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From the Blurb
Sex Bytes is a candid and insightful exploration of sex, relationships, and digital-age intimacy from TechChick, a former adult industry insider and early internet trailblazer. Blending true stories, personal confessions, and practical advice, this memoir delivers honest perspectives on desire, connection, and self-discovery in a connected world.
What sets Sex Bytes apart is its lively Q&A segments: TechChick answers real questions from readers, approaching sensitive topics and everyday dilemmas with wit, empathy, and real-world insight. These interactive exchanges bring the book’s community-driven spirit to life, making it as useful as it is entertaining.
With sharp humor and thoughtful commentary, Sex Bytes offers practical tips, lively discussion, and frank Q&A—making it a must-read for anyone curious about sex positivity, modern relationships, and the realities that rarely make it past society’s digital filters.
Direct, sex-positive, and genuinely real—perfect for adults seeking wisdom and laughter from the wild side of life.
Content note: Contains mature themes, intended for adult readers (18+).

Book Review

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Chapter One: Sex, Advice & Sh*tshows

The internet didn’t ruin sex. We did that all by ourselves. The internet just filmed it.
— TechChick

Sex, for a lot of people, is basically a three-step mission (and I do mean mission): foreplay, f*cking, orgasm. Rinse, repeat.

Too many women only get the middle of the mission; they get f*cked over on the first and last.

No wonder half of us end up staring at the ceiling, wondering if anyone’s ever going to make our toes curl or just keep drilling for oil, like an oil driller with a busted gauge… just poking around and hoping to strike something wet.

No surprise there’s an entire industry trying to fix that soul-sucking, lifeless routine. It’s like we can’t figure it out on our own without expert help. Left to our own devices, we’d treat sex like assembling IKEA furniture: follow vague steps, ignore the missing parts, pretend it was supposed to look just like that. Welcome to a lifetime of broken furniture and screwing hell.

Enter the books. The columnists. The certified “sexperts” with laminated credentials and disappointing orgasms. We know for damn sure most of them are full of sh*t (probably having less sex than we are and doing it worse), but we still read, still watch, still listen. Trying to get it right.

And because sex (naturally, obviously, motherf*cking-absolutely) begins with foreplay, that’s where this book starts, too.

From the Inbox:

Dear Almighty TC,
I tried to find my girl’s G-spot last night. Christ almighty, it was like navigating a minefield. Needless to say, the whole thing blew up in my face. At one point, I thought I found it and started working it like crazy. After a few minutes, she stopped me and screamed for me to answer what the hell I was trying to do to her. She said I had a weird, determined look on my face that made me look like a madman. She actually said I looked “dangerous!” My God, I cannot believe this happened to me when all I wanted was to find that f*cking G-spot and make her feel good. I suppose you have some smartass advice that makes me feel even more like an idiot.
I can hardly wait,
Dangerous Bob

Dear Dangerous,
I have a saying that goes, “the p*ssy is for you, the cl*t is for her, the G-spot is, eh, who needs it?” If it makes you feel any better, I think most of the world population wants to know what it is, where the hell it’s at, and what the f*ck to do with it.

Honestly, the search for the G-spot has left more bedrooms looking like a scene of sexual carnage than a place of pleasure. Sheets twisted, egos bruised, partners wondering if they need a map or a mop. Next time, Bob, maybe ask what feels good before you go diving. Nobody ever found the G-spot by holding their breath and hoping for the best.
— Almighty TC

Heads up: my full rant lives in the Eating P*ssy & Clitoral Confusion chapter. You’ll get there.

So buckle up, pervs. Let’s get this sh*tshow started.

Even now, after reading letters like Bob’s, I still can’t believe I started answering this stuff.

I’ve been in sales my whole life. I used to sell things like air freight and communication systems in the real world. Now I sell smut in the virtual one. Turns out, selling orgasms is way easier than selling air freight. At least with smut, everyone’s breathing heavy for the right reasons.

One of my early web hustles was running an adult site called tech-chick.com. I was the owner and webmaster, or webmistress, technically, since I’m a girl and that’s what we called ourselves. That letter from Bob? Just one of thousands that landed in my inbox.

After launching that first adult link site, strangers started emailing with every type of sex question imaginable—some bizarre, some hilarious, many unexpectedly tender.

I had no idea why anyone thought I was qualified to answer anything. I didn’t feel qualified to give advice. I barely felt qualified to get my ass out of bed before my morning orgasm. But people kept asking, so I kept answering. That experiment became Needed Sex Tips, the site’s most popular section, and eventually snowballed into this book.

I wrote this book with the straight guy in mind, because that’s who was blowing up my inbox. But honestly, if you’re here for the filth, the laughs, or the real talk (no matter your flavor), you’re in the right place. Welcome to the party.

What you’ll find here is a mash-up of reader letters, my responses, true stories, rants, how-to’s, and sex-soaked observations from the trenches of porn webmistressing. I don’t have a degree in sexology, f*ckology, or any other ology. I’m just a woman who ran a bunch of adult sites and learned a hell of a lot through reader emails (and arguably more than any “expert” with a dipsh*t diploma on their dipsh*t wall).

Ask any good teacher where they learned the most, and they’ll tell you: “My students.”

If words like p*ssy, c*ck, and cl*t (just scratching the surface) offend you, this probably isn’t the book for you, 

Still with me? Good. If you’re the type to flinch at the word “moist,” you might want to back away now. The rest of us are about to get gloriously filthy.
— TC

P.S. I think we should all just have more sex and quit talking about it so damn much.

This isn’t a sanitized, jargon-wrapped, peer-reviewed tour of human intimacy. Oh Christ, no.

It’s messy, raw, often ridiculous, and built from the weirdest, wildest, most sincere questions the sex-curious internet underbelly ever coughed up.

… why a re-release?
Because the questions haven’t stopped. If anything, they’ve gotten louder, more confused, more absurd, and frankly, more important.

Welcome to The Original Sex Bytes.
Not a manual. Not exactly a memoir.
Just a holy-what-the-f*cksh*t ride.

When the book was first published in 2003, you’d think I’d invented a new way to disappoint people. The haters came out swinging:
– “Disgrace.”
– “Corrupting the internet.”
– “This has to be a man pretending to be a woman.”
(Apparently, only men are allowed to talk about sex with this much honesty.)

My inbox filled up with everything from death threats to marriage proposals. Sometimes from the same person. I’m not motherf*cking kidding.

The so-called “sexperts” rolled their bulging conservative eyes. The moral police clutched their fake-ass pearls. And a few brave souls actually thanked me for saying what everyone else was thinking.

But here’s the thing: the more they screamed, the more readers wrote in. Turns out, people love a good sh*tshow, especially when it’s about something as universal and messy as sex.

And while the critics were calling for my head and tried to moralize me off the internet, the rest of the world kept reading, laughing, and passing it around like contraband. I got called every name in the book. I also got letters from people who said this was the first time they’d ever read anything about sex that felt this real, without shame or bullsh*t. That made the beating worth it.

So yeah, I took hits. But I also got a hell of a lot of love too.

And if that’s not the internet in a nutshell, I don’t know what the f*ck is.

In Chapter 2, I lay out the only rule for foreplay you’ll ever need…

Chapter Two: Foreplay for F*ck’s Sake

Perfect foreplay makes average d*ck feel like a religious experience.
— TechChick

Let’s get this straight: foreplay is as crucial as eating p*ssy properly. Nail those two, and you can f*ck up damn near all the rest and she’ll still text you at 3am.

Foreplay isn’t optional. It’s not “extra credit.” It’s the goddamn main event before the main event, and half the time, it is the main event. Skip it and you’re just another limp, forgettable half-session destined for “I’d rather have sex with my magic wand than this selfish prick again.”

Here’s where most guys crash and burn: The Plan.
That sad, follow-the-script bullsh*t:
Squeeze her nipple (just so).
Lick her ear (right after the nipple).
Do her third favorite thing from three weeks ago.
Go down on her for four regulation minutes.
Get her off by the six-minute mark so you can finally stick it in.

Yeah. That plan? Torch it. Salt the earth. Let the ashes fuel the hellfire of your ass-f*ck of a routine.

The #1 rule of foreplay? Forget the f*cking plan.

Instead, tune in. Watch how she breathes, how she arches, what makes her shiver. Every gasp is a green light. Every squirm is a signpost. Follow those, not the same old tired playbook.

Start by forgetting your own damn orgasm for once. Stop racing. It’s not a sprint to some imaginary finish line. If you’re watching the clock, you’re not watching her. And trust me, she knows.

It’s a long, delicious derailment into a slippery, chaotic mindf*ck. Stop trying to do it right. Get wickedly into it. Get into her. Let it be filthy. Let it be fun. Let it be f*cking curious again.

Don’t touch her like you’re checking boxes, touch her like you’re getting away with something. Trace her skin like you’re reading a secret code in braille, slow, deliberate, desperate to crack what no one else ever has.

Don’t kiss her to get somewhere, kiss her like kissing is the end. Don’t wait for her to moan. Turn up the heat until she can’t help herself. Then take control. Whisper filth in her ear. Then say it nastier. Grab, tease, nibble, sprawl. Get spit on her neck. Get sweat in your hair. Confuse the dog. Make the cat run.

If you’re not at risk of waking the neighbors or accidentally dialing 911 with your ass, you’re doing it half-ass.

If she squirms? Double down. If she moans, bucks, or grabs the sheets, follow that like your life depends on it. If she says “Don’t stop.” Don’t you f*cking stop.

Let it be raw. Let it be sticky, tangled, dripping. A messy mess.

When you stop treating foreplay like a means to an end, you become the thing she wants before the sex even starts.

Once you burn the plan, the good sh*t happens. I’ve had nights where foreplay was so good, the sex after felt almost unnecessary, like dessert after a five-course feast. And trust me, nobody forgets a meal like that.

That’s when the shaking starts. That’s when the begging starts. That’s when she cums so hard she forgets where she is. That’s when you become the bar every poor bastard after you gets measured against.

You want that? You burn the plan. You let go. Blow her f*cking mind before you f*ck her.

And what do you get in return? You get actual great sex. Not duty sex, not finish-up-you-bastard sex, not “is she wet enough?” sex. You get an uninhibited, filthy, c*ck-hungry partner who wants to wreck you. Congrats, you’ve gone from “who?” to “where have you been all my life?”

All because you finally understood:
Foreplay isn’t the warm-up.
It’s the whole ever-loving, motherf*cking point.

Most people write me about f*cking, blowjobs, or whether their d*ck is big enough to impress a pornstar. But every now and then, I get a romantic. Or maybe just an 18-year-old. Hard to tell.

From the Inbox:

Dear TC,
Do you have any tips or advice on kissing? I’m not inexperienced or anything, but I’m interested in knowing if there’s anything I can do to get more out of it, and for her too. I hope you answer this and I hope it’s not lame.
Thanks,
Mark

Dear TechChick,
What are the best secrets you can give on the topic of kissing? Do women like it slow and easy and long, ordo they like it fast and rough and quick? You probably think this is a stupid question, but I really want to know and I would appreciate an answer. Not everyone wants to know only about sex. Yeah, I’m a virgin, but I don’t think that’s the issue. Don’t be a c*nt with your answer. That is, if you even answer. I bet you don’t. I’m not calling you a c*nt. I’m saying don’t be a c*nt. There’s a difference. Whatever. I give up.
Waiting,
Scott

Alrighty then.

Listen here, you little punk: this is my house. Ask all the dumb sh*t you want, but don’t come in here flinging the C-word and acting like I owe you sh*t.

You’ll get a thoughtful reply. Or a verbal ass-kicking so fast your balls retract from fear. There’s a difference.
Asshole.

Did I send that? No.
Did I want to? With every fiber of my filthy soul.

I dropped it here instead.

Scott is a budding serial killer. I told you this sh*t gets crazy. Honestly, I half-expected the next letter to be written in ransom note cutouts.

But let’s be real for a second: kissing is one of the sexiest things about sex.

Kissing is everything.

It’s the soft open. The trailer. The way in.

A guy can have me halfway to orgasm or halfway out the door, based entirely on how he kisses. And trust me, I’m not alone.

Women know within minutes if you’re gonna be a letdown. It’s primal. It’s instinct.

And if you can’t kiss for sh*t? We assume the rest of you is equally disappointing.

Yes, it goes both ways. If a chick sucks at kissing, she’ll be a dead f*ck too.

But here’s the difference:
Men don’t care.
They’ll still f*ck her.
Women?
We’ll run from you so fast, you’ll be crying to Mommy about your abandonment issues.

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.
Yeah, no sh*t.

I could have written that book in crayon.

Here’s the truth:
If you kiss her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever get to do,
she’ll act like it’s the first thing she can’t live without.

But if you treat kissing like a pit stop on your way to tit-grabbing and d*ck-jamming, you just told her everything she needs to know.

She’ll be drying up before your pants even come off.

Don’t kiss like it’s foreplay.
Kiss like it’s the main f*cking course.

Mechanics:
Take it easy. I mean slooow.

There’s something insanely hot about soft, barely-there kisses that brush her lips like a secret. That kind of tease? Wet-inducing. Bookmark that sh*t.

If she’s squirming before your tongue even shows up, you’re doing God’s work.

Kiss her lips. Her cheek. Her neck.
Put your hands in her hair, on her jaw, trace her collarbone. Don’t be afraid to just hover. Let her ache for it. If she’s leaning in, let her chase your mouth a little. Make her work for it. She’ll remember you for it.

If you kiss her like you’ve waited your whole silly life for it?
She’ll melt into your f*cking hands.
That’s when you feel her body go liquid, like she’s about to pour herself into you.

And when you finally use your tongue, don’t act like it’s a shovel and her mouth is a cave.

Ease in. Let it build. Let her kiss back. Let it breathe.

If you’re both gasping for air and smiling between kisses, you’re on the right track.

Alternate between soft, teasing kisses and hungry, deeper ones.

Rub your lips over hers. Lick the corner of her mouth. Then go in slow, deliberate, hot.

And for the love of all things holy and filthy, don’t think “Is now a good time to go for the tit?”

FOCUS. It’s not a race. It’s a goddamn seduction.

Before you get cocky… Open your eyes, genius.
Look at her while you kiss her.
That kind of eye contact? It’s nuclear.

You’re not just kissing her anymore. You’re f*cking her mind.
That’s foreplay. Where it counts. In her mind.

Bottom line:
If you’re a great kisser, she’ll assume you’re great at everything else. And honestly? She’ll probably be right.

Some of the best sex I’ve ever had started with a kiss so good, I almost forgot why we were naked in the first place.

So put in the damn effort. Make kissing a major f*cking act, not just an opening one.

Kissing isn’t just foreplay. It’s programming.
If you do it right, she’ll trust you with her whole damn body.
She’ll be wet and loyal and not even know why.

[END OF EXCERPT]