Speaking of vibrators, a very small consequence of the WTC mess is that I think I’m going to leave “Mr. Buzzy” home now when I travel, since they are probably going to have bomb-sniffing dogs crawling around inside our intestines before we board. And if I can’t bring my vibrator, why should I even leave home? So much for three weeks in Europe… Sigh. Wait- maybe they have rental vibrators there, like they have all of those rental Vespas.

I’ve had many vibrators throughout the years and they have served me well. The town that I grew up in wasn’t enlightened enough to have non-scary female friendly sex shops, so when I was 16 I took the plunge into a skeevy lingerie shop where women would “model lingerie” in the back room for the right price. Well, I have to admit it sounded tempting, but I had come in there for a reason: to buy my first vibrator! (*snifff* I am such a nostalgia hound, how can you stand it?)

I brought a non-flinchy friend with me for moral support, who was great that night but ended up blabbing what I did. It didn’t bother me though, because by the end of high school there were so many rumors about me that people stopped believing them, especially the true ones because they were always better and more fantastic than what my enemies could make up. But I digress!

So I picked out a basic one with entertaining attachments, trying hard not to stare at the “realistic” veiny two-footers (now in Caucasian and Black) and the crotchless panties. A “model” rang me up and I was one my way.

A few weeks later I was at a pretty wild party that my work supervisor was throwing. After milling around a while and drinking and smoking whatever I could scavenge, I bumped into the “model” from the sex shop. Over the course of the night I gleaned that no one knew who she was, just that she was my boss’s friend’s date. At the end of the evening we came face-to-face; she recognized me (I think I was the only person in that town with a septum ring) and I certainly remembered her.

“Hi,” she said and smirked at me.

“Hey.” I think I gave her a little wink.

For once, two people came together and were not assholes; neither one of us blew the other’s cover.

After I graduated and blew town, my faithful vibrator came with me. I was sharing a studio with my roommate while we waited for her lease to expire so we could get a bigger place. My vibrator slept under my pillow, until one day when I was playing with my cat I sat on my pillow and immediately heard an angry buzzing sound. My roommate, who was sitting on her bed reading, was extremely startled, to say the least. And I, instead of being cool about it, gave myself away by lunging to shut it off and by turning hot crimson red. She started laughing, and I decided I would laugh along so I wasn’t just being laughed AT. We had a good, solid laugh together on our respective beds, and to her credit she never mentioned it again.

That is probably worse than having a bunch of airport security guards holding your best friend by the cord and going, “Whut the.. is this wun o-them new sonic toothbrushes?”

Post Script: “Mr. Buzzy I” died the way most of my vibrators have. I was on the brink of a orgasm when the batteries died- it feels so personal and like God hates you when that happens, doesn’t it? Well, BAM! Mr. Buzzy died a glorious death after sailing through the air and breaking his back on the wall opposite my bed.