Vibrators and the Art of Gift Giving, part two.

You remember yesterday, when we started talking about this, yes? And then I totally acted the cock tease? Well, let’s have some…happy ending.

Where were we? Ah, yes. The vibrator. This was given to me for my 31st birthday by my best friend. I have no idea what she was thinking, except that she knew I would always be too cheap to buy one for myself. Besides, as I’d said for years, “I don’t think I really NEED one of those. I’ve pretty much got it covered.”

But there it was, in a tall, skinny Hustler store bag. I pulled it out of the surrounding tissue paper as she stood there wearing a wide, devilish grin.

“Uh…I don’t…know…if…”
“Amy, trust me. You need this.”
“But…”
“Trust me.”

If I could have returned it for store credit, I’d have traded it in for some nice whore shoes. However, she’d spent a lot of money on the thing. She’d gotten me the Mercedes of vibrators. I couldn’t just return it. It would be rude and her feelings would be hurt when she eventually found out.

It sat unopened in my house for months. The slightly incriminating box hiding in a dresser somewhere, just waiting for mom to stumble upon it during a visit. Wouldn’t that be the way? I finally own one of those things, and it embarrasses me before I even take it out of the box? Stupid, unsettling, daunting piece of machinery.

I eventually got curious. I always eventually get curious. One day, it’s going to be the death of me.

I took the batteries out of my DVD player remote and put them into the little gray controller for The Machine. I flicked the controller on and The Machine became something out of a Kubrick film, all vibration and circular motion and rotating beads. It was like a lollipop from Hell. I couldn’t believe people take these things seriously.

“She’s kidding me. She does not seriously expect me to use this. I am being punked.”

“SO! Have you used it yet?!” she asked excitedly.

“Uh…it’s…this is a lot of hardware…”

“You’ll get to it.”

Honestly. She’s 10 years younger than I am and frequently knows what I need better than I do. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d be tempted to stab her in the face.

Readers, I did eventually get to it, just like she knew I would. Eventually, the curiosity won. She was right. It was whole new world. The neighbors probably thought someone was being murdered.

And that, my friends, is the spirit of giving. Someone knowing you well enough to know what you need, even when you keep not realizing it. My best friend looked at me, thought something needed to be set free, and knew how to do it. Christmas isn’t just for good sense and gift cards.

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Vibrators and the Art of Gift Giving

Ah, the holidays. It’s a time to have your grandma fill you with mysterious beige food and spend time watching your coworkers get horrifyingly tipsy. To sit through hours of your niece playing with whatever loud, annoying toy she’s been given. Not to be a Scrooge, but I think we could all be making a bit more of this.

I propose a new tradition.
Sex toys.

When I think back and try to think of the best gifts I’ve ever received, there are several: the Yamaha PSR-11 I got when I was 8, the roses some guy gave me at age 20, and the vibrator I got for my 31st birthday.

I have been given more expensive things, things that I had specifically asked for, but the gifts mentioned above stick out in my mind because they represented someone thinking of me and saying, “this could be the future…I want to help you get there.”

I was initially really, really frustrated with the keyboard because I couldn’t play it. I was convinced that it had been given to me because dad secretly wanted one. I just wasn’t seeing the future that mom and dad saw. What I didn’t understand was that they had noticed me taking to my sister’s 80s equivalent of Pianosaurus and thought “she’s picked her instrument.” Eight years after buying me that keyboard, I stood in front of them saying, “I have gone as far as I can go with this. I need more keys.” Eight years after the keyboard, those forward-thinking parents moved a cherry-stained spinet into their house.

The first guy to ever give me flowers was basically just doing it because I think he thought he was supposed to. It wasn’t my birthday or Valentine’s or anything; he just showed up to hang out with twelve red roses bound together with a ribbon and an antique key. He said it was the key to his heart. Granted, that’s a little cheesy, but I didn’t care. I dried the flowers and kept them until they fell apart. I still have the key in a box somewhere, along with every poem ever written to me and a hand-made black valentine.

“But Amy,” you say, “stop being a cock tease. Get to the part about the vibrator.”

Oh, come now (no pun intended). What kind of blogger would I be if I kept this as just one post? It would be so long as to tax your attention, after all. I promise not to leave you hanging, so long as you promise to check back tomorrow. Deal?

College Masturbation: Go Team

When I first moved into a college dorm (back in the stone age, when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and Keith Richards was but a boy) I pretty much decided that my masturbating days were over for a while. I mean, I was sharing a room with someone else that had nothing but a desk in the middle, and there was no way I was going to masturbate with someone else in the room, no matter how quiet I could be.

You see the flaw in this logic.

I think I lasted about three months, but eventually something had to be done. I started working in some relaxation during my roommate’s nightly shower, or when she was down at the library studying. I assume she got her respective “relaxing” in too, since our friendship didn’t have too many rocky spots. Trust me, no one wants to share a room with someone who’s not having any orgasms. That’s just cruel.

By the time we were in our second year as roommates, we’d worked out a not-so-secret code:

“Are you studying down the hall tonight?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Do you need me to?”
“Uh…it would be nice.”

Not very subtle, but you know. Whatever gets the job done and keeps you from killing your roommate. I was reminded of all this while reading an article in American University’s Eagle, which discusses solo sex life in college and addresses some of the societal stigma still attached to female masturbation.