Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to buy vibrators from lesbians

One of my fondest, most magical memories involves interviewing a porn star.

I was on assignment in Las Vegas for our Sex Issue—something I got saddled with quite a bit since I was the only single person on staff. Anyway, I drove to some nondescript strip-mall/warehouse in the middle of nowhere to interview Serenity, who at the time was on contract with Wicked Pictures. At the end of our interview, she turns to me and goes, “So, you want some toys before you go?”

Did I!

So, Serenity, who was actually a very smart business lady who started her own toy company because she knew that she couldn’t be in pornos forever and she didn’t like most sex toys “because they’re made by men, for women, and they have no idea what we want…” took me into her warehouse. And let me tell you—you know that scene in Willy Wonka, where the kids get to literally go into the candy factory and see all the chocolate and wonderful sugary goodness and Oompa Loompas? It was just fucking like that, only with dildos and vibrators and Mexicans.

Serenity grabbed a couple cardboard boxes and took me around. “Do you want a 6-incher or 8-incher? Most women prefer six, but the eight is like a rocket-ship ride.”

“Um, I don’t know,” I said. “I better have the bigger one.”

“You better have both,” she said. And so, that little Wicked angel filled cardboard boxes with dozens of awesome sex toys. And promised to send me her videos since she didn’t have those in-house. I took those boxes back to my office, dumped ‘em out on my desk and set aside the shit I wanted—and gave the rest away to co-workers and friends.

Now, that stash has lasted me a long time. One by one, I’ve blown through those vibrators. And I’ve been down to the last one—a real trooper and my favorite—Pink Sparkly, for a few years now. In fact, I like Pink Sparkly so much that when its battery pack/remote control fell apart a few years ago, I duct-taped it back together.

However, last summer, I realized that its last days were pretty imminent. And as I actually had some extra scratch, I decided that it was time for a vibrator upgrade. And, as I didn’t want to wait around for my new vibrator, I decided to go to Babeland in Park Slope. Fuck it, I was in the neighborhood and figured I could get a quick sex toy fix.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

First off, I go into the store. I know what I want. And, whilst buying sex toys, etc., this is no time to be a shrinking violet. It’s like buying a car—you’re intimidated, you may not know exactly which model you’re getting, and you know you’re gonna spend way too much money on something that’s immediately gonna lose about 80 percent of its value once you drive it off the lot—but you gotta remain confident.

So the tatted-up lesbian store clerk approaches me.

“Yes,” I say. “I want a waterproof vibrator—not a dildo—that’s big and thick.”

She looks at me really strangely. “Well, we have these wonderful, waterproof mini-vibes over here…you can hold them underwater!” She gestures to a rack of teeny-tiny, maybe two- to three-inch plastic things—seriously, they look like suckers the fucking doctor gives you after a flu shot.

“Um, no,” I say. “It has to be bigger than that. I need something big.”

She looks really confused and frustrated with me. “Are you sure? Because many women enjoy these excellent, smaller toys…”

Now, don’t start that whole “it’s not the size, it’s the motion in the ocean” argument with me. I know that some women are very satisfied with men who are, um, less than endowed. I am not one of these women. I never have been and never will be. Do not fucking argue with me on this point.

I keep telling her no, no, no to the small shit and she keeps trying to sell me tiny things! I’m not exactly sure why the lesbian is trying to sell me on the idea that putting a glorified fucking finger puppet to my crotch is going to satisfy me, and I’m really getting annoyed. No offense, lesbians, but when a woman says she wants serious dick, she wants serious dick—not clit rockets, buzzers, or magic butterflies you put over your pussy. If I ever need to buy a strap-on, you’ll be the first I consult with. But do not question the fact that I am a Size Queen and that when I say that I do not want any vibrator smaller than a very large penis, trust me, I mean it.

I promptly tell her to quit wasting my time. “I’m a Size Queen,” I tell her. “There’s no way this is going to be staple of my repertoire. Show me the serious shit.”

So, in this so-called dildo store, they had all of three vibrators larger than six inches. Three. In the entire store. And they were all variations of the same vibrator made by the same company.

“These are German, and they’re, um, really good,” she says, I believe she’s kinda terrified of me now. “Um, it’s got lots of speeds and it’s real easy to adjust…like this…”

“Great, I’ll take the purple one.”

Now, vibes ain’t cheap. So after I slap down $70 plus tax for this hunk of silicone, I take it home with the knowledge that at least I’m gonna have a back-up or a friend for Pink Sparkly.

I get home and load it with batteries. All those awesome adjustments she showed me on the store’s model? Yeah, that’s bullshit. They don’t work—the adjustment button is insanely hard to press down on to change speeds. I mean, I’m literally leaning on this thing, putting all my body weight on it, practically breaking my thumbs, and it still won’t work. So, I’m stuck with one speed, essentially, the burn your clit off speed.

Now, I’m pissed. I spent $70 on this fucking thing? I’m taking it back.

There probably isn’t a more humiliating experience than returning a vibrator. But I would not be dissuaded. I spent good money on this cheap piece of shit, and where was this superior German engineering I was promised?

I take it back. “The speeds don’t work, I can barely push that button, it’s so hard,” I say. A different lesbian pulls out a rubber surgical glove, grabs my vibrator and starts trying to put it through its paces. After a few minutes of us standing there over my vibe, she goes, “Um, yeah, it’s not working. Pick out another one.”

So I pick out another one. And take it home. And it’s the same fucking shit. Still doesn’t adjust properly. But by this time I’ve had it. “I can’t keep taking vibrators back! This is consuming my life! Consuming. My. Life.” So, I just let the batteries run down a bit. Then it was sorta OK.

After this experience I realized many things: One, don’t buy vibrators from stores that are predominately used by lesbians and soccer moms—they won’t have a decent selection of shit for women who demand decent-sized dick. Two, order your sex goods from online (Good Vibrations is pretty awesome)—you get a better selection, cheaper prices and to keep your dignity. And three? Fuck, I wish I had my old job back, where I could go and visit a porn star, and she would just hook me up with that shit for free. And not question the fact that sometimes, a woman just needs eight fucking inches of Pink Sparkles.