thing has some distinct advantages, or if the new thing's superiority is solely that it makes more money than the old thing, or if there are other old things that are actually superior yet which won't make anyone rich. (Consider Apple removing the headphone jack from its new phones to be Exhibit A.)
That summary may sound flippant, but it is a good explication of the path of the tech industry over the past two decades: Some venture capital–backed entrepreneurs jackhammer their way into a new industry, "tech"-ify it in some way, undermine the competition and declare their new way superior once the old is bankrupted.
Thus, rather than confine themselves to operating systems and PC software like they did in the 1980s and 1990s, the tech industry has figured out that the real money lies in being a middleman. By that I mean serving as the in-between point
 for, say, web traffic to newspapers and magazines (like this one); or being the go-between for taxi services, coordinating drivers and passengers through apps. In both of these examples, the original product isn't that different from the pre-tech world: a taxi ride, in the latter case, a news article in the former. The difference is that a tech behemoth takes a cut of the transaction. And also in many cases, the labor — the people making and producing and doing the things the tech industry takes a slice from — is more precarious, less well-remunerated, and less safe than it was in the pre-tech era.Looking at it this way, the tech industry doesn't really seem innovative at all. Or rather, its sole innovation seems to be exploiting workers with more cruelty, and positioning itself in the middle of more transactions. Granted, there are certain services that have become more convenient

 because of apps and smartphones — but there is no reason that convenience must come at the high cost that it does, besides the tech industry's insatiable lust for profit. Here are but a few examples of how our livelihoods and our societies have been worsened by Silicon Valley as it sinks its talons into new industries.

Public transit was never great in the United States, with the exception of a few big cities like New York, and thus private taxi services were around to supplement. Being a taxi driver was once a much-vaunted job, so much so that a taxi medallion was perceived of as a ticket to the middle class.
Then came Uber and Lyft, who flooded the market for private transit and undercut the taxi industry by de-skilling the industry and paying their workers far, far less. Driving a taxi is no longer a middle class job; once-valuable taxi medallions have become burdens for some taxi drivers. The outlook for career taxi drivers is so dismal that an alarming number of taxi drivers have been committing suicide.
Meanwhile, because of the precarious nature of Lyft and Uber jobs, those drivers are frequently not vetted or under-vetted — resulting in significant safety concerns for passengers. And unlike a taxi back in the old days, being a rideshare driver isn't a ticket to the middle-class at all:  a recent study of such employees revealed that most contractors use these kinds of jobs not as their sole source of income, but as supplementary jobs to make ends meet.Richard D. Wolff
, an economics professor at the New School in New York City, describes gig economy companies like Uber as "winning the competition" by taking shortcuts that "frequently endanger the public." Regulatory agencies for taxis were created in most countries, Wolff says, because taxi companies were historically unsafe. "Taxi companies are required now to have insurance, training for drivers, well-inspected cars, and other safeguards to protect the public. The cost of riding in a taxi reflects those safeguards," Wolff said, adding:

Lightbulbs have existed for around 140 years, and home refrigerators for about 100. In that span, they haven't changed too much, besides getting more energy-efficient, mostly because they haven't really needed to: we need to keep food cold, and we need light. The appliances that do these things don't really need to do much else.

Now, tech companies are putting wi-fi and Bluetooth chips in all kinds of things that didn't used to be internet-connected. They call it the "smart home," and while the word is open-ended, the common thread with smart home devices is that they can generally be monitored via an app.
The smart home is sold to us as next-gen, a new advance on traditional appliances. But these devices tend to waste more of our time, and have both privacy and safety risks that regular appliances lack. You can't just put a wi-fi chip in a mundane household object like a lightbulb or a smoke detector without doing something to fix the security holes that emerge with having another device connected 24/7 to the web. But that is exactly what happened: a tremendous number of smart home devices have been hacked and turned into digital soldiers forming massive botnets that can be called up by hackers to engage in distributed denial of service attacks. An Atlantic reporter did an experiment that found that their fake smart home device attracted hundreds of hacking attempts in a matter of hours after being plugged in.

Part of the reason that companies are so eager to market the smart home to us is because these devices can be used to build digital dossiers on customers to market things to them. A refrigerator without an internet connection can't generate any data about a consumer, but a fridge with one can regularly report back all kinds of data on the person using it — data that can be monetized and sold.
Even barring the hacking issue or the privacy issue, smart home devices aren't necessarily an innovation because their whole function seems to be to create more work for us and turn us into (essentially) managers. There is a certain managerial mindset that trickles down from the device's creators (who are, at some level, managers themselves) to consumers — as if I wanted to spend my days and nights studying graphs and charts of my fridge's power consumption, or do a data analysis on my Roomba's path. That sounds horrible.
Additionally, the difficulty of setting up many of these devices in the first place can be mind-numbing for those lacking technical savvy; notably, drastically increasing the number of wi-fi enabled devices in one's house often means that you need to invest in new internet equipment, either routers or faster internet service or both. Not everyone is an engineer, nor wants to be, but smart home devices often compel us to be — and this increasingly complex domain of appliances is supposed to be superior to the simplicity of flicking a lightswitch on the wall.
And speaking of turning us into managers...
Fitness
Steve Jobs' greatest genius was not in engineering, but in marketing. He understood that late capitalism no longer fulfill needs, but creates them; inevitably, Apple became the premier exporter of desire, master marketers who compel us lust over their clean-looking products and obsess over them once we own them.

To that end, there was never really anything wrong with fitness; it wasn't an industry that needed to be "disrupted," to use Silicon Valley's favorite dystopian verb. But if you slap monitoring devices on your shoes, your watch, your armband, and your water bottle, suddenly you have a huge cache of data points about your body and activity that you can analyze later. Apple and a slew of other apps even help you monitor your ovulation cycle, and some analyze and monetize that intimate customer data. This can create some funny situations when those devices stop being updated or get corrupted; Nike was widely mocked when a $350 pair of "smart" sneakers were ruined by a faulty update. The idea of being able to hack into someone's shoes and ruin them is not exactly where I thought the future was headed.

I suppose if you were dreaming of being a statistician collecting data on your body constantly might seem kind of interesting, but if you aren't, it's just a new source of busyness in your life. Again, building devices to quantize as much fitness data as possible wasn't an example of capitalism fulfilling consumer desire — no one, save a few data scientists, ever said, "I want to turn my leisure activities and exercise regime into spreadsheets" — but the tech industry has been very effective at making us desire just that.
This obsession with quantifying our existence is known in academic circles as "computationalism." Previously I interviewed Professor David Golumbia, who has written about this extensively, and who describes computationalism as "the philosophical idea that the brain is a computer" as well as "a broader worldview according to which people or society are seen as computers, or that we might be living inside of a simulation."
“There is a small group of people who become obsessed with quantification,” Golumbia told me. “Not just about exercise, but like, about intimate details of their life — how much time spent with one’s kids, how many orgasms you have — most people aren’t like that; they do counting for a while [and] then they get tired of counting. The counting part seems oppressive.”
Convenience stores
In many of the above cases, Silicon Valley has torn into an industry and taken good jobs and turned them into bad  jobs. In the case of the corner store, Silicon Valley's aim seems to be to eliminate the human component altogether.
There are a few different business spins on how this might be done. The most infamous is Bodega (now known as Stockwell), which we reported on in 2017:
Unsurprisingly given that the friendly neighborhood corner marketplace is something that has existed for centuries across most cultures, seeing a group of out-of-touch tech bros working hard to destroy that touched a collective nerve. In the wake of internet outrage, the two of them apologized and then later rebranded.
Stockwell/Bodega is far from the only example of Silicon Valley's crusade against human interaction. There's a company that is trying to make robots that make, serve and sell smoothies, which we reported on ruefully last year. There are multiple companies, including CafeX, making robot baristas. Amazon is creating Amazon Go stores that lack cashiers, and rather rely on cameras to track what people pick up and then bill them accordingly.The thing is, baristas and cashiers aren't things that we are all dying to get rid of; this isn't a comparable situation to the horse-and-buggy days, where cars felt like a serious improvement on using beasts of burden for transit. Silicon Valley is only trying to put baristas and cashiers out of business because human labor costs money; the difference between a $4 coffee from a robot and a $4 coffee from a human is that there are no labor costs in the former purchase, something that makes Silicon Valley go googly-eyed with dollar signs. The tech industry's vision of the future is of a world with less human interaction, less conversation, less humanity; and more surveillance and more monetization of our buying habits. No one wants this, but it's being forced upon us.

"Mostly monogamous," the ginger chef with a gun fetish and other near misses on my way to love

Excerpted with permission from "I Just Haven’t Met You Yet: Finding Empowerment in Dating, Love, and Life" by Tracy Strauss. Copyright 2019 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
In her debut self-help/memoir, "I Just Haven’t Met You Yet" (Skyhorse Publishing, May 7), Tracy Strauss writes an open love letter to her future life partner, chronicling her dating history from the ages of 14 through 41 and depicting her journey to dismantle the effects and stigmas of an abusive past, break free of destructive relationship patterns, and ultimately conquer her fear of truly being seen by the world, flaws and all.
In her book, Strauss shares with readers the transformative lessons she learned and the self-empowerment she achieved while passing each hurdle along the way to finding her life partner, showing readers, through her own example, how to overcome hardship in order to live your best (love) life.
 Dear Future Life Partner,
 I thought I knew just how we’d meet.
 We’d be classmates in college, or colleagues on the job. We’d meet in the office copy room, or on Match.com, or at an acquaintance’s wedding at the table for guests without a “plus-one.” 

We’d introduce ourselves to each other at the café we both went to every Sunday with our laptops, early, when I was writing my first book and you were answering what appeared from the expression on your face to be some very serious email. You were the guy with his gaze glued to the computer screen, until you took the chance to look up, at me.
You were the one at the adult education class who came over and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
It wasn’t. I said, “It’s yours.”

I thought a mutual friend would set us up. We’d hit it off.
I thought we’d meet in the waiting room at the doctor’s office when I tore a ligament in my wrist during a boot camp class at the gym and you broke your arm in a bicycle accident on Massachusetts Avenue.

I thought, when I flew to out west, we’d be assigned the same row on the plane. I’d have the window seat, you the aisle. We’d say a brief “hello.” At takeoff, I’d turn my back so you wouldn’t see me becoming airsick, or hyperventilating from my flying phobia. You’d tap me on my shoulder and ask if I was all right.

I thought we’d meet on a crowded Boston subway, our bodies pressed together in the summer heat, the train stalling during rush hour, or on the commuter rail, like that couple profiled in the Boston Globe, who talked day after day on their way to work, falling in love. Three years later, he proposed. She said yes.
Yes, I believed we’d meet. Sure, I was being idealistic. I was conjuring up a future that relied upon stereotypical storybook circumstances, which do happen for some lucky singles—but such scenarios were my own magical thinking.

Love wouldn’t happen according to my plans. So, when I found myself over a certain age, when my friends had found their mates, but my life wasn’t the coupled way I’d once imagined it would be, I had to keep the faith. I had to stay optimistic. Though I sometimes felt discouraged, I wouldn’t give up hope, because you were out there, too.
In each man I met, my heart eagerly searched for you: “Are you him?” Well? Eventually, I grew tired of my dire and reflexive internal question, and the way I’d quickly find out, time and time again, that the answer was no.
“Desperation,” my therapist labeled my approach. “Grasping at something never works.” He likened the issue to befriending a cat: ever try to insist that a cat cuddle with you? It never works. But if you remain open, an interested cat comes to you, head butts your arm or leg, and takes a seat.

I’d learn, slower than I wished, to discern the difference between grasping and putting myself out there in an open way, without needing a partner to make me feel fulfilled. I clutched onto the former vibe until I grew tired of its burdensome weight. Only then did I put down my sense of expectation. Only then was I truly available for a real, satisfying connection.
 Of course, that doesn’t mean that you instantly appeared.
* * *
He practically had an orgasm at the table while talking about caramelizing onions. He said he loves to put scallions on his pasta, and that he taught himself a secret: you can cut your scallions down to the white part and put them in a glass of water and they’ll regrow, up to three times. He told me he just turned forty-five and how difficult online dating is.
Before we even ordered dinner at the Thai restaurant where we met for our first date, he suggested I move in with him in his condo in Brookline so that I wouldn’t have to continue paying my high rent. He told me his dying father wants him to have children RIGHT NOW. He brought up the importance of Judaism and we argued over his belief that I’d be “watering down the species” by marrying a non-Jew even if the non-Jew would allow me to raise my kids Jewish. He asked what I like to do in my free time. I told him I like to hike, bike, and kayak. He replied, “What’s a kayak?” Yes, he has a college degree and no, he’s not an alien. I asked if he likes pets. He said he wants to own three to five dogs. I said I have two cats. He said he hopes this isn’t a deal breaker but he’s deathly allergic.

Oh, really? Darn.
* * *
He asked to meet for “a coffee date.” At the café, he walked me over to the water fountain. He handed me a cup.
That was the date.
* * *
He was a hot ginger-haired chef with an advanced degree.
We met at a mandatory three-hour unemployment recipient meeting at Career Source. We were paired for a mock informational interview, an exercise meant to help unemployment recipients successfully reenter the workforce. Sitting beside each other, we shared our job losses, our struggles, our goals, and our wish for the meeting to conclude sooner rather than later.

We bantered. We flirted.
When we were finally dismissed, I raced out of the room and down the stairs.
“What, do you have a hot date or something?” the hot ginger-haired chef said, running after me, his voice echoing in the stairwell.
“Maybe,” I said.

He chuckled.
What I had was a therapy appointment. I was going to be late.
I left the hot ginger-haired chef behind and dashed to my car. I shut the door, threw my purse onto the floor, and turned the key in the ignition.
On my way to the parking lot exit, I passed him.
Spontaneity struck. I stopped my car. I backed it up. I rolled down my window and handed him a piece of paper with my email address: “Write me,” I said.
He took my info, and grinned.
I thought that maybe losing my job might have a silver lining after all. Maybe my misfortune wasn’t an event marked by futility but one that had happened for a productive reason: meeting Mr. Right.
Twenty-four hours later, I found out that the hot ginger-haired chef was not Mr. Right when he sent me a photo of himself holding an Uzi.
He had a gun fetish.
And that was the end of that.
* * *
Some dating stories aren’t all that funny, in the moment. But after some time has passed, just when you least expect it, the cosmos delivers a twist, a point of cathartic relief.
His name was Jonathan. He was a professor, a rather serious-looking one, tall and fit as a basketball player, dark-haired and distinguished like a Disney prince. He was late thirty-something, though he looked mid-forty-something. He didn’t have a beard or mustache, but he wasn’t clean-shaven either. He wore a blazer and tie, and expensive shoes. He adjusted and readjusted the strap of his camel brown leather messenger bag, which he slung over his shoulder while he stood in the hallway before the start of class, keeping his eyes glued to his cell phone as he made rhythmical scrolling motions on the screen with his thumb, as if he were looking at a very important newsfeed or email, or pictures of his dog, a Doberman Pinscher. He appeared uneasy amidst the socializing students, and more comfortable at the front of the classroom, standing behind a lecture podium, in his role as an academic.
When I first met him, I wondered what he’d look like if he smiled.
The clunky gray university building where we taught was once a department store, its entranceway fashioned with a glass overhang shaped like the sun, with off-white opaque rays fanning outward. An American flag billowed from the rooftop. Muzak piped through the hallways of the first floor, where the university’s central mailroom, bookstore, an ATM machine, bubble tea bar, a ramen noodle lunch counter, and a coffee café were located. Classrooms were situated on the second and third floors, where the interior department store layout didn’t quite fit the institutional setting.
I introduced myself one day when I needed an eraser.
“Hi,” I said, entering his room, which was located next door to mine, before class began.
When he looked at me I felt my cheeks get warm.

“Would you happen to have an extra eraser I could borrow?” I asked. “My classroom seems to be without one.”

Jonathan glanced at the chalkboard. There was one eraser.
“Oh, you only have one,” I said. “Never mind then.” I turned to leave.
“Wait,” Jonathan said, reaching for the eraser. “I don’t need it.”
“I guess you don’t teach English composition then,” I said.
“No,” Jonathan said. He taught astronomy.
“I’m new here,” I said. “I didn’t realize I had to bring my own eraser to class.”
He grinned in disgruntled commiseration, his brown eyes shining.
Every Monday and Wednesday in the hallway, during the minutes before the start of class, we griped about our adjunct professor life. I talked about losing my full-time job and Jonathan shared his five-year plight for the elusive tenure-track position. As an adjunct, he taught twenty classes a year at three different universities in order to earn a decent living.
“What?” I said, flabbergasted. I’d never taught more than eight classes a year, and that amount was grueling. A standard full-time faculty load was six per year, five at the tenure-track level, and generally three at full professor status. “How are you functioning?”
“You’d be surprised what you can get used to,” Jonathan said. “The problem with teaching so many classes is I have no time to do my research.”
Or date? I thought. I wondered if he was single, straight or gay. I leaned over to grab something in my bag, catching myself employing a quintessential flirty woman move. Did he check out my breasts? I didn’t have the guts to look.
Later, I was in the middle of teaching a lesson on introductory paragraphs when I saw Jonathan, from the corner of my eye, tentatively entering my classroom.
“Would you have a piece of chalk I could borrow?” he asked rather sheepishly.
“Sure,” I said, taking two pieces from the chalkboard and placing them in his palm. “Here you go.” I felt the softness of his hand and electricity dancing on the tips of my fingers as they touched his skin.
I hoped my students didn’t see me blush.
Over the course of the semester, we discussed how much less stressed we’d be if we didn’t have to run around town to get to our second or third jobs on time, if we didn’t have to be beggars when it came to wages and job security, if we didn’t spend our Friday nights alone, writing job applications. Yes, it seemed, he was single. Together, we dreamed about how wonderful it would be to have one substantial gig, a stable place to land, a place where we’d belong.
Misery loves company, but I thought Jonathan and I had more going for us than that. He showed me photos of his dog, Abby—by this time, I’d worked through my fear of dogs in therapy and had actually grown quite fond of them, training them at the Animal Rescue League during my volunteer shift, though the thought of a Doberman did give me pause. I showed Jonathan a photo of my cats. I secretly fantasized about how we’d fall in love and move in together so that we could afford our rent. Then we’d both get hired at the same university for tenure-track positions. Then we’d get married and have kids.
 Stop it, I told myself, stop it: how many times would I go down this road, getting ahead of myself, being unrealistic? I was setting myself up for royal disappointment. We hadn’t even gone out on a date.
When I asked Jonathan if he’d like to meet up for coffee he said yes, but we never did because he was always running from class to another job at another university, and he wasn’t free on weekends because he was either grading or jet-setting off to Miami to visit friends and play golf.
Mid-semester, in the hallway before class, he told me he’d just checked his email on his phone and received word that he was losing his job at another university where he’d been teaching as an adjunct for several years. This kind of termination was a common phenomenon for adjuncts, particularly once they met a particular college’s pay ceiling. How was he to function in the classroom after getting news like that?
“I’m sorry,” I said. He looked devastated.
Later, I sent him an email: “I’d love to take your mind off it all for an hour or two. Do you have a favorite pub with a dartboard or coffee place? How about we take a break in the grading action this weekend and meet up for pizza and beer (though I dislike beer so I’ll be the one having the wine cooler or nonalcoholic drink), and a vent-fest with mandatory laughs included, or Sunday brunch or a run around the Charles or something else of your choice. You name it.”
He didn’t respond. I felt annoyed at myself for possibly coming on too strong.
When I saw him before our next class, he thanked me for my email. He said he was sorry he hadn’t replied. He’d been busy.
“We should have coffee one of these days,” he said.
But then he was always busy. A few weeks later I casually said, “How about coffee next Monday after class?” But he was too busy again—he had to run off to another class, or home to walk Abby.
He was a workaholic: he never had time for anything personal.
On the last day of the semester, I decided to take a risk. I didn’t want to wonder “what if.” Not wanting to face rejection in person, I confessed my feelings for him via email:
 Jonathan,
I've really enjoyed our before-class chats this term. I confess that our banter was, some days, my only incentive for going to work. I have no idea if you’re single or in a relationship with someone, or if work is your main priority, but if you’d be interested in getting to know each other outside of the academic setting, let me know. I have a feeling, given your lack of a “yes” to my previous invitations etc, that you probably don’t have the same feelings towards me as I’ve developed for you, and no worries if that is the case. Such is life! But I didn’t want to regret not saying something.
Tracy
He didn’t respond via email. He came to my classroom, walking in just after my students left.
“I got your note,” he said.
“Oh,” I fumbled. I felt embarrassed. I was still learning the difference between grasping and trying. I wasn’t sure if my honesty had come off as an act of confidence or desperation.
He smiled nervously. “I’ve just seen the end of a relationship.”
His phrasing was notably passive, ambiguous. I wondered who broke up with whom.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’d like to get together,” he said. “At least to have coffee.”
“That would be great,” I said.
“After grades are turned in,” he said.
I sensed his hedging.
“I’m not going to chase after you,” I said, pulling back. “If you want to get together, reach out.”
“I will,” he said, looking me in the eye.
I almost believed him.
He never followed through, and I never saw him again, unless you count almost two years later, when I saw him virtually, when I stumbled upon his online dating profile:
 I’m passionate...I give everything to those things worth giving anything to. I’m loyal...once you’re in the inner circle, I take it very seriously. I’m curious...learning is sexy.
He was looking for his match:
You care about worldly events, love dogs, challenge norms, want to pursue and not just be pursued, value intellectual sparring, work to understand and not just critique, enjoy people watching, recognize complexity in people’s character, are self-aware, and think the best moments oftentimes result from a balance of planning and spontaneity.
I felt a wave of longing for the relationship I’d wanted with him. Then I came upon his “stats” column, where he listed his habits and preferences:
Smoking: Sometimes
Drinking: Often
Drugs: Sometimes
Relationship Type: Mostly monogamous
Jonathan? I read it again to make sure.
I’d dodged a bullet.

Attention Ladies: Have You Ever Heard of Zestra?

This is a pretty Shameless post. But this is a story worth telling, again and again. So here I go!
This is a pretty Shameless post. But this is a story worth telling, again and again - even if it is kind of personal. I am telling it because I care about your sex life. And I am willing to blush just a little bit to get the word out about my big find!
Last year, I came home with the goody bag of my life from the NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar Party held at Fontana’s – an uber hip down bar. They carded me – I loved that. And there I was – in the midst of the cool and sexually free. It was beyond heady. I am not quite the same kind of sex blogger as many of these incredibly writers that share their deepest sexual exploits, inner workings and adventures. These days my sexuality blogs can be found right here on Your Tango,  Huffington Post, Psychology Today and Being Shameless.

But I was welcomed in – I qualified – and I loved it all from Carol Queen performing Peep Show to Porn Star Nina Hartley telling us like it really was back in the day. Oh – It was a hell of a night – that left me grinning from ear to ear.
The goody bag was heavy – and the next morning over bagels and coffee - I dropped the bag with a plop and a wink on my husband’s lap!
“Look what I brought you from the party last night!” I grinned.
After 29 years of marriage – it was fun to keep surprising him – his late blooming out of the box wife was bringing gifts!
There was so much in those bags – fun little vibrators – little toys and devices that we actually had to google to find out what they were for! And then there were the little sample package of Zestra!

What is Zestra you might ask? Well, according to the package insert:
“Zestra was developed by a pharmacologist who was focused on finding ways to enhance women’s sexual satisfaction”.
Okay sure. Another pink pill kind of thing? I have been quite skeptical about big pharma in my panties – I didn’t know if I wanted them there – or if they really could create feelings of sexual desire in women. I felt that us girls were way more complicated than a pill or a crème.
The insert went on to talk about how safe Zestra was - and that there had been two clinical trials. I looked at the two little one time use samples in my hot little goody bag and then looked over at my husband. The kid was stilling sleeping…

I went back to the insert - I was supposed to massage the crème with my fingers or my beloved’s fingers around my clitoris, inner and outer labia  then wait five minutes for the “Zestra Rush” to begin. Apparently it would peek over a period of around ten or fifteen minutes.
“Honey – want to do a little experiment with me?” I asked. I did my very best to be sexy and coy in my not so sexy sweat pants. Oh God – I was caricature of a long married woman. At least I didn’t have breast milk stains on my tee-shirt – those days were long gone!
I held up the Zestra and winked.
Okay so sometimes my seduction skills were a little lacking – but he didn’t seem to mind! After all – I was asking for sex. My husband is a smart man - he doesn't look a gift horse in the mouth!

I dropped my sweat pants, grabbed the package myself and ripped it open with a swagger using my teeth. I was a woman on a mission. I decided to apply the desire crème myself. After all – I was a sexologist! I wanted to know the full experience. I didn’t have to wait the prescribed five minutes.
“Where are you?” I yelled as I jumped into bed. He was busy reading the package insert himself.
“It says you are supposed to wait five minutes! I’m coming!” He laughed.
“Well – hurry up! Apparently I am an advanced student!” I shouted back.
Now how do I describe this? I feel a little bit like those food reviewers on those travel channels trying to describe to all the food voyeurs what that special little poached egg tastes like with truffles!
The Zestra was creating a little party “down there” - I felt all "hot and bothered".  I wanted touch!  And I was curious about how the brand new sensations that were perking below would feel  once we began to touch.  It was a  little bit like I had an itch that I couldn't wait to scratch. Only it was a good itch – and a burning “please touch me now” – kind of itch. And it made me giggle – I liked it – a lot. But I didn’t believe in crèmes and pills – I didn’t believe in the validity of sexual enhancements for women!
OH GOD! And you can order it here!

The Secret To Mutually Enjoyable Sex

A new couples vibrator proves there is such thing as a happy ending for everyone.
What's the one thing that would make sex with your sweetie even better? For a lot of women, all that's missing is the satisfaction at the end as he lies dozing happily. Why can't women have orgasms from sex as easily as men can?
A new product makes it possible. FixSation could be the answer for couples who want sex to be a mutually enjoyable experience, but who may be new to using sex toys (or, maybe not). FixSation is a vibrator that a woman can wear, and that provides increased thrill as the man gets closer and closer. 3 Keys to Creating More Physical Intimacy With Your Partner

We were thrilled when FixSation approached us about an advertising partnership. One of our YourTango team members tried FixSation and revealed that while she and her partner had been a little hesitant to introduce vibrators into their sex life, FixSation was the first device to put their nerves at ease. The device arrived in a pretty little package complete with the vibrator, a power cord, the black lace Panty Companion that's used for the attachment, and a sleek silver bag to store it all in. After charging FixSation (the directions indicate eight hours, but after two there was plenty of, um, energy), the device laced seamlessly through the straps of the black lace panty companion (a crotchless, backless panty that runs very true-to-size).

The Panty Companion's design kept both partners from feeling silly, and after a little kissing and touching, it was on...literally. With three speeds of operation, FixSation took sex to a new level. The only thing that can make the person you love even more lovable is seeing their satisfaction when you feel great. FixSation is a device that couples—and even singles—everywhere could get fixated on. A Glimpse At The Future Of Sex Toys
Brainstorming the perfect holiday stocking stuffers? Or do you just love to love sex year-round? Visit FixSation through Nov. 30, 2011 and get $20 off by using the code TANGO20.

Angry Single Blogger: I Have 3 Vibrators On My Kitchen Table

Men have fewer problems with vibrators than we ladies thought, survey says. Either way, I love mine!
At this moment, I have three vibrators sitting on my kitchen table. This isn't because I'm a sex toy whore, but simply because I got them as free samples and I have yet to move them to my bedroom — where I have three more. When friends come over, or even my super stops by to fix something, I don't tuck them away and hide them like a dirty secret. They're still in their packages, and honestly, they never really cross my mind. For the time being, the kitchen table, which is also home to other random things, seems like the most appropriate place for them. I live in New York City, so I never use my kitchen table anyway.

Once deemed taboo, vibrators, as well as other sex toys, are now mainstream. Condom brands like Trojan and Durex have even made their own lines of vibrators, which you can find in your local pharmacy (well, if you live in NYC. Sound off and let me know how it is in your locale). Yes, long gone are the days of having to sneak off to a dark dungeon to find a battery-powered buddy. The Secret To Mutually Enjoyable Sex

Although vibrators are more common than ever, with half of all Americans using them and the U.S. being second in the world in terms of vibrator ownership — Taiwan being the first — women still seem to have this notion that their favorite sex toy is intimidating to their male partners. However, a new survey has debunked this theory.

Debra Herbenick, PhD, of Indiana University's Center for Sexual Health Promotion, recently conducted a survey of over 3,000 Americans between the ages of 18 and 60 to see how they felt about vibrators. While 37% of women thought the usage of them was "upsetting" or intimidating to their partners, of the men polled, 70% claimed they had zero problems with the buzzing shafts of fun. Looks like that TSA agent who left a note saying "GET YOUR FREAK ON GIRL" after finding a passenger's vibrator is in the minority.
Men have fewer problems with vibrators than we ladies thought, survey says. Either way, I love mine!
In other great news, in 2009, Indiana University also found that 45% of fellas admitted to using them, mostly as a means to please their partner. And why not? It's less work for the man and spices up your bedroom behavior. Additionally, the research found that "nearly half" of survey participants thought vibrator use was a healthy component of women's sex lives; and less than 10% strongly felt that using them would make women "too dependent on them for pleasure." Pfft. 10 Lovely Things About Men That Drive Me Up The Damn WALL

The fact of the matter is that if a vibrator can successfully get you off and you enjoy it, then go forth, ladies (and gentlemen). If you know how to please yourself and your partner, and vibrators happen to be part of the equation in either scenario, there's no sense in being shy or ashamed about it. Perhaps it's time you take it out of the nightstand drawer and leave it out as a subtle hint.

I mean, come on, we all have at least one. Right, ladies?

Top Aphrodisiacs for Him & Her - part 4

Herbal aphrodisiacs are fun. They add a new dimension to the same old, same old.
c. 2012 Susun S Weed (Expert)
Author: Down There: Sexual & Reproductive Health the Wise Woman Way
Herbal aphrodisiacs are fun. They add a new dimension to the same old, same old. And they benefit our overall health, too. If you are just joining us, be sure to check out the past few installments on herbal aphrodisiacs, too, after giving this week’s stars a tumble.
Allow me to introduce you to two mild-mannered herbs who wear super-hero tights under their work clothes: from India, fenugreek and from China, shisandra. These food-like herbs won’t make you want to tear off your clothes and jump into bed with the nearest eligible human. Instead, they will become allies who help you feel sexier and healthier every day.

Our third herb, tribulus, will give you the itch, now, right now, so approach with her caution and get ready for some action.
Fenugreek

Great-tasting fenugreek tea can improve potency for men and increase sensitivity to stimuli for women. Fenugreek is a member of the bean family, so it is rich in phyto-sterols, substances that can be converted into sex hormones in our bodies. These hormones are far safer than pharmaceutical hormone analogs, and more effective in the long run, too. Daily use of fenugreek seed tea gently alters hormones toward vibrancy and vitality, improving the entire sweep of sexuality: desire, performance, fertility, and lactation. Fenugreek is moistening, lubricating, and nourishing. It was one of the main ingredients of Lydia Pinkham’s famous “Vegetable Compound,” an herbal elixir sold in the nineteenth century for “women’s problems” including postmesopausal dryness. Fenugreek does have one side-effect: It makes body fluids smell sweet, like maple syrup. To make fenugreek tea: Put 6 tablespoons of fenugreek seeds in a quart jar, fill it up with boiling water, steep for no more than 20 minutes, strain, and drink freely. This brew keeps for up to a week refrigerated.
Herbal aphrodisiacs are fun. They add a new dimension to the same old, same old.
 
Schizandra
Schizandra is a hardy vine whose “five-flavor” berries are used throughout China as an extract/tincture (1–2 dropperfuls a day) or infusion (2–4 cups a day). Like fenugreek, schizandra interacts with sexual hormones, gently nudging them toward superior functioning. Regular use increases sexual desire and improves stamina and energy in both men and women. Unlike ED drugs, schizandra berry tincture strengthens the heart, lowers blood pressure, nourishes the adrenals, counters inflammation, and increases sexual satisfaction.

Tribulus
This nasty weed, also known as bullhead, caltrop, cat’s head, devil’s eyelashes, goathead, and puncturevine, is a noxious invasive species native to Africa, Australia and southern Asia. Animals given powdered tribulus mount more frequently and for longer periods of time than those given pharmaceutical testosterone cypionate. People who take it do the same; plus they report increased satisfaction as well. Studies have been unable to confirm any effect on testosterone levels. Instead, tribulus seems to act directly on the brain (and the hormonal control glands found there) to quickly turn one’s thoughts to acts of pleasure.  Additionally, it increases the release of nitric oxide from the nerve endings of the erectile tissues of the penis and clitoris. Tribulus capsules give an “itch” for orgasm to women and the power to play hard for hours to men. Men with diabetes who take 750–1500mg of tribulus daily report improvement in libido and erection.

Coming up, cunning commentary and penetrating penile insights on ways to light your fire and keep it burning for the long run. Post-menopausal women and mid-life men will also find these articles of special interest to them.

Green blessings.

Who Knew That 'An Apple A Day' Could Spice Up Your Sex Life?

Looking for something new in the bedroom? The powerful seduction of apples will surprise you.
Turns out the old advice "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" may not be the only good thing about that apple a day habit.
According to a report on ZNews, 731 Italian women were tested after eating apple-rich diets, and the women who ate the most apples reported having more fulfilling sex lives. There is actually a test you can take to see how your sex life measures up—in frequency and overall satisfaction. It is called the Female Sexual Function Index.
The researchers from Santa Chiara Regional Hospital in Trento, Italy explained that apples contain phloridzin and is chemically similar to the female sex hormone estradiol. Estrodiol is a major player in sexual arousal in women. Who knew?

You will be happy to know that apples also have antioxidents and polyphenols. These babies can stimulate blood flow down below and we ladies can always use more blood flow down there when seeking pleasure. You can even make your apple eating experience a sensual one if you are an overachiever.
Sensuality is not the same as sexuality.
Both are delicious, and when they are blended together you may have the best sex ever. Sensuality, your experience with your senses, is a part of sexuality and a part you can practice when your lover is not around.
Feeding each other is very intimate. Finger food with fingertips brushing against trembling lips is very sexy. Plus, there are lots of fun things you can do with food in the bedroom. Fine tuning all of your senses just might ramp you up for super sensual sex next time you are with your partner. Be sure to check out this video: The Erotic Secret He Wishes You Knew.

Here is how to eat an apple, sensually (and can also be done with any fruit):
Wash the apple as if it were a precious piece of art. Lather your hands with a bit of seasalt and warm water, and gently scrub the apple skin. Concentrate on the feeling of the skin of the apple under your fingertips. Rinse it under a slow stream of water, stroke the skin of the apple as if it mattered.
Cut the apple in half. Put the pieces on the table in front of you and notice how many exact images you see. Glance back and forth and compare the patterns you see in the seeds, skin and flesh of the apple. Take a deep breath.

Pick up half of the apple and smell it. Close your eyes and breathe in the aroma. Notice if your mouth responds to the smell. Perhaps your nose tingles. Take three or four full sniffs of the apple and notice what thoughts come to mind.
Cut the apple into quarters and then into eighths. Arrange the apple slices into a flower with the eight slices in a circle on a plate. Go to a beautiful or significant corner in your home, neighborhood or yard. Sit quietly with your eyes closed for a moment.
Eat your apple. Take your time and taste it. Feel the texture on your tongue. Sense how the apple makes your mouth water. Be open and aware of all you sense as you chew and swallow each piece. Close your eyes while you have a slice. Notice what you are aware of.
What does sensual eating have to do with great sex? Oh you'll see, I promise. So what's your pleasure? Red Delicious, Pink Lady, or Granny Smith? Eat up, ladies, and get that blood pumping in all the right places.

The Orgasm Shot

You want me to stick a needle where?
With the prick of a needle, your G-spot will be rocked harder than ever the next time you're lucky enough to get laid.
So says London's Daily Mail, in an article about Caroline Cushworth, who splurged on a $1,600 dollar 'orgasm jab.' It's a lip plumper-like shot of collagen inside -- yes, inside the vagina -- that guarantees a lady orgasms with every roll in the hay by enlarging the "pea-sized" G-spot for four, count'em, four months.
Color me fascinated...but also skeptical. How safe is it, really, to shoot collagen directly onto one's G-spot (assuming you've found the bugger)? I'm embarrassed to say I own Victoria Secret's Very Voluptuous Lip Plumper, which contains topical collagen, and you simply slick it on your lips, not inject it. If your G-spot is stimulated for four straight months, won't you be turned on all the time? Hmm, if there was ever the potential for a Viagra-like six-hour-long hard-on mishap in a woman....

I'm all for more and better orgasms, but suspicious of a quick fix, especially given the Daily Mail's wholehearted endorsement in their in their trademark skeptically-reported style, such as:
"as Caroline can testify, the results are tremendous..."
The piece also lists the web site and number of "the UK's only cosmetic gynecologist approved to administer the shot," with no alternative viewpoint saying there might be any downside to enlarging one's fun button for four months. (Hey, there might not be!) But we did a little Googling and found in the "Safety" section of www.thegshot.com:
G Spot Amplificationâ„¢ or G-Shot is not an approved use of collagen by the FDA and is an off-label use....Despite the stringent donor screening involved in the preparation of the collagen, the transmission of infectious agents cannot be entirely excluded.

Aha...I guess not being approved by America's FDA is such a niggling little detail. Nevertheless, apparently the G-shot's been available in the States for years...has anyone gotten it? Tell us in the comments section below!

Another Woman Gave Me An Orgasm At A Strip Club Bachelor Party

What happens in Atlantic City stays... on YourTango.
I'm not one of those girls who hates other girls.
Most of my close friends are women, and although I have guy friends I'm far from "one of the guys." I don't like sports, I don't eat pizza or drink beer, and I'm very particular about keeping things neat and tidy. However, my best friend from college happens to be a guy.
I first met Josh* a few weeks into my freshman year. We went on one date, kissed for three seconds, and quickly decided we were better off as friends.
Twelve years later, and still very close, Josh called to tell me I was officially invited to his bachelor party.
It was going to be me and 27 dudes in Atlantic City for the weekend. I was honored to be deemed awesome enough to be the one chick at a bachelor party, excited to see behind the testosterone curtain, curious to learn what really goes on at these things and determined to live up to Josh's expectations of me seamlessly fitting in, even though I lacked an Adam's apple, stubble, and a penis.

Before arriving at The Borgata I instated some rules for myself.
Rule one: Under NO circumstances was I going to sleep with any of the guys attending the bachelor party.
Rule two: I would pile into hotel rooms with the rest of the guys and not complain about the smell, squalor, toilet seats being left up, sleeping conditions, snoring, puke-stained clothes piled in corners, burping, ball scratching and urinating in the shower.
Rule three: I would gamble, smoke cigars and drink a lot, but not so much that I would lose sight of rule one.
While checking in at the front desk the hushed annoyance and pissed-off stares made it clear I was going to have to prove myself. A few of Josh's friends already knew me but the rest immediately asked, "Who invited her?" Having breasts at a bachelor party is a bad thing, unless you're the hired help.

I ingratiated myself to some of the guys by becoming their wing woman and helping them scope out girls at the bar. I earned more fans when I convinced a bouncer not to throw us all out of a club after Josh's brother peed in the stairwell. Others gained respect for me when they realized I played poker, and well.
That night all 28 of us went to a steak house.
Although Josh was the guest of honor, it looked as though I was a queen traveling with my harem of men. At this point there were about 5 holdouts who were still not sold on having a chick at a bachelor party and convinced I was ruining everything. They didn't mind letting Josh know about their disapproval. His mature and wise response: "Shut the fuck up dude and relax."

After the last of the red wine was gone we made a pilgrimage by cabs in a long caravan to the best strip club in town.

I've been to my fair share of strip clubs and if this place was the best in town I shuddered to think what the other ones looked like. Atlantic City in general seemed like Vegas's aborted fetus.
Some of the strippers were smokin' hot, others not so much. A few C-section scars were visible as well as lots of bruises, faded butterfly tattoos and bad boob jobs, but nothing was going to thwart me from shoving bills into g-strings.
Lap dances were being bought by the baker's dozen so it only made sense that I get one too. I picked a pretty little blond named Treasure (the best stripper name ever). Treasure smelled like baby powder and strawberries, had a firm body and was fully waxed.
The champagne room was set up with booths and partitions, giving the illusion of privacy, but really anyone who craned his head could see everything going on. Unbeknownst to me all the guys were hyper aware of this, and they all watched me get my lap dance.

The song started.
Treasure dripped over me, caressed me, and dragged her knee in between my legs. I felt the distinct notion that if I put a little effort in to it, and Treasure continued to do exactly what she was doing, I could actually have an orgasm.
But that would be crazy! Getting a happy ending in public at a strip club would be insane, right?!
Treasure, as conscientious as she was, sensed that she wasn't far away from fully satisfying her customer so she continued the knee action, slowly and softly. My breath quickened and I whispered to her, "Oh my God, I could come." And she whispered, lips glossy and full, "That’s the idea."

I made the decision in that disgusting Atlantic City strip club booth to let go of any and all restraints good society had placed upon me. All weekend I’d been trying my hardest to fit in at a bachelor party and "finishing" at a strip club is as stereotypically male as you can get.
So I let go, and let Treasure do her thing. She was extremely talented.
To the amazement of everyone in the room, including me, I got a full on happy ending, something none of the other 27 bachelor party participants were lucky enough to get. I manned up, even more than the men, and the irony was lost on no one.
Well, maybe on Treasure, just a little bit.

*name has been changed

21 Fabulously Naughty Gifts To Give Yourself

Get your sexy on!
Sex is an essential part of life. It bonds us to our partners, causes feelings of contentment and is just all around beneficial for us. Good sex is, in our opinions, vital to a happy, healthy life. And sometimes, it's fun to add a little accessory or two. Whether your preference is for something that vibrates, or perhaps a little something lickable, it's important to know what's out there. And there are a lot of options when it comes to enhancing your sexy life. We want you to enjoy good sex, and we are here to help.

So to that end, ladies and gents, it's time to treat yourselves. We've rounded up 21 of our favorite naughty, sexy items, all for your shopping pleasure. And because we love you, and want only the best for you, we tested each of these products to ensure they're awesome and sexy. (Yeah, we were really taking one for the team that time.)

We have here our favorite vibrators, accessories, massage aids and one very helpful service. Look through this gallery and use your imagination. Pretend that you're alone, or with your significant other, and imagine just what you could do with each item. So click through and get planning.