A Chronic Dependence on Good Vibrations

This is me right now: huddled beneath four blankets in a bed and breakfast, the closest to my hometown I’ve been since I decided to ditch the States and become Rambling Bohemian Barbie, shivering and tea-sipping my way through the Lovecraftian horror of all stomach flus, and mourning the recent passing of the only vibrator I brought back with me (which isn’t so much Dead-dead as it is Battery-dead, thank god).

Ah, yes. As you can imagine, I am the picture of sexuality right now. May God smile down on the kind soul who can manage to a modicum of attraction to my frail trembling body beneath two layers of long johns and an oversized Motley Crue t-shirt I used to wear as a dress back in high school.

The vibrator thing is getting to me, though. My typical mountain climbing, nightclubbing, wild child self gets all Jekyl-and-Hyde when it comes to being sick. In fact, I reckon the only thing I AM capable of right now is casual masturbation– which has been thoroughly thwarted by the aforementioned dead batteries in my weapon of choice.

I wasn’t always this way– swear to god. In the pre-vibrator years (some of which were when I wasn’t legally allowed into a sex store, some when I didn’t have real access to one, some when I was scared shitless of someone catching me perusing the local dildo aisle) I was like a sex toy MacGyver. Chuck me a condom, a spent toilet paper roll and a rubber band and I could jerry-rig something to get me off in five minutes flat.

But in the post-vibrator years, I thought that those skills would only be useful during an inevitable prison stint (and only if I didn’t get wifed by some sex-kitten Alex Vause type first, naturally).

These years of vibrating my way to Pleasureville have been that kind of luxury that, to quote sub-par 80’s hair metal band Cinderella, “you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” But now, in my sober, sorry state, I wonder if this isn’t a good thing. Maybe there’s really such a thing as too much good vibrations– maybe it’s time to stop humping a motorized piece of plastic and really get back to my roots. Remind myself of the magic that my own fingers create.

And barring that, I’ve got three magnums, some lube and a cucumber in the fridge. I’ve never really been the veggie-fetish type, but I mean, a girl’s gotta do…


So, what’s your preference? Do you vibrate along all night long, or do you prefer manual mode? Ever gone on a sabbatical from your sex toys? Unfortunate vibrator-related stories? Talk to me in the comments, lovelies xx

6 thoughts on “A Chronic Dependence on Good Vibrations

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