Bed Bitch & Beyond (Not So) Good Vibrations: A Confession
Ladies, I have a confession to make.
I don't like vibrators.
Now, I have much respect for my feminist sisters at Good Vibrations and Babeland. If you love their products, and they get you off and make you happy and compensate for a lover with bad skillz or no lover at all, more power to you. I do not judge AT ALL. Unfortunately for me, vibes always fail to Get the Job Done. And believe me, I've tried.
The first vibrator I ever encountered was a little pocket-sized one that one of my college roommates used to hide in a box of cotton balls in the hall closet of our apartment. I think she kind of liked to show it off--because it made her look daring! and sexy!--and there was an unspoken rule that anyone who wanted to use it knew where it was (there was also an unspoken rule that it would be thoroughly cleaned afterwards).
Unfortunately, the couple times I did try the pocket rocket, it didn't do a damn thing for me. The buzzing felt more irritating than anything else, and it made my hand go numb after only a minute or so. You know how it feels when you drive a stick shift and after a while the vibrations on the gearshift make your hand fall asleep? Yeah, it felt like that--and not just on my hand. I was actually a little worried that I might have damaged some important nerve endings. The sensation returned after a minute or two, but I was not tempted to explore any further.
Then, when I moved to Manhattan, it seemed that hip professional gal had a vibrator. They weren't ashamed to talk about it either. New York City is a vibe-positive kind of town. My friends joked about their personal favorites. My boss once gave me a receipt for something called a "Vibratex" that she'd purchased for over $100 at the Pleasure Chest and told me to get expense account reimbursement for it "because the company should pay for my stress relief!" (Mortified, I buried the receipt in the drawer--no way I was explaining that one to our business manager). Still, despite visits to Eve's Garden and Toys in Babeland, I was never tempted. Between my hands and my boyfriends, my orgasm quota was being met just fine.
But then one boyfriend, a lawyer at a very tony white-shoe law-firm, bought me a Rabbit vibrator--you know, the one Charlotte develops an addiction to on SATC? He'd been watching the show and figured it was the perfect gift (I'm fairly sure the thought process went something like this: "Wow, this thing really makes chicks come. Becky's a chick and she likes to come. And her birthday's next week. DING DING DING!")
I had always been curious about the Rabbit, but not enough to buy one, given my previous experiences with vibrators and the price tag ($100 was a LOT to someone working in an entry-level media job). So when Lawyerboy presented me with the Rabbit and promised to be an appreciative audience while I test-drove it, I figured it was worth a try.
As soon as I opened the Rabbit's plastic clamshell package, Lawyerboy and I exchanged alarmed looks. The thing stank to high heaven. The Rabbit's made of latex--at least this one was--and it smelled like 50 foot high pile of unwrapped condoms. I don't mind a little whiff of latex--in fact, I've used condoms so long the smell provokes a bit of a Pavlovian response in my nether regions--but this just STANK. If you have a latex allergy, steer clear. The Rabbot will put you into anaphylactic shock as soon as you unwrap it.
"Maybe it would help if I washed it?" Lawyerboy ventured.
He gave the Rabbit a good lathering with some dishwashing liquid. That helped, but only a little. The thing still smelled pretty nasty. But I switched it on anyway.
For those of you who've never used a Rabbit vibrator, it has a head that's generically dick-shaped, a shaft that's only a couple inches long, a base that contains a whole lot of little pearl that whirl and smush around under the "skin" and then the namesake rabbit-shaped thingy on top, whose long ears are positioned to vibrate on your clit. When you hit the switch, the whole thing begins to move in several directions--the dickhead glides around in a clockwise circle, the pearls start to shimmy around the base and the ears begin to vibrate.
"Whoa," Lawyerboy looked a little daunted, "it's bionic."
"Yeah, yours doesn't do that," I said, eyeing the revolving dickhead.
The revolving movement was good for hitting my g-spot, and the pearls felt rather nice too. But the rabbit ears--supposedly the selling point--didn't do a damn thing for me. The sensation was so light it was like being tickled with a feather, which was not nearly enough pressure to get me off. And the smell of the thing, now that the latex was warmed by my body heat, was getting exponentially worse.
Fortunately, Lawyerboy had seen enough that he was eager to take over from the bionic dick. So I tossed the Rabbit aside and we got it on sans toys, which was just fine with me. I never used the Rabbit again and when we broke up, I left it in the drawer at his his place.
One of my friends has a Rabbit--she calls it "my boyfriend Jack"---which she is passionately attached to, and she reports that she never had the same problem with the latexy stink. She swears it Gets the Job Done for her. So to each her own.
I've tried a couple other smaller vibes--little fingertip ones that both my partners and I have enjoyed for a bit of extra stimulation in hard-to-reach areas--but they've never become a fixture of my sex life. These days "special drawer" of my nightside table simply contains lube, condoms, tissues and more condoms--nothing battery-powered at all. When my friends extol the virtues of their battery-operated playthings I just smile knowingly and think "To each her own."
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