death of a pocket rocket

as women, there is usually some reluctance to talk openly about all aspects of our lives. nowhere is this more apparent than in our sex lives. i'll tell a perfect stranger on the elevator that my ass looks huge upon catching my reflection but won't share intimate details with the goddess girls.

so when i tell you i just had to throw away my third vibrator, i am not quite sure if i am ahead of the curve or not. just as i am equally sure that it is three more than most women have ever had.

i don't think i am some sort of amazon-sex goddess who rides her vibrators until the motor wears out, or whose vagina dentata tears the shit out of the plastic sheathing but i guess if you look at my track record it seems that way. and it's not like i am buying cracker jack versions to begin with that come with an expiration date like, good for 100 uses before self-destructing.

this one in particular has me very sad to see it disintegrate. the other ones were okay, but this is the first one whose heart -- the motor -- gave out. i tried rescuscitating it, replacing its batteries but nothing stopped its slow fade into the deep beyond. maybe the fact it glowed bright pink was too much for it. like a homing device, you were always sure where it rolled to on the bed in the dark.

another ex-vibrator bit the dust after putting holes in the molded plastic sheathing that would frighten me if i came across a real penis that veiny. what would start out as a little tiny hole in the plastic would soon enlarge and begin to take in all sorts of goo it wasn't meant to -- soap from cleaning it, lube, my goo. one day as i cleaned it, i noticed i could squirt out the trapped contents that now formed a bubble under its surface. i realized as that steady stream of possibly bateria-laden fluid released into the sink, i had lost another friend.

i caste out my first vibrator in favor of the holy one. why, oh why, did i get rid of you? it was a starter vibrator, like your first car, it may not have been pretty or had all the upgrades, but it managed to get you to your destination each time. steady and reliably, but not at all flashy or anything to write home about. damn! now i have none.

now, my nightstand sits empty. mam was surprised when i said "pinky" (okay if men nickname their penises, i can damn well nickname my vibrator) had gone to the great big sex shop in the sky.

"why would you do that," he said as if there was a slim chance he could run out to the garbage to retrieve it. "did you hear the sounds it was making the last time we used it?" i shot back. "i get a little worried putting anything near my vajayjay that sounds like a broken weed wacker." you could use all the plastic silicone in pamela anderson's breasts to protect me from that broken weed wacker and i'd still be afraid.

how depressing! everyone in my family is buzzing about gathering christmas lists of wants this year and all i want for christmas is a new vibrator that i can't ask santa for it.

oh well, it's not like i was a good girl this year anyway.