I wanted to catch up with an old friend; wanted to hear about what’s been going on in her life; her marriage; kids, the whole nine yards… We agreed to meet at a quaint, little coffee shop, located somewhere in between where she lives (suburbs) and where I live (urban-dweller). We chose a bistro table, near the window, and the sun rays warmed our bodies. It was great to see her; she looked fantastic. She was, well… she was glowing…. I thought she might be pregnant; radiating some internal joy that percolated to the surface; cheeks were naturally flushed, even her lips seemed fuller. I closed my eyes and took my first sip of my tall, vanilla, non-fat latte. She wasn’t engaging in her coffee. She looked at me; eyes blinking… I knew that look; she had something to say; something compelling to get off her chest.
“I’m having an affair.” She blurted out; matter-a-factly.
Choking and coughing, I spilled my coffee on my lap; this news caught me off guard. It was the last thing I expected she'd say. My eyes were as big as the saucers our coffee mugs sat under, and I gazed back at her. My thoughts raced, “Why the hell do people tell me this stuff?” It’s no secret that I pen porn, for Christ’s sake! I do change the names to protect the innocent; embellishing here, a little change there, and then Voila! The seed is planted for a story. Immaculate Conception at its finest hour.
Thoughts were racing, “say something logical; be supportive; something logical…”
“What!” boring, typical words escaped my lips; disappointed in myself.
“My new vibrator; it’s unbelievable, but hey, I don’t have to tell you that, right?” She said, grinning and winking at me, like I was some vibrator expert (okay, maybe a little).
As usual, I begged for more information; there just had to be more.
“Are you and Jake having sex?” I asked; it was a stupid question.
“Oh yeah, sure Neve, all the fucking time. After fifteen years of marriage, three kids, his job, my job, his stinky, ass and my mood swings…well, we’re just doing it every time we see one another. We’re a barrel of, how would you say it? Hot, Monkey Sex; Monkeys! ” She responded, while rolling her eyes.
Hot, Monkey Sex, Monkeys? Ooops, I touched a nerve; she used the word fucking as an adjective, and I knew I was in trouble. I imagined my friend sneaking off to her spacious master bathroom; closing the door behind her; vibrator in her hand; buzzzz…buzzzz...buzzzz; resurfacing minutes later; refreshed with a healthy glow (hmmm…) and ready to make a hearty dinner for her family. I blushed in embarrassment. Yeah, I know. I know, me; blushing about masturbation? It seemed incongruous, but true.
I’d known her for years. Hell, I wore the obligatory, satin, aqua-colored shoes and matching, pouf-sleeved dress in her wedding. I used to listen to her go on, and on, and on, and on, and on about what a fantastic lover Jake was and meanwhile I was between lovers; vibrating my heart out. Buzzzz.
“So, what you’re telling me is you and Jake don’t have the time, or have lost interest in doing the nasty dirty, using his groove-tube, and you’re engaging in an extramarital affair with your vibrator…huh?” I inquired, seeking clarification.
“Yeah. I guess that’s one way to look at it, or say it.” She said, sitting back in her chair; sipping her cappuccino.
I pondered this information for days before I could write about it. Is she really engaging in an extramarital affair by using her vibrator instead of her husband’s cock? Yes? No? When does acceptable masturbation end and vibrator dependency begin?
I’d love to hear about your thoughts on the subject. Please feel free to leave a comment.
Note: Do you have to have the business card case above?
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