Plastophillian Desperation

plas-to-phile – (noun) - a woman due to very unfortunate and isolated circumstances, is reduced to an intimate relationship with a long thin, buzzy, though properly curved, piece of plastic.

I never imagined that I'd meet my long anticipated sexual peak and be living alone. Finally, the desire to have sex multiple times in a single day, as creatively and emphatically as would be physically possible, and the energy to indulge myself. And what happens? I am met by frustration and the ordinary and every day set of responsibilities of single motherhood. An appropriate partner with the same frame of reference, drive and the same desires is not readily available, and patience is mine....too much of the time. Hope springs eternal anyway, and occasionally I do find relief in the form of a real live man, but it doesn't happen often enough, and I'm still working on my long term relationship skills. I might have laughed at this once upon a time but I heard this comment about women over forty that went something like this, "They never swell. They never tell, and they are grateful as hell." Sigh, that so sucks, or doesn't as they case may be.

Shortly after I left my ex-husband is when it happened. The relief of being away from him, the joy of having self determination without his constant negativity, the utter joy at finding another man who found a woman as overweight as I felt I was - stunningly beautiful. I mean never mind he was completely unavailable, he was hot for me twice a month until my nerves chilled out and I could breathe freely again...with the bonus of absolutely no pressure whatsoever.

Every morning as I would drive into town I passed this super stocked adult toy store called The Loveshack. This woman perched on a gigantic billboard with a tongue the size of a two story building, and who must have only been slightly more amorous than me, beckoned me to get the nerve to walk into that building and buy myself some relief. I just didn't really know if I ought to do that. I mean, what if someone saw me?????

In my early thirties I had a good friend get married. She was probably the only virgin I knew who was over 30 and actually waited until marriage to have sex. She was so curious. I mean she asked me everything in the world about my experiences and I told her every freaking detail. By her estimation I was practically brazen about my desires, and she never would have called me shy. So one afternoon about a month after her wedding, she calls me and asks me if I will accompany her to a store in downtown Atlanta to help her choose a vibrator. She wants to know what an orgasm is, and they haven't figured it out yet. She's totally unashamed; as she's married, it's allowed, and she's having a ball. I practically fall out of my seat at the "honor", but anything for a friend. We go to the store. We go inside. She looks at everything. You know I actually got embarrassed in there. She laughed at me in total surprise.

I had a few toys while I was married. One in particular my ex-husband had gotten for me as a special gift, it was a very special Peter North collectors edition device. It cost like a hundred dollars, and was supposedly modeled after the real thing. I'd always felt guilty about using it, like it diminished my husband in some way. When I left him I thought I'd never need or want it, and frankly, forgot it and left it behind. Though I knew where it was in our home.

Regretting my haste in abandoning Perfect Peter, and thinking that I was oh so very smart, I send my friend Diana, general partner in crime, to my marital home to fetch the appropriate boxes for me and have my ex-husband ship them to me. Weeks later, upon receipt of my salvation in a box, in great anticipation that I'm finally going to get some relief, I open the box. I fly through ninety pairs of panties and thongs of every shape and color and size imaginable to discover that my ex-husband also knew where this toy was and like the couch, the stained glass panels, and my kitchen appliances had gotten rid of it just to spite me. I couldn't believe it. Even so, I sat down and giggled because it really was a great "gotcha" even if overall I really hated his guts for all we'd been through.

Thwarted, I continue my daily grind for a few more weeks driving past The Loveshack billboard, staring down the two story tongue in utter horror at the prospect of walking in that building. Clearly, it must be done as my awkwardness around men is so great that I have no hope of ever getting laid in a timely fashion. Finally, having lost my lover, I get the nerve and go in. I mean this place is unbelievably garish and every time I look on a shelf I am absolutely stunned at the devices they've developed. There are remote control items; there are prosthetic devices to emulate every conceivable orifice. They have hypoallergenic silicone. There are gels, and creams and books, videos, games, and bottles and leather outfits and everything in there is labeled a novelty. Yeah, I'd say it was novel alright.

I'm broke, determined to find out if this whole g-spot talk is nothing more than mythology and I find what seems to be an appropriate device. It's long, thin, has an egg shaped end, up turned to locate the proverbial sweet spot, and it doesn't LOOK like a penis. So I figure if anyone sees it, maybe it isn't so obvious what the heck it is. The price is right, $12.95. It comes in about nine different fashion colors, pearlescent and jewel tone, your choice. I must have stood there deciding the right color for a long time because that only meant I'd have to get the nerve up to actually buy it. Any time another human being came in proximity to me, I'd turn approximately 9000 shades of red.

I do go up to the counter to pay for the thing and in a booming voice the woman asks me "WOULD YOU LIKE BATTERIES IN THAT M'AMM?" Oh Gawd, shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes, of course I want batteries. She opens the package, tests the thing and waves it around in the air, slaps it a bit to make sure it's going to do the job. She wants to see my driver's license. Can I PLEASE just die here? Finally I get out of there, to the car, and drive away and as I actually begin to breathe again, I'm pretty happy I got the nerve to go through with it all.

The device becomes my new best friend in very short order.

I think in the last two years I've bought one in almost every color, to date about seven of them. They don't last that long really. Either they aren't very well made, the motors aren't that strong, or I'm very very rough on them. I've tried other models and they just aren't the same. I even got a remote control egg once for "research" on this erotic scene I was developing for my book. I try it out for a few days and it's interesting, but it breaks after only two days.

I've made a friend on my favorite website and I say, "Tina, you worked in one of these joints. What's up with that? Are they made to die in two days?"

She's quiet a few seconds. I suspect she is smiling at my question, but not laughing at me yet. She says, "Not really. What'd you do? Turn it on and leave it on a long time until the damned motor burned out?" I'm trying to maintain my conventional demeanor, and I say, "Uhmmm. Well how long is a long time?"

She answers quickly, "Oh an hour and a half."

I'm forced to sheepishly admit, "Well yeah, I guess I did then."

To my horror one afternoon, a few months into my first device, my kids come back from visiting their father early one Sunday afternoon. My middle son discovers the purple device and says, "Mommy what's this?????" I'm shitting.

I try not to over react or snatch it out of his hands and say, "Oh, uhmmmm, that's a back massager."

He looks at it quizzically as I gently take it from him and says, "COOL, can I try it?!?" I'm horrified at the prospect....tell him it's only for adults and to run and play while Mommy cleans up her room. This has happened a few times actually. He saw the purple one. He saw the white one. He saw the turquoise one. Each time, I thought I'd had it out of his reach or view; I'd have to recover and put it away (again).

A few days ago, I'd errantly left the hot pink one out, as now I guess I'm damned brazen about the color. My kids come back from their grandmother's house. My son meanders into my bedroom again, and spots it. I think the only thing I miss more than regular sex is my privacy. He casually says, "Oh you have a pink one now? Can I have the blue one?"

Exasperated to be out-ed once again, but standing there about to choke on my own scream of laughter I could not help but smile. I swear, I tried to hide it. I secret away the damned thing again, this time high out of reach and in the closet. I tell him no that they are only for adults. I shake my head, sit down on the floor, put my head in my hand, and then I start laughing. He looks strangely at me. I just shake my head and say, "Oh you are going to give me SUCH a hard time about this when you are grown up."

I have this vision of my son going through The Loveshack at the tender age of 21 and seeing the array of Mommy's Favorite Toy hung on the wall in 12 New and Improved Day-Glo Colors...and he's just going to know, right then and there...all those years ago that those were not back massagers....Mommy is a freak between the sheets. Somehow I imagine this will be a traumatic event and I don't think I am going to be able to put quite enough money into the therapy fund to cover this one.