Just look at what my pals at BatteryBliss sent me:

Tonight we fuck with ceramics.

Thanks for sending along this awesome vibrator, Battery Bliss!

The person who built my house thoughtfully placed two power receptacles on the wall most likely to house a future homeowner’s bed. For any other couple inhabiting the master bedroom that would surely be sufficient: a matched set of lamp and clock, one to each side of the bed.

That’s how it worked during my years as married woman, but once the bedroom belonged only to me I allocated one power outlet for practical purposes and reserved the other just for fun. Permanently plugged in are the Hitachi and the Eroscillator; when not in use the cords stretch long enough that the devices can hide beneath the bed, safe from the eyes of children and (mostly) unmolested by cats.

Now the Wahl jostles for space amidst the tangled cords of its compatriots. I’m in need of a power strip so that it can be permanently plugged in too. One day I’ll remember to buy it at the store, then all three weapons-grade toys can be deployed in service of my needs without bother or fuss.

Because I’m greedy like that, I often use multiple toys in succession. I love to start with slow, soft, throbby orgasms the Eroscillator gives, then move on to the pounding screaming thrashing force of the Hitachi before ending with gentle oscillating waves. Am I rendered dead by the Hitachi’s overwhelming force? Is my clit ruined for the delicate touch of battery-powered vibes? Do I long for something more powerful when a lover’s tongue caresses me?

Not bloody likely.

And here’s something really amazing: Even with the best sex toys money can buy, sometimes I just want my fingers. And they still work! I can pop off to the bathroom (or, ahem, the laundry room) and take care of business in less time that it would take another woman to fix her makeup.

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Like now! See how fast that was? (Gawd I feel so much better.)

Numb to more delicate pleasures of the flesh because of my arsenal of toys? Not hardly.

My friend’s brilliant husband did me a good turn for which he refused monetary compensation. “You’ve got good sources,” he said. “Why don’t you see about replacing her missing vibrator?”

I did. “I’ll expect a full report about how it works out,” I warned. And a week later this arrived in my email:

So last night I got in bed, ready to try out the Eroscillator.  The husband was tired and fully endorsed my special alone time with the new toy. I spent a couple of minutes getting into character [ed. note: What does this involve, I wonder?], emitting a few “mmph” sounds, and then I grabbed the steampunk toy that I had already plugged in and I turned it on.

Except it didn’t turn on!  Moving the switch thing up and down did nothing!  “What the fuck…” I whimpered.

He answered “Ohhhhh… [insert tedious explanation regarding why that outlet didn't work].  You can go into the garage and flip a switch and it’ll work again.”

But I was comfy and warm. “Nah, I guess I can wait.”

And that’s when he pounced on me, saying, “Your little sounds turned me on.”

Then today after work I decided to give it a trial run using an outlet that worked. Holy Toledo. I wasn’t even that turned on and it made it all happen for me in like two minutes. I screamed, and then I screamed a lot more. I got up, looked at my toy, and announced loudly to it and the cats: “THERE’S A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN!”

With a reception like that, I may start paying all my debts in sex toys.

Do you think my mortgage company would mind?

The other day I received this email from my dear friend:

You remember that super-cute Lelo vibrator you gave me about a year ago?  The one that was awesome and I love?

I keep it upstairs in my little studio for occasional special alone time, and for the sake of convenience, I “store” it behind the cushions of my couch.  Fine.  Terrific.  Good times for me!

Except that my husband’s mom has nothing to do and comes to our house once every couple of weeks or so to clean things *apparently for the sheer novelty and fun of it* while his dad does house repairs and, I dunno, monitors our siding and the beaver situation near our stream.  Who knows what he’s up to.  It’s bizarre and is a thing they’ve been doing since way before I came on the scene.  My husband–an only child, obviously–has become increasingly annoyed at their presence in our house, although it is nice to see that the dishes have been washed and put away, albeit often in the wrong places.

So I think you can see where this is going.  His mom was puttering around in my studio, which I had always kind of assumed was off-limits to her.  Well, everything changed a few days ago, when she apparently saw the need for a complete overhaul.  She reorganized my desk and went so far as to vacuum my couch and chair…and discover my vibrator and put it I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE.  It is gone.

And now I am asking myself questions like, If I were my mother in-law, and I discovered a rogue vibrator, where the exact fuck would I put it??

Hm, I wrote back. Perhaps she put it in the trash? Or in the bathroom? Or you could, I suppose, ask her where she put your prescription phlebitis prevention device?

Dear reader, if you were my friend’s mother-in-law, where would you have stashed her vibe? Please leave answers in the comments below so that my friend will be able once again to enjoy the special alone time we all periodically need.

One of the most amusing aspects of maintaining any sort of affiliate arrangement is that typically, the account owner can see what products were sold through her specially coded links.

Oh don’t worry; I can’t find out anything about the people who made those purchases. Not names, not addresses, not even when said purchases were made. But I can usually view the items themselves, for the purpose (I suppose) of allowing webmasters to understand their visitors better. I’ve spent hours in contemplation of my various accounts, wondering how exactly my generous benefactors used the things they received.

Was that book any good? How’s the Esse working out? Did one person really buy all seven?

But the other night while scrolling through recent acquisitions made through Amazon, I noticed something I’ve never seen before. Buried amidst the expected books, music, MP3 files and a few sex toys was this, and if you were the one who found it on your doorstep a few days later I’ve got some things I simply must know.

Are you going to use it in the manner it was intended to be used? Are you skilled in this pursuit or just a beginner? What was the impetus behind the purchase? Did your last one perhaps get wrecked? Stolen? Spirited away by clowns?

And most importantly, will you send me pictures of yourself on it?

Iamfivestar, was it you?

A location otherwise used for performances of Shakespeare, art exhibitions and weddings was transformed late last week into a classroom, one whose centerpiece was a towering portable bondage apparatus. For two hours an avid group listened to rope instruction and tried out new techniques under the tutelage of one of the most charismatic and interesting teachers I’ve ever heard.

The class officially ended at 9. The planned question-and-answer session morphed into cock-and-ball bondage (as no one volunteered to provide demonstration equipment, Monk himself dropped trou) and even more suspension bondage. A group of us chatted while watching from tiled steps near the tripod; opposite a handful of experienced rope tops from a local bondage group pulled their chairs a respectful distance from the rig’s legs.

Monk tied and retied a smiling bottom, a woman who clearly loved every physical permutation he put her through. He pushed her upside-down body to demonstrate the fun that could be had with a sub in motion, but as she oscillated out and between two legs of the bondage tripod the opposing leg lifted well off the ground. It looked as though the swing would only stop when her body hit us or the rock-like steps on which we were sitting.

We threw up our hands as if to protect our faces but before we could take any more appropriate action her swing reversed and in an instant she was safe in Monk’s arms. His eyes never left her, so he had no idea that that behind him, the easy-to-assemble leg pieces — held together only by the weight of the rest of the apparatus — had completely fallen apart. Only the rapid action by the local bondage tops kept Monk and the bottom safe from the other two collapsing legs. They were able to catch the pieces and lower everything gently to the ground.

It all happened in half a blink of an eye.

Their response was impressive, seriously impressive. They could not have acted quicker if they’d been warned in advance that the device would so spectacularly fail. Even more impressive was the response of the product’s manufacturer, who accepted full responsibility as soon as he was told of the failure. Units already in use will be fixed and no more will be sold until Monk’s had a chance to test the improvements he’s already planning.

Accidents happen every day in naughty situations and in not-so-naughty, in kinky play and in vanilla. Everything, including stepping out the front door, involves some risk. Risk is common. Accidents are common. What’s not so common is to see such a beautiful response from everyone involved.

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Monk talks about the incident here, and there’s more information about that night on Carnal Nation.

If you’re a member of FetLife, you can read what the manufacturer has to say here.