As Sandy hysteria hit New York last Sunday and everyone scrambled to hurricane-proof their lives, I kept getting text message after text message offering the same advice: Don’t forget to buy batteries!
As Sandy hysteria hit New York last Sunday and everyone scrambled to hurricane-proof their lives, I kept getting text message after text message offering the same advice: Don’t forget to buy batteries! To which my response was general bafflement. What the fuck year is it and how many appliances do you own that take disposable fucking batteries? You know you can’t put those in your iPhone, right? Or did I miss something really important here?
I own but one piece of equipment that uses disposable batteries (although I am seriously considering getting one of those yipping robot dogs that does back flips because hello, awesome), and that’s my vibrator. So when people told me to “buy batteries,” their advice was more important than they would ever imagine. It was pretty hilarious advice to get from my ex-boyfriend but terrifying to hear from my mother. Everyone was saying to me, “Who knows how long you’re going to be stuck inside with no internet and no power, so make sure you have enough batteries to run your giant dildo indefinitely.”
It was barely an hour into the storm when I decided I couldn’t take it a second longer and bust out the big boy. I wanted to wank until the world ended even though I’d spent my last pre-hurricane morning straddling a guy like his was the last dick I’d ever have between my legs. Maybe I was attracted to my own pheromones or something (damn pheromones).
The thing of it is, I wasn’t always a woman with a big blue rabbit. I spent 26 of the past 27 years of my life almost entirely masturbation free. No really, I had some kind of mental stigma attached to getting myself off that made it feel entirely un-sexy.
I don’t know when or what changed, but if I had to venture a guess I’d say that my biological clock sounded some kind of filthy, primordial alarm and my sexual instincts kicked into overdrive. Suddenly, no matter how much I fucked it simply wasn’t enough to get me from horny to not horny anymore. I was even doing good fucking that some friends have described as “perverted.” I found myself always wanting more. I was up vagina creek without a paddle to stick in it.
Or maybe I just stopped being so fucking puritanical about masturbation and realized that sex is an urge everyone gets, just like the urge to eat or the urge to shit, and I have boundless love for both those things. Sex is an instinct, and as long as you’re not forcing it on anyone else or spreading diseases, do with it what you will. Especially when you’re by yourself in the privacy of your own home.
Here’s the wonderful thing about masturbating: You can do it whenever you want. And you can do it real good. You don’t have to worry about getting herpes and you don’t have to worry about getting rejected. You don’t have to worry about sharing your bed with some asshole who snores loudly or is a super chill bro with too much hair that keeps getting in your mouth when you’re trying to doze off. You don’t have to worry about having crappy sex or worse, developing feelings. All you have to worry about, of course, is batteries.