My bedside table looks like I stole a goodie bag of samples from the adult film industry awards. (Curiously and regrettably, these do not have a cute sobriquet…admittedly the “Cock-scars” doesn’t exactly engender good feelings, but I’m sure someone could come up with something clever, right?)
Finding the right intimate products for you and your partner(s)-of-the-moment, for the activity-of-the-moment, is a relatively daunting task, so I’ve got options…lots of options. There are condoms in a variety of sizes and materials (not flavors…it only takes one time accidentally licking a grape-flavored crankshaft to understand how quickly faux fruit triggers your gag reflex). There’s slippery stuff in a range of viscosity and composition for use in various situations and depending on the relationship of the involved parties. (While many partners adore that lovely silicon lube, and it’s condom-friendly, it induces a feeling much like a day-old sunburn in my own lady parts – still on fire, but starting to itch like the devil – so there’s a complimentary tube of water-based, too. And the one that’s pistol-perfect for old-school hand jobs isn’t latex-approved, so it’s reserved for the primary partner – sorry, strangers.)
In the course of moving this array of random sexessories from my west-coast home to my east-coast digs, I packed the handmade clay pots they lived in on my nightstand (thanks grandma! She’d be so proud…) with my household goods, which I won’t be reunited with for another three months. The contents I threw in handfuls willy-nilly into my luggage, because I have no intention of waiting that long for sexcapades.
At the airport, of course, my luggage was overweight. (Nothing can stick to a diet in Portland, home of 58+ craft breweries and too many foodie nirvana destinations to count.) After learning that the surcharge was $100 (are you fucking kidding me?! A second bag up to 50 lbs is only $35!!) the helpful gate agent tries to assist me in transferring 8 lbs from my large bag into my “carry on” (which I fully intend to gate check for free). Opening up the behemoth produces a waterfall of explicit devices and accouterment. The gate agent, god bless her, manages to stay utterly impassive, even pointing out when one of the little buggers tries to escape from my bag explosion area. After stuffing everything successfully back inside, and zipping it while the gate agent sat on the lid, I turned the case over to the TSA for their entertainment and pleasure. (Notably, this was the one time in the last 12 flights that the TSA did not leave me a “we went through your bag” notice.)
In telling this story to a friend, and remarking about the skill and professionalism of that hapless Delta representative, Friend mentioned her recent experience with the most patient electrical service technician ever.
One morning, she began to hear a buzzing, rattling noise coming from inside the walls of her home. It got progressively louder, then waned; it seemed to vary in speed, intensity, and tempo, sounding much like an old, clattery, slightly unbalanced attic or cooking fan. Although she searched the house from rafters to crawl space, she found no apparent cause, and worried it might be related to the recent electrical upgrades performed on her fixer-upper. (There was also the very real possibility that a swarm of bees had nested in the vents, Florida being the kind of place that tries to kill its residents by any means necessary each spring to make room for the new wave of retirees.) Already late to work, she figured if it was still a problem in the evening, she’d deal with it then.
When she came home from work, she called her roommate, and then performed a (consensual) search of his room and bathroom to no avail. She cut the power to the house, but the racket persisted. Since she was imminently leaving town for 10 days, reticent to have the house explode while she was 300 miles away (although it would theoretically be better than while she was sleeping), she finally called an electrician. Sparky, a bland, middle-aged electrical professional, came the next morning and checked out the main power and breaker box, then proceeded to do a room-by-room sweep. The rattling, humming buzz persisted.
Eventually Sparky emerged from the guest bathroom, looking discomfited. “Bottom drawer.”
Opening it, Friend found the culprit: a self-animated, particularly enthusiastic vibrator, hopping its way around the drawer and periodically colliding with the other contents (which explained the rattling noises). It was also joyously cycling through its options: buzz, low, high, and “random.” Sparky had gone ashen by this point, but noted that “[his] girlfriend had one of those” and tried his damndest to don his “all in a day’s work” face. (Which is likely a stretch, unless porn is actually accurate and showing up in uniform is actually a common precursor to sex on the baby grand with horny housewives.)
Friend still swears the love wand isn’t hers, as does the roommate; despite its mysterious origins, everyone is unequivocally in awe of how it managed to perform for 72+ hours without a rest or sandwich (a feat even beyond the skill set of 29-year-old pilots). Personally, I’m most impressed by Sparky’s ability to maintain his professionalism, and am thinking about hooking him up with my gate agent, if she’s single.
Meanwhile, my OCD requires that I sort my sex supplies into some kind of orderly chaos while I await the arrival of grandma’s pottery to my new home.