83 Ways to Begin a Vibrator Essay

I turned twenty and bought myself a six-toed cat, a five hundred dollar pair of boots, and a sleek black vibrator.

When I turned twenty I bought a thirty-dollar Babeland vibrator and then a six-dollar congratulatory meatball sub.

The winter of my twentieth year I bought myself five vibrating inches of body-safe silicon.

My new vibrator looks less like a sex toy and more like a kitchen gadget from Ikea.

My new vibrator looks less like the ribbed dildos in the windows of the sex shops on Sixth Avenue and more like conceptual sculpture.

—more like a Koons

—more like a hair curler

—less like the ribbed dildos in the windows of sex shops on Sixth Avenue and more like a model bullet train.

—more like a toddler’s plastic spoon

—more like a fishing lure

—more like a sea slug

—more like a body-safe sea slug

After watching a documentary on female genital mutilation, I stopped taking things for granted.

After watching handheld footage of Somali sisters held down and sewn up, I stopped taking things for granted. One thing in particular.

We buy ourselves vibrators in order to live.

My little sister texted me, “I got an Implanon!”

My younger sister texted me, “I’m on birth control!”

On New Year’s I stumbled home drunk and alone to find my much younger sister in bed with a boy and the sheets pulled up to their chins. “They’re probably really bad at sex,” my roommate later consoled.

After I vomited four beer pong victories out the tree house window, I said to him, “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

First Scotty told me to come over for meatball subs. Then he took off my Batman sweatshirt. Then he burped in my mouth.

After I bent Scotty’s glasses with my face, he belched in my mouth.

Scotty belched in my mouth and then stopped texting me.

Scotty stopped talking to me, but only after he belched in my mouth.

Matt the lifeguard held me up against my bathroom wall and gave me mouth-to-mouth.

Matt was the sexiest boy I’d ever gotten with, even when he dropped me in my cat’s litter box.

Matt was the sexiest boy I’d ever gotten with, until he dropped me in my six-toed cat’s litter box.

It was August; why was his hand so cold?

We just watched the MLB All-Star game, why are your fingers so cold?

We just ate Buffalo wings; why didn’t you wash your hands?

After I vomited four beer pong victories out the tree house window, I tried to tell him, “I don’t want to have sex with you.” What I actually said was, “You don’t want to have sex with me.” He said, “Don’t tell me what I want.”

My vibrator cost less than Plan B but more than a cab ride home.

My vibrator cost more than mascara but less than dinner and a movie.

My vibrator cost me three hours of babysitting my ten-year-old cousin.

I babysat my cousin and after his piano teacher relieved me I bought myself a vibrator.

I babysat my cousin and after his geography tutor relieved me I bought myself an orgasm.

The female orgasm is not a myth.

The female orgasm is sold by Park Slope girls with bangs for thirty dollars.

The female orgasm can be shipped to your apartment in five to eight business days.

The female orgasm can be shipped to your apartment in five to eight business days and discreet packaging.

Girls don’t jerk off. Everyone knows that.

Girls didn’t jerk off until the rules changed and no one told me.

Don’t be a prude, said Rachel Strom.

You’re not supposed to talk about what you do with yourself, said my best friend.

My best friend makes jokes about the vibrator she doesn’t know I have.

My best friend sucked off my other best friend. After, he told her, “That can’t be Kosher.”

Eve Ensler once said—

Madonna once said—

My mother told me—

My mother never told me—

That video they showed in fifth grade where the vagina looks like a tape worm napping in a catcher’s mitt—

That scene in the car in Titanic—

That day I got my period at soccer practice—

My male soccer coaches chose our white shorts—

That time Rachel Strom, who substituted lube with chocolate syrup, asked me if I jerked off and the whole school bus leaned in to hear—

That time I told Rachel Strom, who had a yeast infection, that I did jerk off, but not well.

They taught me how to put in a tampon, but not—

They taught me how to roll a condom down the shaft of a banana, but not the first thing about—

They taught me how to find the best jeans for my butt.

They taught me how to kiss with my tongue.

They taught me how to test for lumps, boot and rally, walk in heels, drink coffee with a straw, lift and separate, wax, pluck, exfoliate, get blood out of cotton, but not the first thing about—

You’re supposed to find out for yourself, they tell me.

You’re supposed to find out for yourself, they tell me, as if I just needed to click my heels three times.

You’re supposed to find out for yourself, they would tell me if we talked about such things.

They tell me about those poor mutilated Somali girls.

They tell me about those poor Somali girls cut into by their Third World husbands.

“Those poor Somali girls cut into by their Third World husbands,” they campaign, they tweet, they tell me to tick off my First World blessings like cycle beads.

Tell me about those poor Somali clits.

Tell me about my clit.

Don’t tell me what I want.

Don’t tell my how to write this story.

This story is not about loneliness.

This story is not yet about loneliness.

This story has nothing to do with you.

This is the story of how I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I turned twenty and bought myself a six-toed cat, a five hundred dollar pair of boots, and a sleek black vibrator. The cat wakes me up each morning by sitting on my face. The boots give each heel two hundred and fifty dollar blisters. And the vibrator—

The vibrator is not a kitchen gadget.

The vibrator is not a banana.

The vibrator is not a speculum.

The vibrator is not a twenty-year-old boy.

The vibrator is not a text message.

The vibrator is not a secret.

The vibrator gets me off.

My vibrator gets me off.