The New Tech: My First Vibrator

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Um…today’s story isn’t for the prudish, just a heads up in case you didn’t get that from the title.

Before I get into this story (and I know that you’re dying to read it just based on the title alone), I wanted to let you all know that I decided to start collecting sketches from artists when I go to cons. I always thought it was a bad idea, I go to cons to network, meet people – stuff like that, but I’ve seen some awesome sketchbooks and I especially love the themed ones so I am going to submit to my inner fanboy. I mean, just picture this scene:

Jason: Hey! Phil Hester! How’s it going?

Phil Hester: Can’t complain.

Jason: Would you mind doing a sketch for me?

Phil Hester: Sure – whatta ya want?

Jason: Well, it’s a themed book…

Phil Hester: Ok…

Jason: So I was hoping you can do a sketch of Reginald VelJohnson.

Phil Hester: I’m sorry, I don’t know…

Jason: Reginald VelJohnson – he’s the guy that played Carl on Family Matters. Sergeant Al Powell in Die Hard 2.

Phil Hester: The fat black guy?

Jason: Yeah, can you draw him? You should see the Reginald VelJohnson Frank Miller did. Looks just like Batman.

Seriously, every time I imagine myself doing that I fucking crack-up.

Anyway, on to my first vibrator…
___________________

Well, not mine, really.

Ok. It was sort of mine, I guess. I bought it the summer after senior year in high school right before college orientation. I was dating R at the time and for some reason I thought, you know, going to college and shit – this is what people DO in college, right?

The answer is “yes, they do” but you have to at least give them until school actually starts and a couple of shots of Jaeger. Orientation – we’re pretty much still High Schoolers at this point. And whereas I can only imagine some high schoolers bust out hardware occasionally – R and I really weren’t those high schoolers. You see – R was a bit inexperienced at this point (not saying I was King Pimp, either), and the whole dildo thing…no, not a good idea.

I really wish I had this funny-ass story to tell about me actually attempting to use it. Honestly, I wish to all fuck that I had that story. But, unless I repressed the memory, I never even told her I had it. Not to say I didn’t find other uses for it. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I bought it in some sex shop in Manhattan, somewhere around 34th and 6th Ave – within a block of the 34th Street Mall. This is likely my second trip to a sex shop (could have been the third) but undoubtedly the first time I went alone.

There were a lot of firsts, actually. For instance, when I walked in there were girls hanging out on this cat walk inviting me into a private booth – that was a first. The prostistripper that called to me was this Amazonian looking black chick – built like a fucking line-backer – and a voice that could have been sexy at one point but now sounds all-scratched up due to what can only be cigarette-induced constant bloody throat. She actually calls me “big boy” which I always thought was more of a joke than a phrase booth-hookers actually used. She asks me if I want to “have a good time” and I politely tell her, “No thanks” and make my way to the sex toy session.

My previous trips to a sex shop consisted of my friends and I picking up 12-inch double-dongs and laughing; we never really paid attention to things like pricing. Looking over the material in the store on that summer day, I realized that people will pay a lot of money for a substitute penis. Everything that looked good (and by my high-school warped porno watching definition “good” meant over 8-inches, veined, vibrating and brightly colored) was in the 30+ dollar range and I wasn’t looking to spend more than 10 bucks. Luckily, I found a vibrator for 12 bucks and decided that it’s good enough.

Now, have you ever seen a twelve-dollar vibrator? It was about 8-inches, off-white and looked exactly like an oversized pencil. The box looked like it’s been opened at least thirty times, all worn and crumply. All it said on it was “8-inch Vibrator”, that it needed two AA batteries (not included) and a warning that said to keep it away from water. It was, by far, the most ghetto vibrator I’ve seen in all my years and I’ve seen quite a few since then. But, you know, it was cheap.

I packed it to go to orientation and it stayed in my bag during the whole trip.

When I got back to NYC, however, I found other uses for it. For instance, this was a really fun game to play with my friends:

“Guess what’s in my book-bag.”

“I don’t know, what?”

“Just guess.”

“I don’t want to guess.”

“For fucks sake, it’s funny. Guess!”

“A notebook.”

“Nope.” At which point I reach in, turn the vibrator on, and pull it out with a stupid-ass smile across my face. “It’s a dildo!”

I never got tired of that game. There was also the whole “sneaking up behind someone and putting the vibrator in their ear” game. One of the better jokes I pulled was swapping my friends hotdog for the vibrator at a barbeque. He got up and went to get a soda and I pulled the hotdog out of the bun and replaced it with the vibrator, threw some mustard on it (only because there was no accessible mayonnaise).

I know this sounds like I took that vibrator with me everywhere and that’s because I did. It was a permanent addition to my book-bag for the remainder of that summer. I threw it out before going off to college.

I actually think I recycled it.

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