My first time
Before I found Big Blue, I fumbled around with The Rabbit until I finally broke it. Before The Rabbit, there was Pearl. This is her story, written in the fall of 2000.
I'm in a dysfunctional relationship. With my vibrator. The sex is terrible, and it's not getting any better. I know I deserve more from my self-love life, but what can I say? I fear change.
It all started last fall. My friend Julie and I were making our way to Toys in Babeland on the Lower East Side. Julie and I are both porn stars in our minds, but PG-13 in real life. Thus, we've spent many hours browsing and giggling at Babeland, but never buying. Feeling particularly bold on this brisk autumn day, I made a suggestion.
Me: Let's buy vibrators.
Julie: Okay!
That's all it took to begin our foray into the world of people who purchase sex toys. But which to buy? We immediately gravitated to what looked like the mother of all vibrators, which we affectionately called "the creepy rabbit one." It's quite large, with a rotating head. By "head," I mean "head" -- complete with two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and Ken-doll hair. At the base of the head are small beads that move around inside while the head rotates. Towards the base is a soft little clitoris stimulator nub -- in the shape of a bunny rabbit.
Still beginners at the vibrating arts, we gravitated to smaller and less, shall we say, "involved" implements. Being the girly-girl that I am, I found myself attracted to the fuchsia Mini Pearl in the display case, a little vibrating egg-shaped disk on a string. I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it, but I was fairly certain I'd figure it out once I got home. Much to my chagrin, there were no fuchsia Mini Pearls in stock, so I had to go with a lighter shade.
Julie and I parted ways, she with a pink little vibrating sports car (true) and me with my light-pink Mini Pearl, and I set out on my mission. I got my little orgasm-in-a-box home, inserted Energizer batteries (the girl at the counter said Duracells would burn out the motor -- which, who knew, ya know?) and got to work. I started at the lowest speed, which was approximately 100 miles per hour. In a mere 20 seconds I had an orgasm, completely missed it, and felt distinctly unsatisfied.
I went over the event in my mind. Was it me? Was I doing it wrong? Determined to get it right, I practiced. And practiced…and practiced…and practiced some more. Then, on a rainy midwinter night, my little Pearl and I finally got it right. Right before the batteries died.
Over the next few weeks, I tried everything to get that moment back. Buying new batteries put us back at square one -- warp speed and sighs (mine) of dissatisfaction. I began hoarding all the AA batteries in the house, seeking those elusive batteries on their very last little battery legs. In desperation, I stole the batteries from three remotes, two cameras and the lady bug back massager my great aunt had given me. I even tried turning my little Pearl on and leaving it running on the bed for a few hours to tire it out. I always seemed to miss my window of opportunity, though. My little Pearl and I could never seem to equal that blissful winter night.
Lately, sex with Pearl is just a chore. I'll be lying awake staring at the ceiling and think "Hmm. Maybe an orgasm will put me to sleep." (It always does when I'm with company that doesn't run on batteries.) There, in the small red box next to my computer, is my little Pearl. I glance ruefully at the box, knowing what I'm (not) in for. Sometimes, while Pearl and I are together, I'll fantasize about "the creepy rabbit one." It feels like cheating, but it gets me through the ordeal.
I know that someday I'll have to let my Pearl go. My friends are sick of listening to me complain. Maybe someday soon I'll ditch Pearl altogether and start ripping my pillows apart with the Creepy Rabbit One.
Still, my little Pearl will always hold a place in my heart. Cute little thing. After all, you never forget your first, right?
