I’ve poured a glass of whiskey for this one because maybe, just maybe, alcohol will give me some clarity on my subject matter. Or it’s just an excuse to continue the excess started in Vegas (which, incidentally, is going on hold for now because this is much more entertaining than Vegas––no one wants to hear what a marvelous time I had when the economy sucks, right?).

I probably have a bit of Sin City still clinging to me despite scrubbing myself clean this morning. I’ll use this as an excuse for my behavior, which was surfing adameve.com looking at vibrators. Not my usual thing. In fact, never had one and the thought of it usually freaks me out, but I’m 31 and, lately, I’m all about facing my fears. I admitted to myself that these things terrified me. I didn’t want anyone finding out I was even possibly considering owning one, mainly because I feared disapproval or criticism. Screw that. Now I had a mission. I needed to look even if I didn’t plan to buy. Besides, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything motorized down there no matter how hard up I am.

Luckily for me, adameve.com has a series of “essays” on choosing the right vibrator for you. It didn’t seem so bad: different speeds and such. Okay, but what I really wanted was a more critical, in depth perspective, something akin to an academic paper on the function of vibrators in Western culture: how many American women own them in comparison to European women? is there significant theory about their uses and where's Derrida's paper about deconstructing them? what is the success rate of each individual toy? have there ever been any electrocutions? if you’re an f-ing prude, what are some suggestions for integrating this into your life? what about damage control if (when) your dog finds it and brings it to your mother as a toy? and why doesn’t adameve.com sell batteries so I don’t have to stock up on them at Costco, or, which I know is more likely to happen, it will arrive and I’ll scream in rage because I forgot to buy fucking batteries!!

But I was just browsing, trying to face my fears. It’s not really my thing despite the four- and five-star reviews for the Ultra Mega Super Roommate-Waker Stimu-Rabbit Screamer. I have to say, it made me suspicious to see all these “my wife loves it” and “my fiancé loves watching me with it” claims. Really, I suspected single women were modifying their review content in an effort to justify their purchase and not feel so lonely. I’d totally do that.

Oh God, was this why I was really looking at one? As an insurance policy in case I ended up returning to meatmarket.com? Why on earth am I even looking when I have a man who’ll satisfy me at a moment’s notice? All these women are saying their husbands and boyfriends are afraid their toy’s better. On top of all this, I’ve got purple sparkly underwear. I don’t need purple sparkly vibrating plastic down there. That's just gaudy.

So talked myself out of that. But let’s discuss the following: why, when I site searched adameve.com for “batteries,” did that thing come up? I squinted at my computer screen. Seriously, what the hell is…? (this is where I turned my laptop sideways––and then upside down). What is that thing? It was peach, tubular and…made of foam? (Maybe?) Worse yet, a French-manicured female hand elegantly displayed it, as if that gave the thing some legitimization. But it actually managed to make this thing even creepier, because, when I see long, clickity-clackety nails by something that looks like female genitalia, I start thinking of scraping wounds. Finally, steeled myself and I looked at the header: Pink Lip Pussy Stroker.

Now, and for the rest of my life, creepy pictures of tubular foam pussies will haunt me. Chase me through my mind's eye like the Hounds of Hell, their teeth glistening with acid saliva as they snap at my heels. Well, that may be an exaggeration, but you get the picture (Jesus, I sure did).

So I started reading the reviews. Ohhhhhh, men use it to masturbate with (or as many say in glorious patriarchal fashion “masterbate”) and, here’s where I got excessively suspicious: “husbands and wives,” claimed to use it, which I really didn’t get. Wouldn’t the real thing be better? Sure, there’s the one guy who said his wife just had a baby, but really? Can’t you just use some lube and your hand? Must you stick it in that?

I needed some clarification on this. A male perspective. Who better to ask than The Boyfriend™? He was also the only male on my chat list at that moment, but whatever.
“Seriously, explain this. My brain is melting. Do. Not. Get.”

I liked his answer: “Guys buy stupid stuff when they’re horny.”

An enormous smile decorates my face as I nod with beautiful realization. The Boyfriend™ is the most insightful and amazing man to ever enter into my life. He’s smart, sensitive and honest, and he didn’t even give me a bullshit, perverted answer. I want to gush to all my girlfriends about how I’m the luckiest girl alive to be in such a fantastic relationship.

“Yeah,” he continues typing, “two Ziplocks, water, tape and a microwave, you’re set.”

What. The. Fuck.

But as I move my chat box and prepare my scathing reply, a word catches my eye. Let me cut and paste this review for you. Read it, and then guess what word saved The Boyfriend™ from textual abuse:

I have used masterbators before and this one doesnt have any texture on the inside, just a hole and a tube. I preferr when they have the tiny nipples or little tenticles inside for better experience.

Wait, what? Tentacles?? This may be a bit, you know, surprising for some men, but I’m pretty sure my pussy isn’t a product of Lovecraft. What’s between my legs is not Cthulhu no matter how much misogynists (and table-toppers who’ve never had a date) want you to think that.

At this point, my chat box dings with, “My gloves dropped!” quickly followed by “And I was out-rolled for them.”

It’s nice to know that, despite some men believing that women possess tentacles between their legs, The Boyfriend™ is still enough into me that he pauses between World of Warcraft boss kills to answer questions about creepy sex toys for me.