A girl's best friend

There I was, at home, alone, and nothing pressing that needed to be done, except the ironing, and I was planning to ignore that anyway. Excellent, a little Me Time. Instead of doing the girlie maintenance that requires complete privacy – unless you have a partner who finds mud masks a turn on and since mine makes me look a bit like Shrek that would be a tad disturbing – I decided to spend some quality time with my vibrator.

But which one? When it comes to sex toys, I like to have a choice – variety being the spice of life and all that. I have two clitoral stimulators, a regular vibrator, one for the G-spot, a couple of dildos, including a massive electric blue one that’s just too much of a good thing as it’s scarily huge, a cone vibrator and, well, my rabbit.
Selection made, I was getting comfortable and beginning to feel the stirrings of an orgasm when the unthinkable happened – the vibrator groaned, spluttered a feeble moan and stopped! Damn! New batteries didn’t help, whacking the bottom proved useless, CPR a waste of time – my poor vibrator was dead.
The thing with vibrators, like poly-amorous relationships, is that you always have a favourite: you just can’t help it. The clitoral stimulators are great, but I prefer to use them with a partner, as they are not enough to get me off by themselves. Ditto for the G-spot one. I wrote about the ill-fated cone for this lovely magazine – but as I’m sure you’ll have gathered from the article, I wasn’t very impressed. The regular one is pretty good, but the rabbit that had just gone kaput was by far my favourite.
I felt both frustrated and oddly bereft. I suppose that’s because I’ve had a longer sexual relationship with that vibrator than with any man. Perhaps then it’s not such a surprise that it finally gave up the ghost. In vibrator years, it was probably as ancient as Newgrange. I had been thinking about replacing it a while ago with a shiny new one, but until that fateful afternoon, it still worked perfectly. It was my go-to toy: it never failed to give me an orgasm; was always available when needed; and until that very moment, had never given me any trouble. At all!
I finished off the old-fashioned way, but by then, my heart wasn’t in it. The point of masturbation had been achieved, I guess – I’d had an orgasm – but it wasn’t the same. Truth is that the rotating pearl thingies and those all-important vibrating ears turn regular masturbation into something approaching nirvana, a state of bliss I simply cannot reach under my own speed. So, working backwards, by any chance had the rabbit spoilt my own enjoyment of myself? It was a worrying thought.
Years ago, my handwriting used to be neat and I could do complicated maths in my head, but not anymore. I hardly write anything by hand nowadays and I always use a calculator so my ability to do these simple tasks has certainly suffered as a result of the availability of technology. What if it’s the same with sex toys? Will my fondness for them eventually mean I’ll no longer be able to enjoy myself, by myself, without some assistance?
The next evening I met my friend Emma in the pub. She wanted a pint, but I needed to have a Sex and the City style conversation with her, so insisted we get cocktails to set the scene. Vibrators? In the final analysis, are they a help or a hindrance? Do they simply enhance pleasure or make your own efforts less than satisfying in the long run? Have we developed – forgive me for mentioning it, but I must – sex toy addiction?
At first Emma thought I had lost it, wondering if I’d turned into a Puritan, suspicious of pleasure. Like me, Emma is fond of sex toys, and asked what the hell I’d been smoking. But I pressed on. Think about it, said I, until we had vibrators we were content to jerk off with nothing but our imaginations and ourselves. Masturbation needed nothing more than a closed door. Now it requires batteries or a charger, toy cleaner for before and after, and possibly music to cover the telltale whirr of the toy if there is anyone else in the house. It’s a lot more complicated than it used to be!
Emma was forced to admit that I had a point, conceding that it had been a while since she’d masturbated without the aid of her tried and trusted Pearl Thunder – a vibrator she’s recommended to me on more than one occasion. (She’s very thoughtful, and mindful of my well-being, is Emma).
The discussion continued. We tossed our thoughts back and forward. Sex toys sell in their thousands and it’s a rare modern woman that doesn’t have at least one. Why? Because they’re so damn good, that’s why! Why bother with the old tried and tested methods when you can have multiple speeds, G-spot and clitoral stimulation, and an orgasm boost button all packaged in pretty fuchsia pink or neon purple? Hell, it’s a pretty irresistible package! Even better than the real thing? Well, not quite, but a good vibrator is better than a bad lover – and certainly more pleasurable than your own hand any day of the week.
But does it matter? I was forced to concede a point – probably not. Sure, vibrators may not be as ‘natural’ as the old DIY method, but so what? Human beings do things that are ‘unnatural’ all the time – flying across the globe, sending emails, entering into a monogamous relationship (or at least pretending to) – and we manage pretty well most of the time. Human beings are adaptable. We evolve.
And I got thinking – between the new man, the metrosexual, the ubersexual, the retrosexual, the alpha male, the himbo and the toxic bachelor, we’ve upgraded, downgraded, repackaged, rebranded and renamed modern men and male-female relations countless times and given ourselves so many – probably too many – options, that the modern make-over of masturbation is probably only to be expected. Viva the revolution – with multi-speed settings!
Forget diamond’s being a girl’s best friend. Vibrators are. No doubt about it. And even if they are not forever, well, then you can do exactly as I did – go and order another one. What’s life without a little pleasure, all your own, however you get it?