the vibrator diaries ii

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This isn’t about a vibrator, but its cousin, a dildo.  One night I was watching a television program that was discussing homemade, personalized dildos.  Apparently you could purchase a kit and make a copy of your partner’s penis.  I was instantly intrigued, and, a short while later, I received a do-it-yourself Pecker Pail in the mail from my dearest C.

I was really excited about making a copy of my husband’s baby maker.  It was perfect timing, since he was about to leave for a long time for work.  He may have been going away, but he would be leaving Little C behind ... well ... Little C’s evil twin.

The Pecker Pail came with detailed instructions.  The person supplying the goods had to get it hard, stick it in this tube of plaster, and keep it hard for ten minutes.  No big deal, right?  Especially considering that C had a more than willing female that was happy to assist.  For some reason, however, C felt this was something he needed to do on his own.  He apparently felt less than masculine with his hard pole stuck in a bunch of white gunk.  I had to leave him to his own devices, which consisted of him getting it hard, sticking it to the plaster, and watching some girl-on-girl cheerleader porn while sitting on the can.

It probably didn’t help that every few minutes I would knock on the door and ask him how things were going.  He would confirm that things were fine, while I was impatiently waiting on the other side of the door desperate to see the results.  Exactly ten minutes later, he presented me with a tube full of hardened plaster, complete with a penis shaped hole inside.

The next part of the process required filling the plaster mold with some sort of goo that would turn into a flesh-colored, synthetic penis.  After filling up the tube-mold with the goo, I was disappointed to learn that it had to sit over night in order to set.

I slept restlessly that night, with dreams of dildos dancing in my head.  I was the first to wake up that morning, and I quickly found the tube-mold-dildo on the bar of our kitchen.  In no time flat I had the plaster cracked to reveal my prize ...

... my prize was a small, crooked dick with ginormous balls.  It looked like a small question mark squashed between two scoops of ice cream.  It was the funniest thing that I have ever seen in my whole entire life.  Of course, I immediately woke up C to show him his work from the night before.

V: Wakey, wakey, eggs, and bakey!

C: Sleeping.  Shhh.

V: I’ve got your cock in my hand...
C: No you don’t.  Tease.

V: The one you made me last night.
C: [perks up a bit] How did it turn out?
V: Well ... [shoves tiny, crooked dildo in his face]
C: What the??? That doesn’t look like my dick!
V: I know!  But its still cute.  I love it!
C: [rolls over and goes back to sleep]

Yes, its true the dildo that C attempted to make for me was greatly lacking in what my husband usually supplied me with.  Apparently, it is very hard to keep one’s cock hard while it is stuck in cold plaster without any stimulation.  I still applauded him for the effort.  Little C promptly took a priority spot in my box of adult goodies.

It wasn’t until quite a bit of time had passed that I remembered that I had Little C stored away for a rainy day.  C had long since left for his work duties, and I had been sitting at home alone for several months.  When Little C popped into my mind, I could not wait to put him to good use.

For some reason, I decided that privacy was more important than usual for this adventure.  So important that the privacy of my bedroom wouldn’t even suffice.  Instead, I opted for the office/guest room, which no one ever uses or goes into.  I locked the door, made myself at home on the day bed, got down to business with Little C, stuck Little C into the nearest desk drawer, took a shower, and hit the sack.  Overall, a very pleasant night.

Flash forward two days later.  I am sitting at home, working on the computer.  I was caught up in my own business while my oldest son, G, played around the house.  I was so absorbed, I barely recollect G coming to ask me a question:

G: Mom?
V: Hm?
G: What’s this?
V: [still working on the computer] Nothing.
G: Mom?
V: What?!
G: Why is there a penis in the office?

Fuck me.  I turned around, looked behind me, and, sure enough, there is my six-year-old son with crooked, gigantic-balled dildo in his hand.

I snatched it out of his hands as quickly as possible, executed a sweet slide into my bedroom, and had that puppy locked up faster than you can shake down a leprechaun.  It was the resulting damage that took much longer to deal with.

G: Was that a penis?
V: No, of course not.
G: Well, what was it?
V: [thinking fast] A paperweight.
G: What’s a paperweight?
V: Jeez! It holds down paper!
G: Why does a paperweight look like a penis?
V: It doesn’t!  Its only a paperweight. 
G: B-b-but!
V: Do you think Santa would like to know that you are talking so much about penises!?

A quick save that thankfully worked.  G was entirely too afraid of Santa learning about any penis conversations to question me further.  I could not, however, resist immediately sending a text message to one of my BFFs, T, that read: “G just asked me why a fake cock was in my office.” 

Her response? “LMFAO.”  Yeah.  Me, too.

XOXOXO,
Violet

the vibrator diaries

I am starting a special section of my blog devoted entirely to vibrator stories.  I’ve experienced and heard so many mishaps, embarrassments, and just plain ole craziness associated with these blissful electronic devices, that I feel they deserve a special blog-type standing ovation.   Welcome to... The Vibrator Diaries!

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This story began long, long ago during the days when orgasms were something I had only experienced by myself.  In more blunt language, this story took place while rubbing one out DJ style when X was not at home.

I loved the days when I got home from work early, knowing that X would not arrive for several hours.  Those times were “me” times.  Times I could experience sexual bliss quickly and multiple times, without the sweaty, oozy, small knob that could barely make it thirty-seconds to weigh me down.  Times when I could fantasize about my perfect lover -- tall, shaved head, politically conservative, and big tackle.  *cough* -- Bruce Willis! -- *cough*

This particular “me” session started like any other.  I had a nice long bath.  Shaved my legs, trimmed the hedges, and freshened my breath.  I couldn’t have my BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) disappointed, now could I?  Even BOBs have standards.  I made the bed, climbed under the cool, silky sheets, and brought out Buzz Lightyear, the newest member of my collection.

Buzz was particularly special to me.  You see, Buzz plugged straight into the wall.  No batteries needed!  No fumbling around stealing an extra "AA" out of the remote control or a desperately needed "C" from the flashlight.  Buzz gave me pleasure without limits.  Well, except for the cord I had to plug in the wall.  Still, Buzz could go for hours and hours without ever having to recharge, take a shower, or get hard again.  Buzz was always ready.

With wickedly delicious thoughts running through my brain, Buzz and I had a marathon session.  It was extraordinary.  Time and time again Buzz worked his magic until I became so thoroughly satiated that my bones felt like jelly.  Afterward, Buzz and I laid there for a while, staring at each other with love-sick puppy-dog eyes.  I glanced at the clock.  Another twenty minutes before X was due home.  A whole twenty minutes!  Who knew when I would have this kind of opportunity again?  So Buzz and I went for yet another round.

Things started out normally.  Buzz buzzed while I warmed up.  Buzzing Buzz.  Blissful Buzz.  Buzz, buzz.  I was starting to get really warmed up.  Sexually, and... physically, too?  Yes, I was definitely feeling extra warmth down south, but I chose to ignore it.  I did, after all, only have a few minutes left before X came home.  More buzzing, more warmth, but almost there!  More buzzing, definitely getting hot, but so close!  Even more buzzing, even more heat down south, then... FIZZLE! POP!  I blacked out.

Sigh... no, readers, I did not black out from the most incredible orgasm ever.  I blacked out in reaction to my pathetic situation.  When I came to, I smelled smoke.  Confused, I looked around.  Buzz was beside my splayed legs, his cord burned in two, ... and X was standing in the doorway.  This is the conversation that pursued:

X:  What the hell is going on?
J:  I’m not sure.
X:  What do you mean, “you’re not sure?”  What is that next to you?
J:  [looks around in a daze]  Oh... that’s just... Buzz.
X:  Buzz?!
J:  I mean, that’s my... um... vibrator.
X:  Your what?!  THAT is a vibrator?!
J:  Yeah, and I was just...
X:  It plugs into the wall?!
J:  Yeah, and I’m not sure...
X:  Why is the cord burned in half?!
J:  [mind clears... comprehension sets in]

Yes, folks, yes.  I got 115 volts AC straight through my fucking clit.  Buzz electrocuted my junk like it was on mutha fuckin death row.  Right as I was about to peak, Buzz reneged.  Rather than humbly declare defeat, Buzz kamikaze’d my ass.  I managed to turn poor ole Buzz into a suicidal terrorist.  And, to beat it all, X was there to witness my shame.

X:  Did you electrocute your pussy?  BWHA-HA-HA-HAR!
J:  Did not.  Shut the fuck up.
X:  You did!  You really did! 
J:  No, I did NOT electrocute my who-ha.  BUZZ did.
X:  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAR!  Blaming it on your vibrator?  HA!  Classy.

I picked up Buzz’s remains and threw them straight at X’s short-dicked face.  Of course, I missed.  Of course, he laughed.  After X and I were through, I was finally able to laugh as well.

So this, dear friends, if the first entry of The Vibrator Diaries.  Stay tuned for more!

Do YOU have a funny vibrator story?  One that you are dying to tell the world, but would rather it happen anonymously?  Please share your stories with me at thevibratordiaries@yahoo.com (YES, this is FOR REAL!), and I will blog about your experience.  You can also use this email to send in questions you'd like to have answered or blogquests!  All emails and stories will be completely anonymous.  NO NAMES!  Pinky swear.