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Due to the generosity of my boss, the original sex-toy angel of the internet, I am now the proud owner of a Liberator Esse. Which, just in case you’re planning on relating this story to your pals around the water-cooler, is pronounced like the letter that comes after “r” and not as though it rhymes with the name of the guy in the classic 80s song whose girl inspired such angst-ridden envy in Rick Springfield.

I know this because I watched the promo videos, which are unashamedly not safe for watching in any location where stuffy people or little children congregate. The videos are sexy, campy and inspiring, not to mention jealousy-inducing, as I know a man who spend one extremely pleasurable day in the company of one of the Liberator educator-models. I gnashed my teeth down nearly to the gum over the fact that I could not be a silent but furiously wanking observer to that encounter, let me tell you.

For years I’ve lusted after the Esse. When I pictured it in the past, I imagined something substantial, certainly; but I had no concept of the how large the box for a 64″ x 24″ product would actually be. It turned out to be a very large box. It was such a large box that my little ones immediately commandeered for their own uses: namely, as a clubhouse. Once it had been most thoroughly squished down on one end it was re-imagined as a slide. Later, with its journey toward two-dimensionality nearly complete, it became a forest path.

And then under cover of darkness I scooted it out to the curb, praying all the way that no one was watching from an upper window, ready to shriek out his or her displeasure into the cool night air.

But where, you might ask, was the actual piece of sex furniture while my children readied themselves for an early trip to boxhab? Oh it was there, lounging about innocently in the living room. While the box still lived, the Esse attracted no attention. Box gone, the little ones dove into Esse exploration with much vigor.  It’s now been used as a pony, a mountain, a racetrack for tiny cars, and an imaginary ocean.  They’ve draped themselves across it, rested on it, crawled under it, slid off it and leaped over it.  The Esse may just be the most brilliantly designed product for children ever.

There’s only one teeny problem with this.  Eventually I’m going to have a date.  My date and I are going to want to use the Esse for its original purpose.  It may cause a revolt when my children notice that the Esse has relocated to my bedroom and shows no signs of coming out again.

The cover’s washable, sure, but I’m anticipating that by the time we’ve christened it, every pore of it will be fully saturated by the very quintessence of lust to the point that it shouldn’t even exist in the same house as children or the weak of heart.