If you asked me to strip naked in front of a body-length mirror, I’d protest like a two-year-old at first. I hate mirrors; the less often I have to look at myself in one, the better.

If you somehow managed to coax me into stripping naked and pointing out everything I liked about my body, I would say this: How soft my skin is, even though I rarely use body lotions. My eye color, a dark emerald green. My gappy front teeth, which gives me a youthful look when I grin. My hair color, because it is a rare shade even for natural redheads. My pubic hair, because it’s a sign of womanhood. I’ll trim it when it needs it, but I wouldn’t ever shave it off completely. While most women appear to hate their pubic hair, I’m proud of mine.

Now, if you asked me to identify everything I hated about my body, I would say this: How thick and oily my red hair is, because it makes the Georgia heat only more unbearable during the summer. How sensitive my skin is, because even sensitive soaps make me break out. How oily my skin is, because of how often I break out whether I’m PMS-ing or not. How prone I am to contract infections of all kinds. The scars I have on my lower back and inside my butt crack because of cysts. The two crossbites on my lower set of teeth. My severe cramps during periods. My short neck, because short necks ain’t pretty. My chicken arms, my gorilla breasts, my elephant legs. My obesity, and how petite I am. I could go on forever just bitching about this, I guess.

I can’t remember ever truly loving myself. I remember finding myself ugly even as a Kindergartener. Once body fat overtook baby fat, my classmates definitely did not help me feel any more confident about myself. I was constantly bullied and neglected over my weight. If anyone did talk to me, it would be just to insult me. I’m now afraid of rejection by anyone, so I find it very difficult to make and retain friends. This may be lifelong, I fear.

I recall a particularly traumatizing incident in middle school where some Indian women came to my art class with saris to try one. Having Indian best friends in elementary school, I was the only student who willingly volunteered. When I couldn’t fit into the little orange dress, one of the women said, “Oh, looks like you’re too fat! Can I have… this skinny girl try it on instead? Yes, she’ll be much prettier than this fat girl…” Saris still give me very bad memories.

Okay, I’m fat. I get it. I was large for a twin baby in the early nineties at six pounds, nine ounces. I can never recall wearing really tiny clothes except as a baby, and I have difficulty imagining myself as an extra-small, small, or even a medium. Depending on what part of my body you’re referring to, I can wear anything from extra large to 3XL. I developed early, wearing a bra by age seven for instance, and now I wear a 48DD/E bra. Many girls desire having larger busts. I would love to have smaller boobs; a C would be nice.

Aside from my obesity, I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t have diabetes; I don’t have heart problems, and my blood pressure is actually slightly below normal. I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and IBS (irritable bowel syndrome), but I have yet to experience any serious medical problems from either. If anything, my doctors are primarily worried about, not my blood sugar or my cholesterol, but about my thyroid. If I’m not crying at night over obesity-induced medical problems, then what is causing my piss poor body image?

I feel vain for saying this, but I hate how my obesity denies me from feeling pretty. Clothes and makeup are often implemented to flaunt or enhance your best physical features. I’m just a size too large for underwear with lace, ribbons, and other pretty notions; I have to buy plain ol’ “granny panties.” Being at an odd band and cup size, finding good, decently priced bras in my size is a challenge. I hate Wal-Mart bras, and yet most of my bras are those because they appear to be the only brand that carries them for prices lower than $100. And even then, they’re not exactly bras you want to flirt in. Plus-size clothing is the same deal. I hate Tinkerbell, and yet I have two Tinkerbell shirts because my mother could only find those at the thrift store. I absolutely love Donald Duck, but all the plus size shirts with his mugshot on it are just fugly. It appears that only smaller girls are allowed to wear cute and sexy clothes.

I can definitely see how I’m cute, but I don’t feel like I can ever be sexy. Sexual attractiveness is the first step to a romantic relationship. Someone finds you sexy, you chit chat, and with luck, you may hook up. Women often purchase lingerie and the like to spice up their already sexy bodies, and to seduce. But with the negative perception towards obesity as ugly, and the lack of beautiful things available for overweight women, I have difficulty picturing myself as a sexy woman. Not being able to have someone find me truly beautiful, sexually beautiful, is what I’m afraid of most. I am afraid I’ll be alone forever.

Hello. My name’s Kathryn Deanne Hale. You may have encountered me on and off Edenfantasys as Kady the Red Panda. I was born on August 25 near Atlanta, Georgia, making my astrological sign Virgo—the virgin, the maiden, the pure one. My real name, “Kathryn” is Greek in origin and also means “pure.” Heck, even my full name, strangely enough, means “pure, divine hero.” No, really—go consult any baby name site if you think I’m joking.

I guess it’s also fitting, then, that at the time of this writing, I am also a twenty-year-old virgin.

I define sexual intercourse as any sexual interaction between two or more partners. Oral sex, anal sex, mutual masturbation, and penis-in-vagina intercourse, therefore all qualify as ways to pop one’s cherry to me. Masturbation, being “sex for one,” doesn’t count as sex, even if I penetrate my vagina for that reason. I have never even exchanged a sexually charged kiss with someone else, so I’m positive I still qualify for the label “virgin.”

The reasons that I am a virgin are numerous. First off, I am very insecure about my body. If I’m going to be naked, let alone fucking with someone, I want to be comfortable in my body. Sex is an intimate activity, damnit. Being uncomfortable to any degree ruins the intimacy. Second, because of my poor body image, I’m worried about my partner cheating on me. If cheating occurs, the chance of me contracting a sexually transmitted disease by my unfaithful partner skyrockets. I need to make sure I can trust any sexual partner. Third and finally, I’m just too shy. There are people who probably believe I’m more special needs than I really am because of my more prominent Autistic characteristics.

Would I love to lose my virginity? You bet your ass I want to! Only a true asexual would never want to engage in sex. I want to get intimate, try out different positions, see firsthand my partner coming because of something I did to him or her. Even if I don’t come during that session, seeing my partner satisfied would be enough for me. I thrive on seeing the ones I love being happy.

If my fantasies about having sex are this flowery, you must assume that I think that losing my virginity would have me seeing stars, curling my toes until they resemble Swiss rolls, and screaming as loud as a howler monkey when I reach my limit. If you really believe that, you’re completely wrong.

My family says that I have an Eeyore attitude, in that I always sound hopeless about something. True, I’ve been depressed for years, but I also consider myself a realist. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, popping your cherry is going to be awkward, if not outright sucky. If losing your virginity was almost always amazing, why are there so many women who wish they could have waited to have sex later in life?

I expect to have some pain. I have experience with toys, but a real penis is NOT the same as a silicone dildo material-wise, or human use-wise. I expect to have some awkwardness and confusion because it’s my first time with someone. The same goes for any new partner; you have to learn what they like before it gets really good anyway. And I expect it to be memorable, whether it was a good experience or not. It is a milestone, after all. Even if it sucked, lovemaking could only get better with more sessions.

I can’t wait.

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There was an episode from The Steve Wilkos Show’s premiere season where the former Chicago cop and former Jerry Springer security guard confronted an out-of-control teenage girl. At one point, Steve asks her if she liked having the reputation as the neighborhood whore. Offended, the girl immediately snaps: “I’m not a whore! I’m a slut! There’s a difference!”

The above exchange has become a running gag between my younger sister and me. The girl’s comment was so ridiculous that we just had to giggle despite the situation’s severity. Yes, there is indeed a difference between whores and sluts. But, by my definition, you really don’t want to come across as a slut. At all.

Distinguishing between a whore and a slut can be tricky, similar to telling the difference between an alligator and a crocodile or an ape and a monkey. To the untrained eye, they’re the exact same thing, synonyms of each other. How could there ever be a difference, and a noticeable one at that, between a whore and a slut?

“Whore” and “slut” are terms almost always applied to women, particularly promiscuous ones. While they’re very similar behavior-wise, whores and sluts differ by their degree of promiscuity. Whores are often associated with prostitution. These women have many sexual partners, but they’re selling their bodies primarily for monetary gain, whether they actually want to be a prostitute or not.

Sluts, however, are willing to have sex with just about anything that moves. They’ll engage in dangerous sexual activities at a whim, all while only being concerned about pleasure. At least whores are both aware of the risks and are willing to protect themselves whenever they can. Even if a slut knows about the dangers of frequent unprotected sex, she’ll most likely not give a hoot about safety precautions pre-intercourse.

Doubtlessly, the word “whore” is thrown at women much more often than “slut.” Are you prostituting? You’re a whore. Were you caught cheating with your lover’s best friend? You’re a whore. Did you contract an STD, have an abortion, or appear on Maury Povich for a paternity test? Whore, whore, and big time whore. Although it is still considered derogatory against women, “whore” is tossed around so frequently that its ability to outright offend and insult has lessened over time. Nowadays, it is even as common to describe oneself as a “Starbucks whore” as it is to confess to being a “PMS bitch.”

“Slut,” conversely, is reserved for the whores that top all whores. Unlike “whore,” whose utterance now only annoys me, “slut” not only makes me cringe, but also causes my skin to crawl. Hell, just writing the word for this essay is making me cringe. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that if I see a porn title promising “[insert age or race here] slut(s)” or hear a man openly admitting to wanting to “find a slut to fuck” that I am automatically turned off. When a woman becomes a slut, she is no longer treated like a woman, let alone a human being. She becomes an object to abuse, and no one cares because nobody wants to associate with sluts.

There is also certainly more hope for a whore than a slut. Shelters and programs exist for aiding prostitutes/whores who want to escape their lifestyle. It’s generally understood that prostitutes are often trapped into the world’s oldest profession and need support. Sluts, on the other hand, don’t have such help from others, unless they willingly admit themselves to sexual rehab. Otherwise, the slut is abandoned by society, condemned for their activities.

With this in mind, would you act like the “Steve Wilkos” girl and proudly consider yourself a slut?

Thought so.

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The term pup-play can be confusing to understand, and I can see why. Does it involve innocent playing with real puppies, zoophilia, animal roleplay—what is it? “Pup-play” is so vague that it’s easy for someone to think that it’s one of those things.

If you guessed that pup-play is a form of animal roleplay, then you would be correct. Similar to other forms of animal roleplay, like pony-play or kitty-play, pup-play involves one or both partners acting like a dog. It could be a master-puppy relationship where the dominant partner acts as the owner/master and the submissive partner pretends to be a playful puppy. Less often, it can involve both partners acting like dogs, or a werewolf-victim scenario. Pup-play can become a form of BDSM when collars, leashes, paw gloves, butt plug tails, and/or dog hood masks are implemented.

The purposes for doing pup-play vary, as well. For some, it is an escape from restrictive and conforming human norms and mores. We expect much more from our fellow man than dogs, for sure. It can also possibly be someone’s way to fantasize of a life without the fear of paying the bills on time and other human responsibilities. Haven’t we all had a daydream at one point in our lives wishing that we didn’t have to wear tight clothes, go to work, or to look presentable at all times? Dogs are very playful and loyal animals, and we adore them for those reasons. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be popular as pets.

Zoophilia, otherwise known as bestiality, is not a motive for pup-play. Even those who engage in actual intercourse during pup-play often do not have sexual desire for real dogs. Again, pup-play is a form of sexual fantasy, or an escape, not a front because you cannot fuck an actual dog. To say that pup-play promotes bestiality is like saying that having heterosexual anal sex will eventually lead to much more sadistic practices. It’s just ridiculous.

Unfortunately, Edenfantasys doesn’t stock anything for pup-play, short of bondage leashes and collars. If you want more pup-play goodies in stock, speak out and request it! You may help others too embarrassed about their very obscure kink be able to buy their goods at a more mainstream toy store. Wouldn’t that be great?