This was meant to be a harmless, funny story about the use of sex toys. When I shared it with a writers’ list, I was dismayed to find that I had apparently written an anti-male diatribe that suggested that sex toys are more fun than most husbands.
I still don’t think this is anit-male, although I don’t think men appreciate just how frankly women talk about them and how much amusement is involved. Besides, the market research shows that the top selling sex toys are bought by women not by men so the toys must do something right.
All the toys mentioned are real. If you want any of them then pop over to those nice people in Babeland who will explain it all to you.
“I miss the sex,” my tequila-loosened tongue says, much more loudly than I’d meant to.
Male heads turn in curiosity, then lose interest when they see one slightly over-weight, slightly too rounded, slightly too old, woman talking to another.
Amanda grins at me. She finds this male reaction amusing. It’s OK for her; she has the good sense to prefer women. In my current state of alcohol-assisted-clarity, I find their response irritating.
“Why is it…,” I ask Amanda, at a slightly lower volume that I mistakenly think is a whisper, “that men who can get hard looking at plastic porn stars with tits even more fake than their orgasms, look away when confronted with the prospect a live woman who really wants to fuck? What are they afraid of?”
“Reality,” Amanda replies.
At the table opposite, a woman who has been pretending not to be listening chokes on her wine, much to the embarrassment of her husband who lowers his head over his drink and makes no move to help her recover.
“Anyway,” Amanda says, putting her hand on mine and leaning forward over the tiny bistro table, “I thought you said the sex wasn’t that good.”
“It wasn’t but at least it was there whenever I wanted it.”
“And sometimes when you didn’t.”
I’d once told Amanda that Justin, my recently ex-husband, had a drive-thru attitude to sex: he wanted to be able to move from the first cock-thickening impulse to limp and sticky with the minimum possible inconvenience. My involvement was purely facilitative. It was also taken for granted.
No violent compulsion was ever involved; he’d just come up behind me, take my breasts in his hands, nibble my neck and wait for me to lean forward and spread my legs. In our early days together, I took his eagerness to bend me over random pieces of furniture and fuck me from behind in any room in the house as a sign of his passion. It was only later that I realized it was also a sign of his laziness and self-absorption.
Amanda is giving me a sympathetic look for suffering under the burden of heterosexuality. I defend myself, more out of habit than belief. Finishing off my Margarita, I say, “It wasn’t that bad. Even when I didn’t want Justin, I could always close my eyes and pretend I was being taken by someone I really fancied. Now all I have is a big empty bed and my imagination.”
Amanda wheels out her evil grin and says, “Don’t you enjoy letting your fingers do the walking? I know I do. As often as possible.”
The grin morphs into a gentle smile and Amanda’s eyes half close. For a second I have an unwished-for image of Amanda, naked and face down in the centre of her bed, thighs pressed together, right arm snaking between her legs to do its magic, face flushed, forehead beaded in sweat, eyes closed. One strand of her hair is matted against her cheek, stretching towards her satisfied smile. The image is detailed and exciting. I feel my cheeks grow warm. God, it’s been way too long since I had sex.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda says, “I didn’t mean to make you blush.”
Good grief, she thinks I’m blushing because she mentioned masturbation. I’m about to protest when I realize that I’d rather that she didn’t know why I was really blushing.
“No, I don’t mind talking about it.” I look up at Amanda, “I mean, we all do it, don’t we? It just that it’s literally like finger food – even when it fills you it’s not very satisfying.”
Amanda snorts her laughter in a way that dispels any erotic after-image that might have been lingering in my brain.
I lick the last of the salt off the rim of my now empty glass and wait for her to finish.
“Seriously, Jen” she says eventually, not sounding in the least serious, “What you need is a rabbit.”
Now she’s gone too far. I put down my glass, a little too forcefully, and say, “Good God, Amanda, I’m horny, not lonely. Why would I try to sublimate my sexual urges by stroking a pet? What I need is a good fuck.”
I become aware of three things at this point: first, I am now standing; second, I’m not making a very good job of it; and third everyone in the room is looking at me.
Amanda helps me stay on my feet, puts some money on the table, and leads me towards the door. I’m leaning against her just a little. She feels soft and warm. I let my head rest on her shoulder while she calls a cab.
“You really do need to get off, don’t you?” Amanda says, “I’m taking you home with me.”
Part of me wants to protest that she’s not my type and besides her partner, Joyce, would kill me, but most of me just wants to sleep.
I don’t remember the taxi ride, or how I got into Amanda’s bedroom. The next clear memory is the taste of strong hot coffee. Then complete embarrassment as I start to replay the scene in the bar.
“Ah, it’s all coming back to you now is it?” Amanda is grinning as I bring her into focus. In the back of my mind, I’m relieved to find that she’s also fully clothed.
“I’m sorry. ‘Mand,” I say, reverting to the name I used for her when we were in school. “I was pissed. I think that was my fourth Margarita and I thought you said something about a rabbit.”
“Actually, it was your fifth,” Amanda says, rising and moving towards her vanity table.
Fifth, shit, I never drink that much, no wonder I made a fool of myself.
Amanda takes something from her drawer and holds it where I can’t see it easily. She grins at me and says, “And you didn’t imagine me talking about a rabbit. You just didn’t imagine the right kind of rabbit.”
The most notable thing about the object that she brings from behind her back is that the plastic it’s made from is in a shade of purple that ought to be illegal. I recognize that the thing in her hand is a vibrator, the blunt, smooth shape of the tip tells me that, but it looks more like a ray-gun. Below the distressingly purple head, the shaft is filled with tiny white balls. Above the shaft, like the raised tail of a scorpion (but much more engorged) is a fat, pointed protuberance that no male I’ve ever seen possessed. Below is a smaller, slimmer version. Together they look the like the guard on an old-fashioned dagger.
Amanda sits on the bed next to me and pushes the device in my direction. I find myself unable to look away from it but extremely reluctant to let it touch me.
“It’s called a rabbit because of the tiny ears -see.” She points to two small shapes behind the blunt head. “It’s a Japanese thing. It’s illegal there to produce something that looks like a penis so their sex-toy makers had to be more inventive.”
Inventive? Now I know why Dr. Frankenstein was called an inventor.
“It’s the second most popular vibrator in the UK,” Amanda says.
“What are all the bits for?” I know I’ll regret asking the question but I can’t help myself.
“I’ll show you.”
The horror I’m feeling must show on my face because, Amanda laughs and says, “Don’t worry, Jen. I’ll be gentle with you. I know it’s your first time. Now hold out your hand, palm up.”
There is no way I’m going to give Amanda the satisfaction of seeing me behave like a frightened virgin, so I hold out my hand.
Amanda rests the blunt head of the thing on my palm. It feels warm and smooth and quite nice really. I have to concentrate not to let my fingers close around it.
“The head should be quite familiar, apart from the ears of course. The beads in the shaft are there to provide extra stimulation. I’ll show you how in a minute. And the two extra pieces, well, God would have added them if he’d made Eve first and asked her advice. The top one stimulates the clit. And the bottom one… fits quite snugly down below.”
Holy shit. The clit thingy looks a little menacing but probably fun. I’m much less enthusiastic about the anal add-on.
“Close your fingers around the shaft…”
“…come on, Jen. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. Imagine it’s Justin. Or whomever you used to imagine when you didn’t want it to be Justin.”
I close my fingers around the shaft. Amanda switches the vibrator on and my jaw drops in amazement.
“Rotates, yes.” Amanda says
“And the little bead things twist in the other direction and sort of pulse at you.”
“Unh -huh. And watch what happens when I press the next setting.”
The scorpion’s tail starts to tap rapidly against my thumb while its little friend is getting way too friendly with my fingers. I let go of the rabbit like I’ve been bitten.
The purple monster is still doing it’s best to stimulate even though I’m not touching it anymore.
“It looks ridiculous,” I say “like the sex-toy version of food-mixer.”
Amanda switches the toy off and lays it on the bed. “Well I quite enjoyed it,” she says with a grin. “Tiring and a little noisy but it gets the job done and you don’t have to reassure it about its performance afterwards.”
I’m trying not to think about the fact that I was just gripping a toy that Amanda has used.
Amanda hands me a tissue, she’s known me a long time, and says, “I used it with a condom. It gives more lubrication that way. Although the rotating head did twist the damn thing, after a while.”
“I don’t know, Amanda. I’d feel like it was playing me rather than me playing with it, you know?”
“OK. Then maybe you’d prefer a dildo or the UK’s most popular vibrator?” and she’s off back to her drawer, getting out boxes.
“I never thought you’d have so many toys.” I say trying not to sound disapproving.
She turns to face me, holding the boxes behind her back. “So what did you imagine Joyce and I doing.”
I feel myself blush. I’m thinking fingers and tongues and soft, soft lips and maybe, just maybe, odd devices that get strapped-on and used hard. I don’t want to admit to any of that.
“I’m just messing with your head, Jen. This isn’t my toy-bag. Joyce and I get along just fine without man-made prosthetics. I have all of these because I’m writing an article on the sex-toy industry for a website called http://www.toyfriend.co.uk and they sent me these to help me with my research.”
‘These’ turn out to be half a dozen dildos, ranging from the realistic to the frankly frightening, including one that is inflatable when you squeeze an ugly little bladder thing. Strangely, that is the one that most reminds me of Justin.
I pick up one of the less intimidating but still larger-than-Justin-on-a-good-day dildos and hold it. It is pleasantly heavy in my hand, flexible without being floppy and it doesn’t feel like plastic, it feels like the skin at the top of my thighs.
“That one’s covered in synth-skin. It’s not so much about realism as wish fulfilment,” Amanda says. “The little sucker on the bottom means that it will stay in place on chairs or the side of the tub or wherever you find convenient really.”
I’m thinking that through when I see that Amanda is looking at me with amusement. Without thinking about it, one of my hands has been cupping the balls of the dildo while the other was gripping the shaft and squeezing gently.
“Well, I guess there’s no substitute for hands-on experience, huh?”
I laugh and lay the dildo back on the bed.
“Before you fall in love with toy-wonder, you might like to try the most popular sex-toy in the UK, the Hitachi wand.”
The wand turns out to be a serious piece of hardware. It’s not battery powered, you have to plug it in. It looks like a handheld blender but it’s topped by a huge semicircular head.
“I’m supposed to put that inside me?” I say, incredulously.
“No,” Amanda says, “Penetration is vastly over-rated.”
“Well you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
“Trust me,” she says, slightly wistfully, “Rest it on your mound and leave it there. You won’t regret it.”
“What, right now?” Even I don’t know if I’m serious.
“No,” Amanda says, taking the wand from my hand, “While I am curious to see a straight woman come close up, I don’t think Joyce would understand and besides you’d hate me for it in the morning.”
We both smile at each other. There is a moment of comfortable silence that I wouldn’t want to try to define and then Amanda is busying herself packing up the wand and the dildo into a bag for me.
“I’d better go” I say.
“Want me to call you a cab?”
“No I’ll walk. I need to clear my head.”
“Take these home with you,” Amanda says, handing me the bag and leading me towards the door.
We hug goodbye and I’m half way down the path when she wickedly calls out, “Have fun.”
I still haven’t got used to the house being empty when I get home. Of course, not having Justin around means that there are no clothes to pickup off the floor, no empty coffee cups to be collected from around the house and no un-flushed surprises to be dealt with. But that doesn’t quite make up for the loneliness that lingers in the unlit rooms.
I could switch on the TV to banish the silence, but I tell myself that it’s too late and I should really just go to bed. OK, so it’s only ten p.m. but I could do with the sleep. Of course, I should really shower before bed. And I should put this bag I’m carrying in the bedroom so that it’s not cluttering up the house.
Oh, who am I kidding? The truth is that I’m feeling deliciously naughty. I haven’t felt this kind of excitement since the days when I had to smuggle my pre-Justin boyfriends up to my room without my mother noticing.
I carry the bag into the bedroom, pull the blinds, switch on the lights and then undress. I tell myself I’m getting naked so that I can go shower, but normally I’d still wrap a dressing gown around myself. The fact is that I’m enjoying the idea of being naked. I’ve made it part of preparing myself for sex. I get an extra charge from setting the toys out on the bed because I’m naked while I’m doing it.
The wand comes in a box that presents is coyly as a “massager” and demonstrates how it might be used on the shoulder or even the elbow. I smile when I think about where I’m going to use it.
The dildo is a much less modest package in every respect. I rip it from the box and hold the warm synthskin-covered cock in my hands. It feels… full of promise.
I hug it against my breasts, feeling wicked and strong. Then I catch sight of the little extra that Amanda has added to the bag, a small bottle of lubricant. According to the label, the lubricant is waterproof, which gives me an excellent idea. I sit on the bed, place the dildo so that it sticks up absurdly from my lap, and cover it with lube. The sensation is so real and so familiar-but-different that I can feel my excitement rising and my skin starting to flush.
Dildo firmly in hand, I head off for the shower.
The shower room is bright and clean. I love the sensation of water on my skin and the weight of my hair when it gets wet. I’ve always thought of showers as sexy. I bought this house because it had a proper shower room and not just some cramped little plastic stall. The shower room is big enough for two (or three), it even has a marble bench at one end, and yet the shower is probably the only place in the house where Justin didn’t fuck me. Too much effort was required perhaps.
I grin as I lift the sucker to my lips and lick the base. If Justin could see me now. Shit, if Amanda could see me now. I laugh at the image and playfully press the dildo down on the still-dry shower bench. It sways a little when I let go but it doesn’t fall over. I stand to attention and salute it.
For a while, I ignore the dildo – hey, I’ll keep it waiting if I want to. It’s not going anywhere – and just let myself enjoy the shower. I’ve still got (waterproof) lube on my fingers. No way to wash that off so I decide to use it instead. I turn my back to the shower and lean my head back so that water runs down my hair and my breasts point upwards and then I lube myself gently and persistently.
If Justin were here, he’d try to rush me. The dildo just waits patiently and isn’t even starting to look tired. But it does look inviting. When I’m as lubed as I’m going to be and the shower room is filled with steam, I turn off the shower, wrap my hair in a towel and make my way towards the bench.
There are little beads of water on the waterproof lube but the dildo is still standing firm. This close up I realize that it is probably the bigger than anything I’ve ever had inside me. I decide to treat this as an opportunity and not a problem.
I turn my back on the dildo, position it against my well-lubed lips, and slowly, very slowly, lower myself towards the bench.
Dear God Almighty.
So that’s what it feels like to be full.
I’m finally at the base of the thing. It’s the girth that gets me. And the solid-but-flexible feeling of it. This is the way cocks were meant to be.
I give myself a moment to catch my breath.
Then I raise myself up, just a little, and slide all the way down.
It feels good, but not great. The dildo doesn’t have the heat of a real cock and it doesn’t do anything by itself and I’m never going to have the strength in my legs to get this up and down thing going properly.
I try a couple more times and then the sucker slips and I land hard on the marble bench and bang my head on the wall.
I look down and see two inches of the dildo and its overly-solid balls, sticking out from between my legs at an angle.
Then I’m laughing. I’m imagining the conversation I’d have when I arrived at Casualty suffering from mild concussion.
Doctor (male, middle-aged, looking tired and under-groomed): So how exactly did you sustain the head injury, Mrs Bateman?
Me: What head injury?
Nurse (younger than me, annoyingly slim): whispering to Doctor so I can’t hear -bitch.
Doctor: (eyebrow raised) I see. So it’s not the head injury that’s the problem. Well, Nurse, I’m going to need your assistance – you hold her legs apart and I’ll pull on the dildo.
When I stop laughing the dildo is still between my legs. I’m cold, covered in condensed steam; I’ve got a bump on the back of my head, and a lump of silicon sticking out of me. This doesn’t feel at all sexy any more.
I pull the dildo out quickly enough to produce a little farting noise as it goes. Ugh. And now I feel empty and like I’m gaping open, like some lowbrow mouth-breather.
I throw the dildo towards the shower; wrap myself in a fluffy towelling dressing gown and go to make myself a cup of tea.
Sitting up in bed, two cups of tea and a Kit-Kat later, I can see the humour in it. It wasn’t the fun that I’d hope for but that just goes to show how little difference there is between Justin and the dildo.
The wand is still lying on the bed. Somehow, using a device that is attached to the mains doesn’t seem like a smart move. I’m mean, what happens if there’s a power surge and I’m electrocuted? After all, I’m having that kind of day.
Still, Amanda’s bound to ask me what I thought about it. And she was certainly right about penetration being over-rated.
I pick up the wand. It’s lighter than it looks and the top is pleasantly smooth. I plug it in, select the lowest setting and rest the wand on the palm of my hand. It feels good: gentle, quiet, unthreatening but unrelenting. The kind of thing a woman would design.
Now I’m being a sexist bitch.
Yeah. So? I’m entitled after the day I’ve had.
OK, one more try and if this doesn’t work, I’ll become a nun. Hell, the only difference would be the uniform.
Thinking that darkness might help the mood, I switch off all the lights and snuggle down beneath the quilt. Amanda said to rest the thing on my mound and wait. The box suggests moving in little circles.
I choose the lowest possible setting and go with the box.
Oooh. That’s nice. That’s very, very nice.
Except circles take concentration.
Right again, Amanda.
I reach for an extra pillow to try to position the wand just right. In the end it takes two pillows, one above and one below, held in place with a hardback copy of “Harry Potter” (who better to trust with a wand?) and an acceptance that the best position is between my legs, with the rounded head pressed up against me just below the clit.
Phew, that was hard work.
I lie still and let the wand work its magic.
Except I want to giggle.
Now I’m getting nervous in front of a wand (or maybe it’s Harry who’s putting me off?).
I close my eyes, lie very still, and let the wand do the moving.
I can feel the warmth starting in my belly, nothing dramatic yet but better than most foreplay.
It’s hard not to move, but I don’t want to knock the wand out of place.
Then the image flashes across my mind’s-eye: me tied to the bed, blindfolded, unable to move, the wand tied in place, I know that I’m surrounded by people who are watching me.
Where did that come from? I’ve never wanted to be tied up. But then I’ve never had a wand that just won’t stop before either.
I decide I like the image. To strengthen it, I reach above my head and grab the bars of the iron headboard.
Tied to the bed naked. Sweating. Arms stretched. Breasts looking pretty damn fine for a woman my age.
People I can’t see, murmuring appreciatively. Male and female. Touching themselves. Touching each other. Not touching me. Leaving that to the wand. Which is impossible to resist.
“She can’t last much longer” a voice says.
“Look how flushed she is.”
“Those nipples are so hard they’d poke your eye out.”
“And she’s wet.”
God but I’m wet. I hope this thing’s well insulated.
The heat is spreading now, rising from my belly.
“I think she’s going to…”
“Bet she can’t stop once she starts”
“She’s definitely going to.”
And I do. Dear God, I do. And then I do it again. Hah, Justin never managed that.
And the wand is still going. You could die doing this. What a way to go.
Then my hips twitch and the wand slips and I’m back in the real world. In the real world, I have to pee.
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I start to grin. I’ve just had a very nice time entirely on my own (well if you don’t count an imaginary rent-a-crowd and Harry) and it feels very satisfying. Even better than a cup of tea. Well done me.
Climbing back into bed, I decide three things: I’m not ready for the nunnery yet; Amanda deserves a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates; and I’m keeping the wand.
© Mike Kimera 2005 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from firstname.lastname@example.org
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