It finally happened – true tragedy has stuck our household. My vibrator is dead.
It’s not that it doesn’t work anymore, because it still vibrates with vigor. It’s more terminal than that; the plastic has degraded. It’s… tacky. When I touch it, my fingers stick to it for a moment. It’s no longer smooth.
It was a gift, I think for Christmas (how appropriate!). It is an Emerald Twister, from the “jellies” collection at Good Vibrations, circa 1997 or so. (They no longer sell them; probably because the plastic degrades.) While I didn’t use it a lot, I liked having it.
It had some really great features: it’s green, emerald green, which is one of my favorite colors. Aside from an annoying penis-like “head” at the end, it’s totally un-penis-like. This is a big plus, because I have access to a penis, and when I want to use a vibrator, I don’t necessarily want to be thinking of a penis. The control for the vibrator was attached to a cord at the end instead of being in the handle-end. (Personally, I’ve never liked the vibrations aspect… To me, it’s somewhere between annoying and pointless, depending on location, and that’s as specific as I’m going to be on that.)
But honestly, the thing I liked best about it was simply having it. It was like a coming-of-age rite, a thing every woman in touch with her sexuality and desires should have. A tangible symbol of taking control of my own needs. A monument to my liberation from a prudish Catholic upbringing and conquering of my own shame.
Not bad for $50.
I fully embraced the feminist movement, on what I think is a much deeper level than my mother ever did. I was raised to never doubt that I was a man’s equal, to never believe for a second that I was less capable or worthy. But I think my mother and her generation were afraid to address sex head-on. Sure, there are notable exceptions, but in general, I think the middle-class feminists of the 70s, the one with kids who went out and got jobs and went to Church and taught their daughters to be strong women and play sports… failed to break out of the slut/whore dichotomy. And rather than be shameless whores and Wanton Hussies, they quietly skipped over the whole subject, after a brief lecture on Nice Girls Don’t and If You Ever Get Pregnant I Will Kill You.
So having a vibrator meant I’d broken free of all of that. That I’m part of the next generation of feminists, the “yeah I’m a man’s equal, DUH” generation, the group who’s asking “so what’s wrong with being a slut?” The reclaiming my power, my sexuality, my needs, my cunt kind of girl. A goddess-worshiping porn-writing queer perverted liberal hippie grrl-power babe.
But now my symbol is dead.
The saddest thing is, I don’t know what to do with it. I mean, I’ve shared fantasies with it. It’s been in intimate places. It feels wrong for it to end up in a landfill somewhere. (Not to mention slightly unsanitary, despite the fact that it’s quite clean.) Where do old sex toys go to die?
Where do old symbols go when they get... sticky?
Maybe I could give it to the dog for a chew toy… Is that wrong?