humour, lesbian, sex, single and happy

77. See you later, miss vibrator

Last month I threw away my bullet. Poof. Gone. There was nothing wrong with it. It hadn’t worn out or wound down or fizzled up on the insides like an old radio. It still hit the spot, made me squirm and writhe and gasp and sing like a canary all over the bed sheets. I just made a decision it was time to end it and I ended it. Plop. In the bin. Another useless bit of plastic swimming in a dump somewhere.

I know. I KNOW. Someone fetch an ambulance or a fire engine or a detective to find this poor woman’s marbles. What’s wrong with me? Vibrators are awesome. They’re a single woman’s best friend. They’re the slightly seedier version of getting a cat. Me, my vibe and my pussy: We’re one big, happy, creepy family.

The vibrator can sidestep tiredness, long days, 3 wines and feeling icky. It’s the female equivalent of a fistful of Viagra; a black coffee or a Lucozade or a fistful of uppers for your bum. You get into bed and you’re a little dozy and a little meh but maybe I’ll just…whoosh! There it is.

But, and here’s the kicker, use a vibrator too often or for too long and you can lose your natural connection to your body. I used mine for most of my adult life because I wrongly assumed I couldn’t have natural orgasms.

Then I came out and thought NOW ALL THE ORGASMS WILL BE MINE and whaddayouknow? I still couldn’t orgasm, even with women. And then it dawned on me: my clitoris was addicted to artificial pleasure. I used it so often that I had severed the link between desire and orgasms – and then when a real woman came along, she couldn’t compete because fingers can’t rotate at that speed.

This woman, this human woman, can’t do anything for me, my clitoris sneered.

My clit was dead to them, deadened, leaden, a dull lump of a thing that needed the rev of a motor to come out to play. It went to the party but it needed pills and booze and fags to have a good time – it couldn’t just enjoy the music.

So slowly, I stopped using it. And slowly, my body came back to me. I got horny again. Properly, horny. Stick-you-hands-down-your-pants-as-fast-as-possible horny. I learnt what I liked and what I didn’t. I practiced. And one day, I did it. I made it happen with nothing but myself and I felt so empowered and strong and natural and sexy and alive, like I’d got off a sofa and wrenched open the door and run for the first time in my life.

So, what does my libido look like without a bullet or a bunny?

I’m a once a week kind of girl. Maybe twice, but the second time takes longer. Weekends, definitely. Mornings, usually. Wine’s a killer. 6, or 7 minutes is standard, unless it’s been a while and then I’m in and out like a spotty teen. Twice I’ve managed it on a train with a bit of rocking, a tampon and a vivid imagination. No joke. I’m the only woman in London who really, really, really loves that time of the month.

Do I miss my vibrator? No chance. I’m grateful for the good times and the good vibes, of course – but I’ve got this. Figuring out how to hit those natural highs with nothing but a helping hand is the best gift I’ve ever had. Now, all I need it to gets me one of those human women.

Photo by Eye for Ebony on Unsplash