Never Leave Home With It

Main Entry: buzz one out
Pronunciation: buz wun owwt
Function: verb
1 : to operate one’s vibrator in such a way as to reach a climax that allows one to sleep, decrease anxiety, relieve stress, dissolve tension, or combat ennui.

The story begins last night, as the Golden Globes were droning on. The pillow was soft, the duvet was warm, and the low rumble of Warren Beatty accepting the lifetime achievement award was lulling me to sleep. Eyes closed, my hand groped across my nightstand, seeking my purple nubby with the intention of buzzing one out before bed.

As my hand grasped drowsily, it only landed on my glasses, a candle, my alarm clock, and my birth control. My eyes sprung open in alarm, and I shook the tissue box to make sure it hadn’t ended up with the Kleenex. No dice. Panicked, I flew out of bed and threw myself onto the floor, looking to see if the bogeyman had taken it with him under my bed. Nothing.

A sinking feeling began in the pit of my stomach, as I remembered that in a moment of inspiration, I’d put it in my overnight bag and had taken it with me to the house of my current flame this past weekend. Once there, I’d decided that it was a little too early to bring out the toys, so the nubby never left my bag. Or had it?

My face felt hot. Had it fallen out of my bag? Was my little purple friend sitting quietly under his easy chair, only to be unearthed the next time he vacuumed? What if it had fallen out in the street, and had been crushed by a car, the battery acid slowly dissolving the plastic and its sturdy motor into a gooey mess?

There was only one person who could sympathize, my best friend, Anthony. Luckily, he sleeps with his phone in his ear (always ready for a booty call from his latest boy toy), so he answered immediately.

“I lost my vibrator!” I yelled into the phone.
“Slow down,” he soothed. “Where did you have it last?”
“I took it to [redacted’s] house!”
“If it fell out there,” he said, “you’re effed. He’ll think you’re a freak.”
“I know.”
“Is it still in the bag?” he asked.
“I looked there already,” I told him as I rifled through my drawers.
“I hope it’s in your car,” he said. “So the next time you’re driving with someone, they’ll pick it up and ask you what it is.”
“With my luck, it’ll be my dad,” I said, still rifling.
“Yeah, it'll be like that time he found your porn all over again.”
“I know,” I said, with only the junk drawer left. My hand landed on a pair of socks, a baggie of magnetic poetry, a broken lock, a bikini, and, finally, the purple nubby.
“I found it!”
“Where was it?” Anthony asked.
“Junk drawer,” I said, eager to end the call. “I don't remember putting it there. Thanks for the support. I’ve got to get to bed now.”
“I’m sure you do,” he chuckled. “You’ve got some work to do. G’night.”
“Shut up,” I said, pressing end.

I learned some important lessons last night. Only a truly great friend will be sympathetic when you act like the world's coming to an end because you can't find your nubby.

Oh, and a vibrator is the opposite of a credit card. You should never leave home with it.

Image credit: Flickr user strph