To all of you boys who are convinced that girls are as sex-obsessed as you are, that we waste away hours in search of the perfect orgasm; to all of you who utilize visions of naked sweat-laden girls pleasuring themselves to aid your own quest for climax, you may rest assured that your dreams are a reality. To all of you ladies who believe that all females conquer our boredom by baking cookies and having sing-a-longs like you do, well, you obviously don’t have friends like me. I love to masturbate. I love to talk about my love of masturbation almost as much as I enjoy the act itself. If you don’t believe me, come over to my house, on any day of the week, and wait for me to burst out of my room, red-faced and glowing, itching to give my roommates a play-by-play of my latest rendezvous with my vibrator.
My love affair with vibrators all began about a month ago, when my friend and I decided that a vibrator would be the perfect way to pass a lazy afternoon, and went on the ultimate shopping trip. I was fed up not only by my sex slump, but by the fact that all of my human sexual partners thus far have failed to provide me with an orgasm. Considering that I have now been let in on the secret that the orgasm is the meaning of life, the very reason that males and females were placed on this earth, I severely regret the nineteen years I spent in oblivion. Ignorance is not bliss, orgasm is bliss.
But I digress: Back to the search for the replacement dick, the glorious piece of plastic that would, unbeknownst to me, become my favored partner in crime, my preferred companion for a Tuesday afternoon, or for that matter, a Tuesday morning… or a Wednesday, or Thursday, or Friday. (Sorry, roomies, I guess you haven’t seen a lot of me lately, but can you get me off?) The sun was setting as my friend and I wandered into the aptly named Adult Store on State Street. Our mission was clear: I was Goldilocks, and my vibrator needed to be just right. If you’ve ever been to a sex shop, and I know you have, then you know about the never-ending wall of dildos. We were overwhelmed by the explosion of colors, textures, tastes, lengths, widths and consistencies. The best part was the variety of names: Mr. Feelgood, My First Vibe, Cowboy and, my personal favorite, the Crystal Cock. After empirical examination and comparison of the attributes of each choice, we came to the consensus that the mid-sized, purple, “turbo-charged” magic stick would do the job. It didn’t even matter that there was no name on the package, because inspiration stuck with one look at the beautiful wand: My eight inches of pure pleasure would be known as Mr. Lavender.
And, as they say, the rest is history. I filled that baby up with batteries and fired it up as soon as I sat down in my friend’s car; it was all I could do not to tear my thong off right there in the front seat and consummate my relationship with Mr. Lavender in front of my friend, not to mention all of the commuters on the 101. But I waited. And let me tell you, the drive from State Street to Trigo Road has never been longer. As soon as I was in the safety of my own room, I put up a pink post-it, coded with “Candyshop, kind of,” set that bad boy to Turbo, and hopped into bed, not to be seen for the duration of three episodes of “Sex and the City” and one of “Laguna Beach.” Girls, if you’ve never used a vibrator, it’s time to go to the bank, withdraw $24.99 (What else were you going to use it for, three salads from Silvergreens and a Rice Krispy Treat?), and head down to the sex shop; you can tell them I sent you. The sad truth is, I don’t think that nearly enough of us are taking the matter of the elusive orgasm into our own hands. I am here to tell you that he can never do for you what Mr. Lavender, or Mr. Whatever, can do for you; all it takes is a flick of the wrist and your fists will be clenched in ecstasy. If you’re anything like me, your legs will be kicking, your breathing will be hard, and you will be physically unable to extract your vibrator from between your legs until your roommate is pounding at the door, inquiring about the screaming she heard coming from inside the room. I spent all of last weekend holed up in my room, under the guise that I was watching documentaries to research my poli sci paper. It was me, “Farenheit 9/11” and Mr. Lavender. And yes, it is possible to masturbate while watching a Michael Moore film, as long as you avoid looking at him.
I only see one problem with my newfound love for vibrators: A guy may never be able to satisfy me in the same way. Oh well, I can always run into the bathroom afterwards for a quickie with a real man, Mr. Lavender. “It’s like having sex with someone you love.”
Dana Olsen is a sophomore communication major.