Like lots of women, I have a secret lover whom for many years I kept tucked away where no-one could discover him; particularly when my grandchildren came to visit, because if left alone they sometimes decided to look in my bedroom for a stash of sweets or chocolate. In fact, I once caught the cheekiest in action.
‘What do you think you are doing?’
‘Just looking for a pen.’
‘Well, there’re plenty on my desk in the lounge.’
A little abashed, he left the room, and having checked everything was okay, I went out, closing the door firmly behind me.
As a so-called emancipated female, one would think that I would have been open about my sex life. But the one who gives me so much satisfaction (I call him Peter) is for me alone.
Except Peter recently failed at his job. I tried everything to revitalize him, without success, and to be truthful, I felt no need for his services at that point. Then I passed the place where I first met him, so I went in and looked around. There was a surprising number of people there, even in these days of smaller wage packets and cuts in budgets. I looked at the various types available – some were like Peter, then there was Ralph Rabbit - impressive! Tall, short, fat or thin, ticklers, even the handbag kind.
You have probably realized by now that Peter is my vibrator. I’m certain some women keep theirs stashed away neatly in the bathroom cupboard, or handy in the bedside drawer, but I never got over the feeling that it wasn’t quite right to openly own it. And dependant on my current situation, I sometimes almost forgot it existed. Then something would start me off, and Peter was put to work.
But let me tell you what happened in the shop. One of the assistants came up to me.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ve got one of those,’ I said, pointing to a Peter, ‘but he’s…er…it’s stopped working. That is, it doesn’t vibrate anymore, though I’ve tried different batteries.’
‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘Did you buy it recently?’
‘Oh no, I’ve had it for ages,’ I assured her. ‘It’s long past any guarantee, but do you do repairs?’
I suppose it was a stupid question really, but quite calmly she told me that they didn’t.
I sighed, and said ‘I suppose I’ll have to dump it then, but I feel uncomfortable about putting it in the rubbish, or recycling.’
‘Oh,’ said the helpful lady, ‘you can bring it here. We have a disposal service. It’ll be no trouble.’
For a moment or two, I wondered what their disposal service could be, and had a vision of dozens of their product in a bag or bin – quite gruesome really, like body parts.
On the way out I looked wistfully at the other ‘sex toys’ available, decided at my age it was time to forget about sexual satisfaction, and left the shop.
That evening, after I related this incident to one of my friends on the phone, she sounded as though she was having trouble breathing (we share the same sense of humour), but then she calmed down and came up with an idea.
‘Well, if you don’t want to put it in the dustbin,’ she said, ‘you could bury it in the garden.’
‘I suppose I could,’ I said with a grin, looking at the garden through my window.
‘And you could put up a gravestone.’
That was the final straw. We both collapsed with laughter.
‘Died in action,’ I shrieked. ‘A good friend. Did his best.’
‘Rest in Peace,’ she choked.
Wherever Peter finally comes to rest, I shall always remember him very fondly. I don’t plan to replace him, though it’s going to be difficult to avoid straying into that shop as I pass it every week.
Of course, I could ask an electrician to try and repair Peter, but……?? Could you?