Observations/Results: Quantify the effects of the experiment. I wasn't completely satisfied with the findings from the first phase of the experiment, so I decided to give the tool one more test, to see if eliminating drunk, friendly participants could bring the experiment to its desired conclusion. Arranging the bullet so that it was cuddled up with my clitoris rather than inserted, I went into the city's damp, pulsing, unpredictable belly: the subway. Waiting on the platform, I didn't even have to look out at the tracks to know the train was coming — I could feel it from blocks away. It was like being clairvoyant; my vagina could predict the future. When the train burst into the station, I was already grinning like a fool, enjoying the grinding of gears against the track. Once on the train, I sat back, closed my eyes, and let the MTA do its magic. Unfortunately, there was no orgasm to be had on the subway either. While the commute was definitely more enjoyable than any other in my recent memory, the vibration alone wasn't cutting it, and the number of people sitting directly across from me had me paranoid that I would soon be noticed and carted away as a deviant. Either that or they'd start singing Disney tunes, and I wouldn't be able to contain myself. Even the knowledge that I was headed home to get off in peace wasn't enough to move me from arousal to orgasm. Conclusion: Summarize your findings.
When I was out on the street picking up sounds from traffic, it felt kind of like the city was fucking me — and for the first time since I moved here, that felt pretty good. I didn't give much thought to the unwitting people in my erotic wake; I was much more concerned with keeping a straight face. It's possible that I would have gotten off more readily at the bar, had everyone been unaware of the vibrator tucked into my panties. I'm no stranger to having multiple partners, but given the sheer number of people trying to scoot me towards an orgasm, I felt more like a party trick than a scientist. Although almost everyone was good-natured about the whole public-vibrator-orgasmic-group-effort thing, it was disconcerting. When I walked by the DJ table, a complete stranger asked me how I was enjoying the music. "Um, well, it's ODB, kinda hard to go wrong, right?" This was not the answer he wanted. He asked me if I wanted him to "turn the music, you know, up," gesturing with his eyebrows between my face, the speakers, and my junk. That sort of thing happened a lot. More surprising than the sheer power of this tiny vibe/panty combo was the seriousness that others devoted to the experiment. I started the experiment worried that it would be mortifying, exhausting, and in no way arousing. I think I expected to be met with either discomfort or some weird tension that could only be relieved by vigorous banging. What I actually experienced was startlingly professional; it was kind of a relief. There was some awkwardness, to be sure, but when people were handling my remote control, their questions reminded me more of an eye exam and less than a trip to the OB-GYN: "Do you like this song? How about techno? Can you tell when I change songs? What about Peaches, is that working? How about now?" They were considerate, curious even — more so than a good number of the folks I've let inside my normal panties for less scientific reasons. Having now experienced a gay man singing into my vagina like it's a teeny rumbling karaoke machine, I can say confidently that, for me, it's impossible to achieve orgasm under certain circumstances, no matter how comfortable I am. But that doesn't mean everyone shouldn't try it once. Or twice. Maybe on the daily. Nobody has to know. n° Read more I Did It For Science here. Photos by Lauren De Luca. Share this article:
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