Why You Should Send Prospective Dates Your “Sex Menu” Of Kinks

I’d been talking to David online for a while. He’d caught my eye with his funny, slightly arch OkCupid profile and the sexy way in which he hadn’t included his Meyers-Briggs personality type or star sign. Admittedly, he was also super-hot, and the more we chatted, the more I wanted to see him naked. "So shall we have a drink then?" he suggested after a few days of back-and-forth. "Absolutely. Would it be okay if I sent you my sex menu beforehand?" I fired back. I watched the three little dots rising and falling for what felt like an eternity, undulating in a moment of indecision. "Sorry, your what?" he replied, eventually. "My sex menu. It’s a guide to how I like to get down. I send it to people I might like to have sex with." "Yes," replied David promptly. "Send away." It was my very wise friend Toni who introduced me to the sex menu. She created hers to avoid the tricky, mood-killer conversation about what she didn’t enjoy in bed. The menu, she reasoned, could be a way of sidestepping the underwhelming sex we too often have to endure with new partners. Her menu is broken down into three categories: "Things I Love," "Things I Don’t," and "Things I’m Curious About." There are stars next to the things that make her orgasm, and she also has a little introduction characterizing her general sexual outlook — because, well, she’s just that much of a badass. As a lover of both thoroughly well-organized Google Docs and freaky sex things, I decided to write my own menu. The sex menu is a simple idea, but it's pretty revolutionary. When was the last time you did a thorough inventory of all your kinks and desires and really focused on the kind of sex you’d like to be having? We routinely evaluate our feelings and goals relating to, say, work or physical fitness, but we rarely afford the same level of analysis to our sex lives. Writing a sex menu gives your desires the headspace they deserve and puts the emphasis firmly on what actually works for you.

As a sex worker, 99% of the sex I have at work is centered around the desires of straight cis men, so when it comes to my personal life, I’ve lost patience for things that I don’t personally enjoy — especially if I’m not getting paid for it. But shrug-inducing sex is hardly unique to sex workers. Nearly all of my female friends have myriad tales of sex that’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant — just flat. More often than not, it’s tricky to stop mid-coitus to tell your partner exactly what’s not working without killing the atmosphere. So if there’s a way to bypass this and head straight to the really good times, count me in. Regardless of whether you ever share it with anyone, just writing your sex menu can feel like a radical act. Once I’d finished, I suddenly had a sense of just how cohesive my kinks are. I hadn’t quite twigged that my various fantasies about being secretly observed fucking were underpinned by exhibitionism, which would explain why I enjoyed group sex, being photographed naked, and quickies in full view of CCTV cameras. They seem so obvious now when bunched together, but at menu-writing time, this was revelatory. Since then, I’ve more consciously played around with things that tap into this area of interest. Also, in writing my kinks down, I was able to be clearer than I could when communicating them face-to-face. Previously, I’ve been gripped by nervous giggles and inarticulate mumbling when attempting to explain exactly the type of filthy language I get off on. Now, I just send over the menu and side-step that awkwardness altogether.

As well as detailing all the things that are guaranteed to flood your basement, this menu can also feature anything that’s a total mood killer. If having your ear licked is the quickest way to turn you off, the menu ensures that no one will even go near your lobes. For friends of mine who are survivors of sexual violence, the menu means they can easily avoid anything that’s going to be triggering or upsetting — without having to rehash or explain trauma with someone new. "But isn’t it a bit embarrassing to share it?" my friend asked, as I preached the gospel of the sex menu over brunch. Sure, the first time I sent my menu out, it was a little nerve-wracking, but now I find it operates like a form of foreplay. The underlying message is always, "look at all the fun we could have together" — as well as communicating to a potential sex partner that your pleasure is a priority. It even functions as good first-date-chat material: I recently had a drink with a Tinder match with whom I’d shared my menu, and he asked what it was I enjoyed so much about spanking. Happily, he was a quick learner.

Of course, it’s worth pointing out that I don’t end up fucking everyone I share the menu with. It's like how carrying condoms doesn’t always mean you’ll need to use them. Nor does the menu bypass the necessity of ongoing and enthusiastic consent from all parties involved. But on the off chance that I find myself sharing a bed (or a car bonnet) with someone new, it’s nice to know that person will have a "how to" guide on hand.