An ode to strap-ons from members of the LGBTQIA+ community

Something I’ve realised as I’ve gotten older: sex should always be funny. Whether it’s good, whether it’s awkward, it’s just rubbing your genitals all over someone (or multiple someones) in ways that make you wish you’d made more of an effort to attend regular pilates.

And the best sex is when everyone involved in the act is completely and unselfconsciously seeking out, giving and exchanging pleasure. Ideally, you should even feel comfortable enough to laugh when you think about just how absurd it is that you’re frantically squishing your bodies together with such speed it’s like you’re on deadline to save the world from climate change or something.

So whenever I’m worried about something in bed, whether it’s trying something new or obsessing over how my body looks in a certain position, I like to remember that the very concept of sex is hilarious, ridiculous and not to be taken too seriously. And something I’ve been especially nervous about lately? Strap-ons. And okay, yes, on the surface, there’s nothing to be scared of. After all, it is just a phallic piece of plastic and a harness. After all, I have ingested my fair share of microplastics from the strap, and enjoyed the joys - and the dejected, post-breakup disposal - of the communal strap-on, the unofficial third member of most lesbian couples I’ve been a part of.

However, out of a potent mix of boredom, loneliness and desire to date an investment banker, I’ve been flirting with cis-het guys recently after an eight-year stretch of dating exclusively within the queer community. And, given that the Hinge algorithm loves to send me self-declared simps, eager to be dominated by someone who’s at least 80% sapphically inclined, one subject keeps coming up: pegging. Which is pretty much the definition of funny, because why do straight guys need their own, made-up word for anal sex?

Annoyingly, I can’t quite enjoy how silly it all is. The truth is, I’ve never pegged someone - or topped anyone at all. I don’t want to lose face in front of my would-be subs, but my strap-on experience begins and ends with receiving. And whenever the conversation inevitably goes in the pegging/strap-on direction, I’m thrown into a mental quandary. What would I even do? How hard do I have to thrust? What if they can sense I’m nervous?

Worse still, is the uncomfortable possibility that these cis-het guys have stumbled onto a heteronormative assumption that may have underpinned a lot of my queer experiences: the idea that, just because I’m femme-presenting, I should only ever be in the receiving position when a phallus (whether it’s made of flesh, or silicone) is present. It’s only with these guys who, cringily, are looking for a “subversive” experience with a queer person, that I’ve ever really thought critically about the possibility that a gendered dynamic may have underpinned strap-on sex for me in the past.

The straight guys I've been talking to - specifically their pegging preoccupation - had given me some food for thought and led me to mull over my ideas about strap-ons, and what they mean, more widely. Because strap-ons are not just a proxy for hetero P-in-V (penis-in-vagina) sex. Instead, they have a chance to upend - rather than reinforce - gendered sexual dynamics, affirm queer bodies, and bring a whole level of heightened intimacy to partnered play.

Part of this increased connection stems from the fact that, when it comes to sex between two people with vulvas, a strap-on is a way to synchronise stimulation: leading to a shared sensation of pleasure. Obviously, getting dicked down by the strap has its perks – and even the most hetero of hets can imagine why – but it’s pretty good for the giver, too. See, each time they thrust, their clit grinds against the base of the dildo. The strap connects you and gives each partner a different, but mutually dependent, sensation with every stroke. It makes your bodies feel like they’re blending together in a special, giddy way: if one of you pushes or thrusts, the other person feels it.

Maybe this - rather than pesky heteronormativity - is why I haven’t thought so much about who does what when it comes to strap-on sex. Regardless of whether you are giving or receiving, it’s about feeling like you’re doing something together rather than feeling like something is being done to you, which is what disconnected heterosexual sex can often default to. As Izzy, a femme-presenting lesbian, confirms strap-ons in queer culture aren’t just about pleasure. Instead, they’re about trust. “I’ve always felt like straps unlock a new level of intimacy in queer relationships,” she says.

Izzy doesn’t necessarily see strap-ons as an extension of her or her partner’s body (a dynamic that does feature in plenty of queer relationships, as I can personally attest) and, for her, this means that the strap is more an act of negotiation. To use it requires communication, lube, positioning - all things that might initially feel awkward. However, the process of talking about these things with a sexual partner helps to create an atmosphere of honest expression and mutual care. “For an inanimate object that isn’t biologically part of you, what could be something that causes detachment in sex actually causes a deeper level of intimacy because of the trust it demands,” Izzy adds. “It effectively takes away a level of physical intimacy and replaces it with plastic but, when used with someone you care about deeply, it has the power to connect you on a whole other level.”

But it’s important to emphasise that strap-ons aren’t just a staple of the lesbian community, just as they’re not exclusive to the cis-het couples who want to unlock the joys of the prostate orgasm. Too often the conversation about strap-ons focuses on these two demographics and overlooks just how important they can be for trans people of different sexual orientations and gender identities. Such is the case for Quinn, a queer trans guy who affirms something which many LGBTQIA+ people know, but cis-het people can struggle to understand. “Strap-ons aren't a replacement for a different kind of sex, they're a way to have really hot, queer, trans sex.”

And to Quinn, the strap is far more than just sexy - it also links into how he feels about himself. “As a trans guy, strapping on is incredibly gender affirming,” he says. “I don’t need a dick to be a man, of course, and I interchangeably use the words ‘dick’ and ‘cock’ to refer to my clit (with bottom growth from almost a full year on testosterone), my packer, and my strap – but it's still very hot to me. Often when I strap on, that strap feels like just an extension of my own body.”

But, returning to the sex, Quinn emphasises that queer people use strap-ons in all kinds of ways, with all kinds of partners, for all kinds of play - be it kinky or vanilla. “There are lots of people, both with and without penises, who use strap-ons and who don't use strap-ons during sex,” he adds. “There are so many ways to have sex as a queer person, and that sex can look however the people involved want it to. There's no ‘one way’ to have sex as a queer or trans person.”

Speaking to Quinn, as is often the case when it comes to talking to other queer people, gives me a new sense of clarity. He points out, in simple terms that would likely make my Hinge simps think more carefully about their sexual requests, strap-ons and penetration in general don’t necessarily have to be about any kind of power play. “We need to move away from the idea that the person doing the penetrating is the person with the power. Getting penetrated isn’t inherently submissive - that idea is rooted in homophobia and misogyny.”

Through the process of writing this article, talking with Quinn and Izzy and reflecting on my own experience of strap-on sex, I've been able to get to the root of my pegging-related anxiety. It actually doesn’t have so much to do with who gives or who receives. Instead, it’s the choice of partner. Experimenting with straight guys off Hinge is fine, but there’s a vulnerability in trying something new which I don’t quite feel ready to explore with partners I don’t trust and know - particularly not those who see me as the experiment.