Shocking Beginnings: A Queer Guide to Electro-Stim and Gay Electro Play.

By Gay Men’s Field Guide

Let’s be real—Electro Play sounds fucking scary. It sounds like that scene in every spy movie where they hook the guy up to a car battery and yell, “TELL US EVERYTHING YOU KNOW!” Wires near your junk? Absolutely not. Freaked me the fuck out my first time.

I was in my late twenties with an ex who was way deeper into kink than I was, I'd certainly never tried gay electro play. He had the gear—nipple attachments, cock rings, a plug. One night I said I was curious. That was all it took. He slid the plug in and flipped the machine on—probably straight to a ten. And holy shit. It felt like someone dropkicked my organs. I ripped that plug out like it was cursed and stayed swollen for three solid weeks. Kinky? Maybe. Fun? Not even a little.

Here’s the twist—my second time wasn’t in a dungeon. It was at a fucking sports rehab clinic. I’d torn my ACL, and the physical therapist pulls out a TENS unit like it’s nothing. I tell her I’m nervous because of… “past trauma.” She laughs, keeps it real gentle, and suddenly it’s not scary—it’s steady. Focused. Low-key relaxing.

That’s when I realized: electro-stim isn’t torture. It’s technique. It’s control. It’s about tuning into sensation in a way that most kinks barely scratch. It’s not about pain—it’s about precision.

What You Actually Need (No, Not a Car Battery)

You don’t need some pro-grade eStim box that costs half your rent. My first real setup was a $120 TENS unit off eBay, and I still use it. Not just for play—also for muscle cramps, back spasms, general aging queer aches. Electro isn’t some shadowy kink club toy. It’s a tool.

Here’s what to grab:• A TENS or eStim unit with adjustable intensity• Adhesive electrode pads (they’re cheap and easy)• Water-based gel (for conduction, not lube—don’t get cocky)• A chill, clean space to experiment where no one’s gonna barge in mid-buzz

That’s it. You’re wired and ready.

Safety Shit (Because We Like Our Bits Functional)

Let’s set the mood: electricity is hot. Electrical burns? Not hot. So here’s the no-bullshit safety rundown:

• No play above the waist—ever—unless you’re trained• No metal implants, piercings, pacemakers, or healing tattoos

• No pads near your heart, brain, or spine

• Always test on your thigh or arm first

• If it feels like a punch—not a pulse—turn it way the hell down.

Start low. Like, embarrassingly low. If you’re not laughing at how little you feel it at first, you’re probably already too high.

Where to Stick It (No, Literally)

Let’s get specific—because vague bullshit doesn’t help anybody.

If you’re playing with cock and ball placement, here’s what actually works: one pad goes at the base of your balls—and yeah, shave first unless you want to get zapped through a nest of regret. The other pad goes at the top of your shaft, just below the glans. That setup runs sensation straight through—base to tip.

It’s not pain. It’s pressure. A pulse. A low thrum that feels like it’s coming from inside you.

Start slow. Real slow. This isn’t about showing off—it’s about tuning in. That’s where the magic hits.

The Long Game

Electro play is weird. It’s also amazing. And it’s not something you “master” in a weekend.

I’ve been doing it off and on for years, and I still don’t know my perfect settings. Sometimes I want slow pulses. Sometimes I want a deep hum. Sometimes I hook it up, feel one zap, and go, “Fuck this shit,” and walk away.

That’s part of it. It’s a long, slow conversation with your body. An adventure. Sometimes it’s sexy. Sometimes it’s meditative. Sometimes it’s fucking bullshit. But when it does work- well it's next level.

Keep Adventuring,

Upton

I Trusted Waze, and Now I’m in a Low-Budget Remake of Children of the Corn

It all started out so well. I’d just wrapped a drop-off at a gay campground somewhere in Ohio. They were happy, I was happy, and I was feeling myself—like I’d just cured cancer in my mind. No fanfare, no applause, just me and the open road, feeling myself.

Suddenly I heard "Rerouting" reverberate from the dash. Waze had rerouted me.

Now, I should have questioned it. But no. I followed blindly, like Waze was some divine oracle and not a caffeine-addicted intern pulling directions out of a hat. And I didn’t just follow it—I believed it. Like, “Oh, maybe this is one of those cool secret shortcuts only Waze knows about!”

Narrator: It was not.

About thirty minutes in, I passed a landmark that looked… hauntingly familiar. A sudden wave of dread hit me. Waze hadn’t just sent me down a different route. Waze was guiding me back to the campground. I was in a loop. Like a cursed gay NPC, doomed to deliver shirts forever in cornfield purgatory.

The shame? Instant. The setting? Horrific.

At one point I passed a small Baptist church with a reader board that said “God sees you,” and my inner monologue went: “Great. If God sees me, tell Him to send some better directions.”

I was stuck behind a tractor, my phone signal was fading, and the sinking realization hit me that this detour had tacked on 45 minutes to my trip. I was spiraling. To make it worse, I found myself defending Waze in my head. "Maybe it’s just recalculating..." "Maybe I clicked the wrong thing..." "Maybe I deserve this."

I was living out that moment—Michael Scott screaming “THE MACHINE KNOWS!” as he drives into a lake. Only in my case, it was soybeans and shame.

I still don’t fully understand how it happened. I just know that one minute I was a confident small business owner heading home, and the next, I was the lead in a queer horror reboot where the killer is a rogue GPS system.

Eventually, I did get home. I survived. Emotionally shaken, spiritually dented, but technically alive.

Did I learn anything? No. I will one hundred percent trust Waze again tomorrow like this never happened. That’s just who I am a blind tech follower. I'll own it, such is the life for an early adopter.

But if you’ve ever blindly followed a GPS into nonsense—if you’ve ever been so sure you were going home, only to end up back where you started—you’re not alone. I’m right there with you. Probably speeding. Probably screaming. Probably already lost again.

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