Parental Discretion is Advised
After a frantic search for new batteries, shoving them in and then flip flopping them to make sure I put them in correctly without my reading glasses on, I realized it was dead. Then I did the same thing with my back up vibrator. Which as luck would have it, was also dead. Are you fucking kidding me? What ARE the chances?
So, I took matters into my own hands. No, not like that. With the keyboard. Ok, not like that either. I went to my favorite on-line supplier to order my favorite vibe that tends to have some wiring issues. I can tell you this because deep in a landfill somewhere are buried about 12 identical vibes. RIP.
When you find "the one", the one that gives you the good vibrations in all the right places, you don't switch simply because of a loose wire coupled with the total frustration/excitement of never knowing when and if it will get the job done. I prefer to just see this as a whole new layer of kink. For free.
It was right after I hit the ship button that the panic set in. When I noticed the default shipping address I sent it to. In Morocco! First I was mortified and pissed at myself. Then, I realized it is the season of giving and all and rationalized I'd given some Moroccan woman somewhere the best gift of her whole entire life. Because, they don't sell sex toys there. You have to go to Turkey to score that stuff. Which is why the flights from Morocco to Turkey are so inexpensive. It's a frequent flier packed flight every flight.
Unbeknownst to me, my husband, who knew of the untimely passing of my vibe, stopped at a sex shop on the way home from work to buy a new one for me. Seriously? Whose husband does that? He's awesome. So he brought home this very thoughtful very phallic gift that looked like a doorknob attached to a shark jaw. Every kiss does not begin with K. Like that jeweller would like you to believe. Some begin with V.
That's when I told my husband about my new world-wide feminist non-profit sex toy organization. AKA: My Moroccan shipping mishap that unintentionally spread the love world-wide.
You may be shocked to know that my fuck ups no longer surprise him. Nor did the fact that "JAWS" didn't do the trick for me. It's hard to buy a vibrator for someone else. But, that didn't stop him from trying. He went back the next day and bought a second more subtle, less fishy hardware appliance for me. The thing is, I didn't even ask him to do so. But you know what they say: happy wife, happy life.
Which led to this conversation.
Me: So, what is more embarrassing? Going to the store to buy tampons for me?
Or going to the sex shop to buy me a vibrator?
Not that I've ever sent you to the store to buy me tampons...
Him: Buying a vibrator makes me look like I'm the man. Buying you tampons means I'm a pussy.
You're going to blog about this aren't you?