Embarrassing Vibrator Story Abroad

April 19, 2012

I was mortified when my step mother recommended I bring a vibrator college.  My mother was equally shocked.  Eventually I acquiesced and we strolled through the aisles of Caldor, the predecessor to the KMarts and Targets of today, leaving with a ConAir personal massager with more attachments than necessary.  Because the vibrator was my first real foray into masturbation I was unable to achieve the same relaxation manually, nor could my paramours.

 

During my dry spells of college I experimented with the handy toy satisfying myself more than any horny college kid could. And when I was not able to lay in bed and satiate myself for hours on end, I missed the little machine.  One such time was when after graduation I was traveling.  Certainly omitted from the list of recommended items for backpacking abroad was one’s reliable vibrator.  With the different electrical currents and plugs, Asia and it’s room sharing hostels was not ideal for self satisfaction.   

 

By the time my trip was nearly finished and I was traveling alone, I was horny.  I found myself on the eve of my return home roaming a street sale in Hong Kong.  Amongst all of the knick knacks and crap one considers using was a thumb size mini massager for sale.  I was renting a small cot in a private room at a hostel where the owners spoke only a few words of English. Tonight I could get lucky, or rather relaxed before the flight.  

 

Being that I was alone and had nowhere to go, I decided to engage the shop owner.  I asked him what the little device did, and why one would own it. With his limited English, he demonstrated how to massage my arm and my back.  I don’t know what he had thought of me, if perhaps he thought some American backpacker really believed he was selling small ineffective personal massagers or if I was looking for a good old fashioned vibrator.  

 

That evening, as I laid in my cot my only concern was if the noise traveled through the walls.  

Advertisements

Dr. Hmmm

June 28, 2011

I had written a post about my unusual attraction to rather older distinguished doctor I was seeing professionally. I’d lay on my back and he’d shoot saline into my tush and we’d talk about everything from our family’s internal real estate battles, vacations, relationships (mostly his), kids (mine, but not really) and so forth. In fact I would not bring up my two kids or husband frequently. Not so much because I was trying to hide them, but it was nice to have a relationship not tied to their identities.

One day he greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. So one day the doctor, knowing that I lived less than two avenues away suggested we get together one weekend. I said sure. Not quite knowing who he was expecting to join us on the weekend. First he said brunch then he mentioned something with the kids and his girlfriend’s dog. I let him program his number in my cell.

He called me a few hours later asking for the name of my real estate attorney and I texted him back. That felt kosher. The getting together, not so much. He knows I’m a married mother of two who has never mentioned or alluded to infidelity.

I hurt my back terribly and ended up visiting the doctor first two or three times a week, then once a week. One time he had me put my hand on his waist to see how I should properly walk with my push slightly protruding, another time I felt like the spray he uses to numb the area fell close down the gown sleeve and close to my chest. Instinctively I pulled away when he went to retrieve it even though there was no contact.

The most unusual/ uncomfortable incident was after my last visit. He had begun the conversation telling me of a fight with his girlfriend who wanted to be a muse. I didn’t care to hear the details of a lover’s spat and steered the conversation to how great it would be to a muse. I’d love to inspire art. When the session was over, he sat in his stool staring at me on the other side of the table in my fancy bra and underwear under the large maroon robe. We locked eyes and he said nothing.
So I said thank you.
He told me how much better shape I was in than when I had first hurt my back.
More awkward silence.
More thank yous from me.
More of him recollecting how much in pain I was.
Another thank you and he finally heads to the door, suggesting, as he often does that we get together one weekend. I think we may have shook hands in that awkward non business way above the table I dividing us.

It was so odd. Other than my fancy lingerie did I mislead him? Recounting this story here feels odd, as if there was an inappropriate exchange. I happen to love the trigger point injections for my back, although I fear I may be receiving too many of them, and would revisit him. I also happen to like him as an individual and a doctor.

Since I’m out of town for the summer and unlikely to see him for at least another month, I can exhale and not think about it (unless our paths cross when I’m visiting one of the other doctors in his office next week).


A Friendly Reference

June 23, 2011

When I met Pam (not her real name) my first year of boarding school, I was immediately smitten with just about everything: her wardrobe which in retrospect was a bunch of solid Gap shirts, her boyfriend (by Thanksgiving I was dating his roommate), her Grateful Dead collection and the way she navigated the school. After her graduation when she moved back to the Midwest we did not communicate regularly except for our annual birthday calls and occasional letters then emails, and a handful of reunions but she still held a special place in my heart.

As she shared stories of just how far she had fallen (rehab, abortions, suicide attempts) I just wanted to hug her and help. The hardest thing to forgive was not how she did not show up to my rehearsal dinner (after confirming) but when she left my wedding without saying hello, or good bye for that matter. I had spent more time than I care to admit on my honeymoon wondering what had happened.

Apparently one of the receptionists at the venue commented on the large tattoo across her chest. Had she wanted to avoid such attention, she should either not get a massive tattoo across her chest, or not wear a strapless dress. Her companions, friends from my high school felt uncomfortable, assuming that nobody spoke to them or offered a seat because they were black.

I have no desire to speak to the other girls who assumed my closest friends and family are all racist. But Pam. Pam. I hold such a special place in my heart for her. No matter how many horrible stories she has shared with me about poor choices she has made: living with a married man and his four children, a meeting a blind date at a motel and being assaulted, more suicide attempts, anorexia, a victim of stalking, drama upon drama.

After a nearly fatal car accident she had asked to borrow money, or rather invest in her lawsuit. I declined. Our relationship was complicated and strained enough and did not warrant another layer. As it lays now, about once a year she sends a long email (reminiscent of the long letters we would send each other on summer breaks) about her latest escapades and apologize for being out of touch and give her new phone number.

We had traded messages a few weeks or has it been months ago. Yesterday, I received a text asking me to be a personal reference on a housing form. I’m not sure how to respond.

I’m surprised she does not have friends closer – both geographically and emotionally. I think it we last spoke two years ago. I want to help but as a landlord myself I could not in good conscience be a reference. What could I say? She walked out of my wedding. I only know about her what details she shares including institutions to treat her eating disorders and alcohol abuse. I hardly think I am in a position to vouch for her character and I certainly would avoid getting into any financial dealings with her. But doesn’t somebody who has been through hell and back before her 35th birthday at least deserve a roof over her head?

So far I’ve ignored the request but I welcome any thoughts on how to respond.


Warning: PMS

April 22, 2011

Remember that Saturday Night Live commercial for Annuale, the birth control pill where women get their period once a year? Side effects during the menstruation are severe: potential growths and absolute insanity.

Before my monthly Aunt Flo I become unbearable, nasty, explosive and confrontational. Last week I warned my husband when he came home and asked about the mess. “I love you dear, I’m incredibly irritable,” I said before lashing out at him for being home late on the one night a week I ask that he comes home before the kids’ bedtime.

The following day I had a confrontation with a new babysitter. Our regular sitter cancelled at last minute and with my brother in law and sister in law in town I scrambled for a replacement ultimately finding an available sitter recommended by a friend of a friend of my other sister-in-law. The email exchange made her appear like Mary Poppins’ second cousin at $15 an hour. When she arrived both kids were bathed, one asleep the other should have been going down in 15 minutes.

Of course she let my daughter stay up later and gave her food (and I am sure did not brush her teeth again). I later noticed she moved magazines to cover up the yogurt stains on the table lest she actually wipe the table.

When I came home and paid her slightly more than $15 an hour for her time she complained without specifically asking for more money. I held my ground and explained that her regular employer pays her $15 when the child is awake. “Two children are more,” she said. As she kept counting the money and looking at it on the counter, still lingering, I finally asked, Would you like more money?

She avoided answering yes but still did not leave. Finally I pulled out a few more dollars and told her to take it “for my sleeping son.” She did not like my comment and told me so. At last she left refusing the additional money.

While I knew I would never use her again, nor would I be so eager to invite a stranger to watch my children again, I could not stop thinking about the confrontation, wondering if I behaved properly.

Emotional and premenstrual I did not want to spend the rest of my evening with my husband consumed by a woman I would never see or employ again.

According to The Monk Who Sold his Ferrari, that the mind can only focus on one thing at a time. As negative thoughts come into one’s mind, one can immediately think of something more appealing. In order to distract myself, I started going down on my husband. It’s probably one of the few times that a bitch of a babysitter became an aphrodisiac.


About That Whip

February 3, 2011

I recently replaced my bedside table with a skinnier version and bought a stack of drawers to squeeze between the wall and the nightstand. I asked my Colombian nanny/ housekeeper to assemble the Ikea wares and transfer my items from the dresser to the new pieces.

A few days later, I was looking for something in my husband’s drawers with the nanny beside me. A black and white feathery thing caught my eye and without much thought, I pulled it out.

“Oh this must be from a costume,” I said holding forgotten sex toy, a rod with a frayed whip on one end and a tickling feather on the other.
Read the rest of this entry »


Naked vs Naked

January 25, 2011

The other afternoon my husband wooed me into having sex. Having been married for four years, and together for seven his version of seduction involves him stroking his penis and saying, I have something for you.

With this prompting I’m supposed to strip down and suck his cock. At least in my husband’s fantasy. If my lame excuses of headache, just showered, have my period, all dressed up, running late, not in the mood — all of which I’ve memorized and can recite in one breath — then we do it. Another seducing technique involves the location of the kids, this time they were playing nicely or watching television.

So with nominal objection from me, he pulled out my silver knee high boots with a three inch heel to wear. Ten minutes later the kids run into the bedroom laughing. My husband, for a reason still unknown to me, decides it is okay for the children to see me naked with metallic boots, but not him and runs to the bathroom. The kids, ages three and just shy of two do not ask questions of my appearance, just wonder where dad is. He shouts from the bathroom for them to listen to me, still shielding his nudity.

Not sure where the story goes, we finished up after I set the kids up in front of the tv, just a funny anecdote of a married mom of two trying to stay relevant.


Just because I’m Wrong Doesn’t Mean you are Right

January 17, 2011

I’m loathe to admit that I made a poor choice, but when called out on it, I confessed to my friend that I did smoke a jay in the bathroom at the gallery hosting her lovely birthday party.
Mea Culpa.

I owned up to it and offered to cover the fine, which I later learned included mistakes by a caterer and was covered by the excess liquor and she subsequently refused.

This was the first party of hers that I brought my own joint, at every other function someone has shared one with me. This doesn’t dismiss my behavior. Nor does the fact that I did stop taking my medication and have not been acting like myself. It was not a reflection on her, just me.

If only I lived in a state where I could consume medicinal marijuana without inhaling.

The exchange ended with my friend, telling me via email and citing a stupid comment I made five years ago during a bridezilla moment that led to us not talking for a few years, this is a big deal and she wants to put our friendship on hiatus. “I need to prioritize and focus on some of the very important relationships in my life, and that means recognizing those in which there has always been mutual respect.”

Read the rest of this entry »