Pretty?
Dicks aren’t pretty and neither are the plastic versions of them, thank you very much. Someone should send a memo to men: no one wants a dick pic—at least, not one that’s unsolicited.
Not that I’ve ever received one, which kind of feels like an insult…
Still, I pry the box top off and gape down at the pink silicone toy, nestled in a bed of satin, its gold metallic accents shining back at me. One button. Five settings.
Settings? What do they mean by that?
My index finger pokes the fake dick.
It’s not soft or pliant as I’m expecting it to be, but it’s not hard as a rock either. Not really as realistic as they’re claiming it to be.
My cheeks flush and I leave it in the box, set it back on the counter with the rest of the bachelorette goodies, and flick the kitchen light off. Pad back to my bedroom, where the bed and bedding have been set up, and pull back my top layer.
Climbing in, I let out a huge sigh when my weary head finally hits the pillow. Hands folded across my stomach, I let my eyes drift shut. Breathe in and out then roll to my side, uncomfortable. Sigh. Roll to my back, then to the other side.
Sigh.
My eyes open and I look to the white wall next to my bed, though I can’t see it in the dark, imagining what the place will look like once the furniture is moved in, pictures hung, knickknacks put out. Hard to do when I haven’t spent any actual time in my new place, having gotten into town less than twenty-four hours ago—just in time for my cousin’s stag party. I moved in a few boxes and managed to assemble my bed, unpack some toiletries, get dressed, and not be late for the night out.
I’m exhausted, and the wedding fun has just begun.
“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day,” Madison told me earlier in the evening, and my thoughts go from the unloading and moving I have to do tomorrow to that little pink dick in a box on my kitchen counter.
It’s not a dick, it’s a dildo.
No it’s not—a dildo doesn’t move by itself.
Stop internal dialoging, you freak.
I close my eyes, determined to fall asleep. Toss a few more times, unable to find a spot that’s conducive to passing out, the new sounds outside my window doing nothing to lull me into slumber.
“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”
I turn.
Flat on my back, I feel around on my bedding for the black satin eye mask I tossed there when I put the sheets and pillowcases on. Cannot find it without turning on the light.
Sigh.
Counting sheep? Do people do that anymore, or is that for children? I suppose I could find a soothing, spa-like playlist and listen to a babbling brook—but then I’ll lie here listening to the babbling brook and forget that I’m trying to sleep.
I drum my fingers against my quilt.
I shouldn’t have had any alcohol. I’m about to catch a second wind—I can feel it in my bones.
“An orgasm can seriously take the edge off after a long day.”
Take the edge off? It’s not like I necessarily had a rough day—just a long one. But maybe there’s something to be said about men and sex and their falling asleep so soon after they orgasm.
Should I…
I cannot get my mind off that vibrator. Or the face of that guy standing next to the table tonight, dressed as if he worked at the axe throwing place.
Vibrator.
Lumberjack.
Vibrator.
Lumberjack.
Vibrator…
Not that I’d have a clue what to do with it.
Curiosity getting the best of me, I let my body slide off the mattress, feet hitting the floor, on autopilot in the dark, leading me back to the kitchen counter and that glossy box I know the exact position of. Toss the goodies back into the tote then snatch up the vibrator. Bring it back to the bedroom with me, pulling off the lid and letting the box hit the sheets.
I slide back in.
Half in, half out of the covers, my thumb presses the little gold button at the vibrator’s base—but it doesn’t turn on.
Huh.
Maybe it needs to be charged?
I try again, holding the button down longer, the small pink wand buzzing to life, a low purr filling the quiet room.
It hums.
Quivers in my palm.
I hold it up and can see it moving via the small light glowing from the power button, clicking it a second time.
The pink bullet pulses.
Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt.
Dzzt, dzzt, dzzt, faster and faster and faster, changing cadence with each click of that gold button.
My thumb presses down, and it shuts off.
I lay it on the mattress, curiosity appeased. It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it—ha! As if.
I wonder if I could sell this thing; I certainly don’t need to keep it around if I have no intention of using it. They’re expensive—I bet this was at least a hundred bucks!
Lord I’m cheap if I’m thinking ’bout selling a vibrator to make some cash. Oy, if Hollis knew…
Madison? She would have a fit.
Lying there, wide awake, my hands still flat on the bed, fingers mere inches from the “pleasure ride”. Also, how is it a ride if you’re not on top of it?
I ponder this while I lie there, restless, conscious of it next to me but afraid to touch it. Afraid? Please, don’t be ridiculous.
Intimidated, maybe. Clueless, absolutely.
What does a person do with it, anyway? Put it all the way inside and crank up the power? Rub it around the outside? It’s not that I’ve never felt around “down there” with my hands; I’ve just never used a toy.
So what if everyone is doing it? So what if sex toy sales skyrocketed during the last global pandemic? How would I even know if I was enjoying it?
I am not a prude.
Am I?
I sigh, slightly bored and not even close to drowsy.
The weight of “The Quickie” is like a thousand elephants beside me, bogging down the mattress, a distraction I did not need tonight.
Really, Chandler? You couldn’t stand the distraction of perhaps loosening up a bit after the longest day of your life?
Just do it. What’s the big deal? No one is here. No one can see you. No one can hear you. Zero people. If you’re bad at it, who is going to know?
Me. I’ll know.
You don’t count, you chickenshit. It’s a vibrator, not a taser. Chill.
My hand finds it in the dark, my cheeks flaming hot all the while—I don’t have to feel them to know they’re red. On fire.
I hold the power button down; it lights up.
I’m wearing pajama bottoms—do I hold this thing over the top of them? That seems counterproductive, and I chuckle to myself as if the thought is absurd, moving the pink machine over my thigh, letting the quiver hit my skin. Teasing the leg of my sleep shorts, the hem short enough that the barest brush of a hand would expose my goods.
This feels as awkward and as unnatural as an author must feel reciting sex scenes into a dictation app.
The pink glows in the dark as I lead it to the inner crux of my thigh, dragging back and forth, experimenting. Close enough to the mound beneath my underwear, but far enough away that I’m not officially masturbating yet.
It still feels peculiar.
Maybe pull your shorts down, weirdo.
I bite my lip.
What is that damn noise?