Confessions of a Bondi Blonde

It’s my birthday soon and I want a toy. A sex toy.

I want to buy a piece for some action because there’s been lots of sizzle but no steak in my nether regions recently.

I came to the idea of celibacy in a round-about way. First it was thrust upon me. I was dating a perfect Northern beaches gentleman but unfortunately getting horizontal was a bit of a problem. In between kids in our beds and life issues we just couldn’t get it on to get off. And he respected me too much to go for it in the back of my Volvo wagon, among the chip packets and footy boots. I was gagging for it, but his chivalry was like a wall I couldn’t throw a leg over no matter how hard I tried. Then operation fanny fix put me out of sex action for two whole months, 62 days. When it was time to remove the stitches of my chastity belt I looked for a Bondi rescuer to test my tubes to see if all was operational. Alas, the Sydney man drought was relentless, even though I was gasping.

I’ve been celibate for quite a while now. Caught between a rock and a hard place I want to start the next bit of my life with affection and kindness, maybe even the idea of love. So I don’t want casual sex.  But I’m not ready for big, deep meaningful relationship stuff. I’ve got a core of lovely friends who keep me safe and loved and I am enjoying being slovenly selfish after existing in a half-life of wife for 10 years.

As well the appeal of being single has started to gain momentum. I have turned into a bloke. I watch what I want, when I want, don’t cook but have a fridge full of beer, am growing hair from strange locations, hardly make the bed and put my hands down my pants for the odd scratch. My kids and I have weird face and farting competitions, which given the slapdash nature of our meals, are a very surround sound and smell event; a bit like IMAX but whiffier.

So for the last 15 minutes at least, I’ve loved being single.

But there’s still that perpetual tingle in my fruity bits.

Bondi blonde likes a logical answer to her problems, so I Google-d “buy a vibrator” and went onto adultshop.com.au.

Holy hell.

Red or yellow, or pink or green? Orange or purple or blue? There’s a rainbow spectrum of vibrators to fit any situation – ouch.

Battery operated seemed to me to be the way to go. I didn’t want an electric shock if it all started to get a bit wet down there. And I wasn’t into those called cute names like Waterproof Jack Rabbit or Purple Nubby; a bit too Cartoon Network for me.

Since it’s my birthday the pretty purple Birthday Wish Cum True vibrator seems a good choice and it’s great value at $29.95, plus handling. But should I splash out? The NEA Pearl Massager at $199.95 has got all the bells and whistles. It has 10 speeds and will last up to seven hours, and apparently it is ergonomically designed to accommodate all those special places. What the hell does that mean? What places? It’s quiet too, which is a good thing given the paper-like nature of the wall between my bedroom and the kids’. Imagine, “Mum, what’s that buzzing? It’s the fifth time this week. Turn it down a little, we’re trying to sleep in here.”

 The clincher for me was that the NEA Pearl has a safety switch, which means that if you pop it in your handbag, there’s no chance of it going off when you’re searching for the kids’ lunch money. Try explaining that one away to the tuckshop bitches.

So if I buy the pretty Pearl should I give it a name? After some sexy celebrity seems the obvious way to go, but Brad and Johnny are a bit too twee for me and I don’t think either packs a pistol like the NEA Pearl.

After an ex boyfriend? It’s an idea that’s got some merit, but the last one before husband was soooo long ago that I can hardly remember the dirty details. Also, I was drunk more often than not while bumping uglies, so trying to recall those times gives me a residual hangover and the taste of last decade’s wine rises in my mouth.

 Should I give it a functional name? Cum-motion machine? Battery-ing ram? Orgasmatron? A bit too Star Wars for me, and I hate sci-fi. I know NavMan; that handy GPS system in my Volvo that I trust to get me from point A to point B. And what is a self-administered orgasm if not a journey from Point A to point O? Also, NavMan gets you there every single time, just plug in the destination and sit back and enjoy the ride.

It was all very exciting I must say, looking at the array of lust machines on offer – a bit like a car show for girls. But then I started to think about if and when I get into a loving relationship will my new rubber friend be able to pop up in the bedroom?  How would a guy feel knowing he was being measured against the battery powered Duracell bunny’s ability to last up to six times longer? And as a guy likely to come into my parlour would be nearing the middle aged hump, it’s not like they’d stay as rock hard as my priceless plastic MasterCard purchase; no matter how sexy the lingerie or deep the fake tan. 

So where would that leave me? After the satisfaction of giving my lover satiation and sharing a cuddle, could I whip out NavMan to finish the job he’d so manfully tried to complete? Not a great way to build intimacy.  I could always pop off to the bathroom, whipping out my ever-ready friend from underneath the waxing strips. I could say the buzzing noise was my electric toothbrush.

Maybe purchasing a vibrator is not such a great idea after all if I want to develop a relationship with a person with a penis, rather than just a penis substitute. But…there’s only so much exercise a girl can do to burn off sexual frustration. I’m fitter than I’ve been in years but the urge to merge still surges through me. The Bondi blonde is at an age when feminine sexual need is at its ripest.  I’m rich with desire for a good, hard f… (and I don’t mean frock.)

Even a nice and gentle one would do. Sexual intimacy is so much more than the act of penetration. It’s the feel of stubble against your cheek after a night together, it’s the single person stretch that turns into a mutual cuddle, it’s someone pulling up the sheet to cover your cold shoulder. For me, it’s also the middle of the night visits to the toilet for a wee and then rolling towards the person still asleep, seeking body warmth.

So to vibrate or not to vibrate? I can’t decide at the moment. So I’ll just sit on the washing machine for a while to ponder, waiting for the spin cycle.

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