Beyonce and all that

So the other day I was purchased my Step Towards Independent Womanhood Item Consumer Thing*.

Said item was, in fact, a rather large pink jellied vibrator. I had to hide it under my bed for a good seven days before I really, psychologically, accepted that the... impliment? was now mine to do with what I would. While it hid under there, sidling into my dreams and causing me to wake up at odd moments and fret that the switch had clicked on inadvertently, I took the chance to think about serious shit like - why did I now have a vibrator? Would it eat me while I slept? Were the sparkles in the gummy plastic coating a nice touch or a weird "my little pony" throw back?

So of course there is the whole 'why wait for indifferent orgasms from others when you can Take Power Into Your Own Hands Princess Shera Stylee' argument. There was also the 'it worked for that Charlotte character on Sex and the City and, although fictional, she was waaay more repressed than you so wasn't it about time you caught up with Charlotte - the fictional character?' argument which was particularly persuasive. Then there was also the old 'everyone else has one, what am I missing out on?' argument that really kicked me over the line. So I bought it. I hid it, I came home not-sober one night and finally tried it out and... well... I've had worse one-night-stands, it's true, but I didn't pay $42 for them either. Then again since I did purchase it I guess I now have time to get used to it, bend it to my will, teach it to laugh at my jokes and I'll never have to share my drinks with it.

At the same time, is there not something just slightly ridiculous about shoving a whirring, gummy, sparkly enormo-faux-dick up one's clacker? It is hard to lose my sense of the absurd.



*It has a name. It's name is Beyonce. Don't question, just accept.