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Dear boyfriend…

I bought my first vibrator today. What self-respecting, sexually liberated twenty-one-year old doesn’t own one? Well, I didn’t, and now I do. I own it.

My British parents have instilled in me a kind of deeply ingrained prudishness that has resulted in a series of disastrous sex shop visits. I remember standing outside the saloon doors of that dodgy looking shop at the top of Cuba—the one with the large sign advertising ten dollar vibrators. ‘Good deal’, I thought, ‘I wonder if they do student discounts?’I paused for a moment, trying to overcome my nervous fit of giggles, when I heard a friendly but intimidating voice boom “Hello?” He had seen my feet! What to do, what to do? Run, and lose face, energy, and the chance to meet the love of my life? Or go in, knowing that I could never now pull off the casual, collected look that most people adopt when perusing adult stores, managing to look cool even as they slide their fingers into silicone vaginas. I turned on the spot and ran.

With the help of Siobhan I actually made it through the lurid orange door of Peaches and Cream this afternoon. The owner barely looked up at us two leather-clad girls as we walked straight towards the dildo section. I wonder why? We searched the shelves for something unintimidating and pretty, preferably in glitter. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks as my eyes fell on enormous plastic penises, so large that they looked like they would feel something like childbirth. ‘I’ll start small’, I thought to myself as I picked up a purple model called ‘The Little Vibrating Softee’. Although slightly worried by the words ‘injury’, ‘aggravation’ and ‘electrocution’ on the box, the price was right and the colour jolly.

I sidled coolly up to the counter, intending to act as if I buy a sex toy a week, and then out it all came. As soon as I opened my mouth things started to go wrong. “One vibrator please,” I said as I put the box on the counter. Not cool, Juliet.

The man was everything one wants in a sex-store owner. He laughed, checked the box, and informed me that I would need some batteries. I nodded furiously at his every suggestion, which resulted in my buying the largest pack of overpriced batteries he could offer. “That’ll keep me going tonight,” I blurted out, wanting to kill myself and my clichés immediately.

He didn’t even pretend to laugh this time as he put my new friend in a discreet bag and sent me on my way. “What’s your returns policy?” I asked on my way out. What had come over me?

As soon as Cressida opened the door I proudly thrust my new purchase in her face. We sat on her bed and took it out of its box, put in a battery, and spent a few minutes playing with it like giggling fourteen-year-old girls.
I went into my room, promising my flatmates that I would report back to them when I was finished. About twenty seconds later I emerged from my room a different girl. Men? What was I thinking? We have plastic! It wasn’t that moment that I realised that men are an obsolete species, good for nothing except for manning vibrator factories.

As you may be able to tell from the content of this column, I have no concept of discre­tion about matters of the delicate variety like masturbation. Zipping up my skirt, I graphically described the event to my flat­mates before texting anyone and everyone I know. Olivia, upon hearing the story, decid­ed to visit a Dunedin sex shop tomorrow to find out what all the fuss is about. It’s lovely to know that my story touched someone.

It certainly touched me.

One Comment

1. ali and 'mum'

   11 Jun, 2009 at 10:30 am

   ‘We’re going shopping!!!!!!!!!!! – not that there’s anything wrong with ‘your fathers!’