Good Vibrations?

**This story was originally published last year in Black Heart Magazine; I had completely forgotten about it until a recent conversation with a close friend on the questionable awesomeness of dildos triggered its resurrection.  Enjoy!

Away from the clamour of Soho traffic, under the haze of jasmine incense and soft, amber lights, the coterie of zebra-striped dildos and octopus-shaped vibrators caused a shrieking, laughing ruckus. En route to a hip hop show, my friends and I were distracted by Babeland Sex Shop’s frenzied midnight sale; our shrieking amplified when my friend Joanne picked up a hot pink vibrator the size of her forearm. Unaware of its horse-powered motor, the sex appliance roared seismically and jerked her wrist to nearly dislocate. Despite the laughing and a sore wrist, we left the shop empty-handed, leaving the jumbo vibrator where it belonged: on display amongst the motley sex novelties too freaky to take seriously.


This is not an offensive against sex toys or an attempt to cover a supposed sex hang up. At the risk of appearing defensive, neither is true when sex toys are concerned. I’m a classics enthusiast: handcuffs and blindfolds, and when the opportunity arises with a willing partner, there’s nothing dirtier than the dirty fun squeezed from chocolate syrup squirt bottles and Cool Whip aerosol cans. But as far as dildos and vibrators go, they’re not my kind of kink.

I especially uphold this credo when dildos and vibrators play lead roles in one-person shows instead of being props to naughty role-playing gamers. The final outcome to an operatic climax seems lonely when your partner is a set of silicone-covered batteries. This is when contradictions smash big time because isn’t sex the opposite of lonely? Aren’t sex toys just diversions to cozy up people and create intimate possibilities? If you’re not feeling that, consider this: Ever play Twister by yourself? Or Double Dutch? Spin the Bottle has no game when you have no one to spin with.

I can understand the gratifying quick fix derived from a sex gadget. But still. How you share the gratification (and with whom) is just as important as how you achieve it. A few years ago, in the midst of our blundering, frisky haste, an ex-partner and I not only rolled off his futon (this was after he failed to slide me out of my pants—damn skinny jeans!), but we took the entire black metal frame down with us, crashing it to the ground (right before he gave up with my pants and tried to unhook my bra which he also failed to do). “Oh fuck,” we gulped, pausing to survey the mess. Were we embarrassed? Of course we were. Did we continue? Of course we did. Did we laugh about it afterwards? Like drunk sailors at a dock side pub! Broken furniture not-withstanding, I’ll take clumsy sex benders over the virtues of unresponsive dildos and vibrators.

When it comes to sex toys, it isn’t really about the equipment and sex isn’t a means in itself. It’s easy to forget this when we live in an over-sexed, commitment-phobic society pressuring us to stand in line for something better (because a better ass and sculpted biceps somehow means better sex) instead of standing on the line for each other. It’s easy to focus on the “getting off part” and overlook the after sex action: damp hair on dewy, flushed skin; panting whispers and weaving legs. Let’s not forget the spooning, the post-sex shower and that soft, almost shy little kiss halfway after orgasm right before the calm. Sex is a means to an end. It’s a long-term investment that should be valued along human terms and not glorified for its exchange rate.

I realize I’m mouthing sexual ignorance because I’ve limited myself to window shopping instead of mechanically getting off. Maybe I’m a die-hard puritan who’s missing out on some serious one-on-one action who should really loosen up and give a dildo a whirl. Be that as it may, I certainly don’t knock those who frolic alone with oscillating, zucchini-shaped prongs.

Because sometimes, it really is just about getting off.