Several months after beginning to date my future wife Amy, I discovered that although she was almost 10 years older than me, she had little experience playing with toys in the bedroom.
I, on the other hand, had researched and explored the gadgets with wonder and awe throughout my adult life. My curiosity to know what that shape dildo feels like versus that material on a vibrator wrestled with my wallet. The things were so costly, but I managed to own a few. I had to part with them all when my last relationship ended, because well, the thought grossed me out. I didn’t want to continue to use something an ex had used on me, or I on her, no matter how many trips through the dish washer the sex items took. Plus, there’s the emotions attached to such memories, and it certainly felt wrong to use them on someone new.
So I was toy-less when Amy and I met and eventually began making love. I hadn’t gotten around to replacing any, and asked one night if she had something we could play with.
“I’ve never used one, actually,” she responded.
My mouth fell open. I assumed most girls experimented with at least one gadget during their lifetime. She was in her late thirties. Also, Amy had been with other women before me. I was sure she was breaking some kind of lesbian code, wholesome as she was. A former Baptist Sunday school teacher, sweet as country apple pie but sharp as a tack; she was from a nice family. It would seem dirty and inappropriate for them to ever discuss such things. They didn’t.
Well, I do.
“We must remedy this immediately!” I told her, and on our next date night when the children were all away, we visited one of the naughty stores in the city to buy a new toy of our own. (A point at which I knew things were getting really serious and had potential for long-term.)
I was sure she was breaking some kind of lesbian code, wholesome as she was.
She carefully and thoughtfully inspected the wall of sexual offerings, not at all embarrassed, as if we were picking out window dressings together.
I was mortified. I hated looking at these in public and getting stared at by the dirty old men who rush to the movie section and back out the door. Perhaps it is vain of me to think they may be imagining me in ways I don’t wish to be imagined by them. But it makes me uncomfortable.
I actually ran into a co-worker at one of these stores once. He was a vice president at the corporation where we worked. There he crouched looking at the lesbian films, and there I stood with my warming lotion (thank goodness it was only warming lotion). He smiled and said hi, grabbed a movie and walked off leaving me standing in a puddle of horror.
The memory burns my cheeks crimson to this day.
Amy asked me a question from time to time, like whether I had tried the giant, dark dildo boxed and sitting on the floor, too big to fit on a shelf. I playfully pushed her shoulder, and she grinned, knowing better.
She asked the girl behind the register about the clear, glass vibrators encased and displayed with surrounding light away from where customers could imprint them with their oily fingers.
I loved her patient curiosity. I loved that she was gladly willing to take this erotic adventure with me. She had not hesitated, and did not make me feel weird about it.
Together we settled on a rubber vibrator with two ends, one small and cone-shaped for Amy and the other slightly bigger with a classic shape for me. (Like these.) With this one I could play a larger role in Amy’s experience with her first toy. Romantic, right?
We brought it home to take a spin. We unpacked and washed it, inserted the batteries, then undressed.
“How does this work?” she said, picking up the instructions to read for proper use, an IT geek ever careful with technology, even technology for vaginas apparently.
“Put those down. Here, give it to me and I’ll show you,” I said.
She handed me the grey toy, heavy in my hand. This one was different than others I had tried. I applied a bit of lubricant to wet the dry skin. I turned the knob and it buzzed to life.
“Oh!” said Amy, surprised by its vigor. She giggled and said, “Okay, now what?’
“Lay down on the bed, and put your end in,” I said.
She did, and her face changed to an expression of uncertainty.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, this just feels weird. I don’t know. Let’s just keep going.”
“Hold up my end for me,” I said as I crawled on top.
Just as I was almost in position, my end of the toy slipped from Amy’s fingers. She had bent it back waiting for me to get settled, and the lubricant was a little too slippery. Then bam! The tip of the heavy rubber dildo slingshot forward and beat my clitoris right in the center like a dart hitting a target.
I fell over on my side and landed on the bed; my legs instinctively closed tight as a clam. I pulled my knees to my chest in an effort to box up the pain. My eyes rolled back in my head.
The hurt was like slamming my thumb in the car door.
I recall a time when I was in the seventh grade playing kickball with a boy named Jason in P.E. class. I kicked the big, red rubber ball with all the muscle I good manage, and it nailed him right in the crotch. He curled up and crumbled to the floor, crying in pain; his hands gripping his groin.
Jason was avenged by a charcoal-colored, two-ended vibrator. If only he could know that all these years later, karma finally caught up with me. Except I had no wall of fabric between me and the hard rubber. It was a direct hit.
Amy began to cry – tears of laughter. She reached forward to put a hand on my knee. I could feel her shaking while she tried to stifle her giggles.
“Are … you…. Okay?” Amy managed to speak between breathless, poorly suppressed laughter.
“Ohhhhh,” is all the sound I could grunt in response. But my mind screamed, “Put it away! Don’t come near me with that thing ever again!”
I didn’t blame my future wife for collapsing in a fit of hysterics. Roles reversed, I would have done the same. How could she not? Comedic as the initial assault appeared, she worsened after seeing me finally pull myself out of the “C” position and crab-walk, spread-eagled to the bathroom to inspect the impact.
I rejected help offered; my pride as bruised as my labia.
“Honey? Are you okay?” Amy asked after several moments, laughter having released her breath.
“She’s purple,” I said.
Keeping my legs apart as far as I could to walk, I returned from the bathroom and dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, then collapsed on the bed. I closed my eyes and begged for sleep to take me from the throbbing pain at my core. Amy watched from her position next to me, a look of both guilt and amusement played across her face.
“I guess the party is over. You don’t want to meet George?” she said smiling, holding up the rubbery weapon.
“We’ve been introduced,” I said.
I didn’t want any further discussions with him.