Vodka Yonic features a rotating cast of women and nonbinary writers from around the world sharing stories that are alternately humorous, sobering, intellectual, erotic, religious or painfully personal. You never know what you’ll find here each week, but we hope this potent mix of stories encourages conversation.
I bought my first vibrator in my 30s.
My late 30s.
OK, about eight months ago, right after I lost my job.
Getting laid off was like being served divorce papers from someone I was planning to leave for someone else — in this case, the affair was with full-time writing. But I was beaten to the punch just before the holiday season. I had only a few thousand dollars’ worth of PTO as severance pay and no other prospects to speak of. I knew I had to make what little money I had left last as long as possible, but I did allow myself a few indulgences. For three years, I’d been bringing home a paycheck that didn’t even cover all of my bills, let alone afford me any splurges without dire consequences. So I revamped my peeling leather couch. I bought myself a designer handbag (from the outlet). And I bought a vibrator.
As is often the case with me in the bedroom, I know what I like when I see it, so it didn’t take me long to pick one out. Nichole Perkins, another Black woman writer, had given Tracy’s Dog’s Clitoral Sucking Vibrator a glowing review on Twitter months before, and I’d saved the Amazon link in my Notes app under a list called “Hoop Dreamz.” When it was time to pick it out, my only point of debate was the color. I chose purple — which is my second-favorite. They didn’t have pink.
My vibrator arrived on a day when my friend Josh and I were hanging out, watching episodes of Tuca & Bertie, and I joked with him that he’d have to leave because I needed some time alone. But he was curious, so we pulled it out of the box to examine it together. It was V-shaped, with a clitoral stimulator on one end, and several speed settings. I was turned on by every aspect of it: the bulbous tip, which I held in my palm like an egg; the flexibility at the base; the velvety feel of silicone. I was even aroused by the charging port on the handle — an almost-hidden hole you gain access to by piercing the silicone with the connector.
I bought my first vibrator because I’d never had one before, and as hard as I’d worked — both at my day job and my writing — I’d earned it. I bought it because I believed it would help me out. I’d been tired of masturbating using only my hands — although, big ups to these hands, they get the job done. I bought it because I really love clitoral stimulation, and I figured it could handle that part easily, with the touch of one finger instead of the rapid rubbing of many. I bought it because I am a sexual assault survivor, and in the years since the assault happened, I’ve been deeply committed to sexual pleasure divorced from other people’s bodies — at least for now. It has made exploration feel safer. After all, I can’t violate myself, can I?
Well, in most instances, no. But I’ve certainly reenacted moments of violence on myself unaware. When I first realized I could facilitate my own orgasms (also in my late 30s, for shame!), I masturbated with abandon, my sole purpose being to get off. I’d wake up the next day unnecessarily sore, in pain when I hadn’t intended to be. I had to learn to slow down, be kind to myself and enjoy the process. I hoped the vibrator would help me do that conveniently.
And it did, but not in the ways I expected. I don’t find the clitoral stimulator helpful at all. Its suction isn’t as strong as I anticipated, and when I turn it on, it sounds like one of those tiny personal fans, which also fail at their jobs, IMO. I also learned that I don’t like to be penetrated, at least not by stiff silicone. It feels like trying to have sex with a bowling pin. But I get a great deal of pleasure — and multiple orgasms — from placing the vibrator directly on my clitoris and using my fingers to penetrate myself. It’s not what I anticipated, but it’s wonderful.
It may also serve as a metaphor for my recovery.
I had no idea that rape would help me understand how, even in consensual encounters, I hadn’t always been getting everything I wanted — like … orgasms. And I rarely voiced my disappointment or tried to remedy it. I was raised in a conservative Christian household where sex and pleasure were the domain of men, and masturbation was considered “mannish” — a word whose structure tells you all you need to know about its meaning. Being mannish means being aggressive, transgressive and breaking the gendered boundaries that good, God-fearing women are expected to maintain, even if we never had a say in why and how they were set. It makes me sad to think of all the pleasure I missed and all the times I could have walked away from folks who didn’t know what they were doing, to find it on my own.
My new vibrator has its disappointments, but it’s been willing to work with me, and it lets me decide how best to get what I need. In doing so, it’s prepared me to ask the same of any potential partner, to expect that we will mutually please each other and be flexible and innovative when necessary. It’s been a great dry run, and I look forward to the times I slip Tracy’s Dog out of its box and lock my actual dog out of my bedroom. I also look forward to the day I can put what I’ve learned into practice with a partner.
