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Obviously, I was drunk. Beside me, my friend Bob rummaged through a shelf of personal massagers — undulating nylon mats and giant, thumping devices that could clock someone — in search of an item he'd dubbed "the Cadillac of vibrators." "They're out," said Bob, his body half-buried in scattered boxes. "But this might work." "This?" I turned the white box over in my hand. "It looks like a hand mixer." He sighed. "This is more like the Grand Am of vibrators. The Ford Escort of vibrators." "How does it even work?" I asked. Bob gave me a look. He'd taken me this far. From here, I was on my own. Earlier that night, Bob and I had been in a smoky dive, drinking pitchers of lager and admitting things we shouldn't have. Like the number of people we'd slept with, and when, and how, and why.
Bob was incredulous. "Never, ever?" I shook my head and lit a cigarette. "Don't you have a vibrator?" "Keep it down!" I said, squirming in my seat. "Why are you freaking out?" asked Bob. "There's nothing wrong with having a vibrator." "Stop saying that so loud," I whispered. "What, vibrator? What's wrong with you?" asked Bob. I wasn't sure. But I was beginning to suspect that — despite a lifetime of pretending otherwise — I was a bit of a prude. How did it happen? In kindergarten, I was the kid who told unbelieving listeners on the playground where babies come from. In sixth grade, I passed around The Color Purple in French class. It was dog-eared to the page where one woman tells another to hold a mirror up to her "you-know-what" and admire it. In high school, I had sex earlier and more often than my girlfriends, who came to me for advice: like what lingerie to wear, how to lay across the bed so your thighs look thinner, which angle was most flattering. And therein lay the problem. By age seventeen, I had swallowed so many movie fantasies about what sex was supposed to look like — torso arched in ecstasy, toes curled comically — that I didn't bother to ask how it was supposed to feel. And it felt . . . okay. But there was no white-hot ecstasy, no explosion of bliss. My boyfriend was incredibly attentive, valiant when it came to my pleasure, and so, not wanting to disappoint him, I did exactly what they do in the movies. I faked it.
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