The Best Gifts Come in Small Packages

I received a small package last week which contained not diamonds, not pearls but something far more thrilling than expensive jewellery – a state-of-the-art, hi-tech, ergonomic, astoundingly inconspicous, his & hers G-spot massager. It was a gift from someone I’ve never met - a friend of a friend who designs sex toys and who seems to regard me as the perfect guinea pig for his latest inventions. I’m not sure if this is something I should be proud of – perhaps I’ll leave it off my CV...

The packaging was covered in enthusiastic claims. You know, the kind of jargon that immediately produces expectations that you’re about to have the most amazing experience of your life. Had there been any personal instructions attached to my new toy they might have gone something like this: ‘Prototype. Please try in all orifices.’ The packet was open. I briefly wondered where it might have been ‘tried’ before, but put that slightly disturbing thought to the back of my mind, told myself to remember to wash it before use, and laid the packet on the kitchen counter (the kids were away) with the best of intentions to try it out before the day was done.

Now, if you’ve been following my blogs you might think that I spend an excessive amount of money on sex toys. I can’t deny it, but just to put your minds at rest, they are for research purposes, and I can write them off against tax. It’s not creative tax evasion, it’s just one of the many benefits that come with being a Tantric Sex Goddess.

Anyway, compared to the ‘New and improved Rabbit’ I’d invested in from ‘SH!’, the women’s sex emporium in Hoxton a few months ago this diminutive bunny looked a tad on the under-fed side. I couldn’t quite imagine how this unassuming, little white gizmo could possibly match the pink pariah’s performance, with all its bells and whistles, gyrating penis with rolling balls inside, vibrating clit stimulator and numerous settings.

You’re dying to know, aren’t you? Ok, ok. But there’s a story leading up to the final verdict. As you know, if you’ve been receiving my newsletters, I’m writing another book to deadline for a publishing company who basically only pay up when they get the stuff, on time. This is writing taken to maximum stress levels. Not the fun and leisurely, creative writing of my youth, when I dreamed of being a novelist, spending hours gazing out of a window at some Elysian valley. At the moment I am what’s known as a jobbing writer, filling six pages on oral sex before Wednesday, ten pages on orgasm by the following Tuesday. This kind of writing is not conducive to a wild, juicy, spontaneous sex life. I’m more concerned about getting enough sleep for my brain to function adequately than for my body to get a suitable quota of physical contact or sexual stimulation. Many days spent in isolation with only a computer for company does not a sex goddess make! They should conduct a survey on how many sex writers actually have sex. A low percentage I would imagine. I’m drying up like a dehydrated fig. I think I’ll join a pole-dancing class when I finish this book.

So, to cut a long story short, the little white bunny (called the Nexus Duo Range Max 7, in case you’re interested) remained un-tested, looking forlorn, sitting between the juicer and blender for six whole days! How sad is that?! Every time I did the dishes she winked at me, but I couldn’t quite muster the energy or desire to free her from her wrapping.

The weekend came around and my kind and considerate, very part-time playmate, who lives a fair distance away, agreed to visit. I think he took pity when he heard the manic desperation in my voice, having spent six days straight seeing nobody, aside from my brother on Skype. True to form he showed up with a suitcase containing power tools, bondage rope and ceiling hooks. It’s rather handy as he’s a builder by trade. I also got him to bring his radiator bleeding key. Not the most romantic request, but I’m all for killing two birds with one stone.

We proceeded to have dinner in the civilised manner that we do before beginning a tantric-BDSM ritual. He and I hooked up on a Tantra meets BDSM workshop (that’s a blog for another time). Half the participants had come from the world of tantra the other half from the fetish world but unusually, he and I had come from both. It was a match made in Nirvana and I’m constantly grateful for how easily we seem to be able to play hard, and love tenderly in equal measures.

He’s a switched-on guy, and had noticed the toy on the kitchen shelf while clearing up after dinner. At a certain point in the night’s activities he produced the little mite and inserted it somewhere, but to be quite honest, having entered the ‘zone’, already flying in a state of euphoric ecstasy, it kind of got lost in the scheme of things, if you know what I mean. And let’s face it, at two in the morning, when your master has exhausted himself, punishing and pleasuring you, he doesn’t really have the energy or wherewithal to start experimenting with the settings on a vibrator.

After my hero left the next day, I noticed the new addition to the family, sitting on my bedside table. I could almost hear her whispering, “Try me”, like some enchanted object out of a Lewis Carroll novel.
So I obliged. Eureka! Now I know what the marketing people who wrote the blurb on the packaging were raving about. This is vibrator technology taken to a whole new level. How have they managed to refine a simple sex toy to such a degree of perfection? Some mad geeks out there have got a lot of time and patience, which is what must be needed I guess to design the next level of sex toy for the hungry consumer. The mind boggles (well, my rather pervy one anyway) imagining the research laborotaries...

There are seven settings, each one more jaw-dropping than the next. Any visitor I get at the moment I bring down the Max 7 and shove it between their fingers, saying fervently, “Check this out!” I mean, I’m like one of those preachers who attempt to convert anyone who comes within two feet. But honestly, you’ve never felt such subtlety in a vibrating gadget – little hums that build up to high-pitch revs and back again, short pulses that grow in intensity, slow wind-ups that peak and trough. There’s enough going on to keep you entertained for hours. Although the Max 7 is promoted as a G-spot massager I have to say that it’s equally effective for clitoral stimulation, especially if you like a more subtle approach.

Oh god, I’m beginning to sound like a telly ad!
Am I getting carried away? Do I sound a little hysterical? Perhaps I should start thinking about trying to find a serious boyfriend...

LOOK BEFORE TEXTING

There is one day a year where I know, without a shadow of a doubt that I’m going to have a bloody good time! No matter the weather, regardless of my mood upon arriving, and despite a trek into London I am guaranteed a fun and stimulating time, well worth leaving my safe and civilised cocoon for.

I’m aware that there are people out there who claim that Erotica is ‘commercial’ and ‘sleazy’. I’ve even heard folk say that they find it about as erotic as a trip round IKEA, but for some strange reason I relish the whole event, from the minute I bounce through the door as Erotica opens its cash-gobbling doors to the public, to the minute I fall out at the end of the day, laden with bags, exhausted from a brain-melting shopathon.

I usually go on Friday when the crowds are manageable and one can collapse into a seat at some point close enough to the Fantasy Boys to see sweat glisten on rippling muscles, at the same time as resting ones weary, not-so-young-anymore legs. Yes, shameful to admit, but I’ve been known to squeal along with the best of ‘em...

There was one, vintage year when the ‘no nudity’ stipulation was lifted. The general public seemed happy to show more flesh about the place, and the live show was deliciously risque, full of body-beautiful and proudly naked performers. It was a day to be celebrated. Even the Fantasy Boys revealed what they were really made of, to the ecstatic yelps of an abundantly estrogenic audience.

But what happened? Did the government get wind of this shocking turn of events and instantly clamp down on such unruly (and joy-inducing) behaviour? Were the organisers threatened with a fine for public indecency if they ever allowed the showing of genitals in Olympia again? When I returned the following year everyone was fully clothed again.

But here’s what I don’t understand - everyone at Erotica is over 18, has either paid for a ticket or is selling something to do with sex or performing erotic acts on stage, and everyone is there by choice. Nobody has been forced inside, under threat of torture. Well ok, maybe one or two...but I have to say that anyone I’ve spotted on the end of a leash at Erotica looks perfectly happy to me, being led from stall to stall by their Master or Mistress.

Can you imagine...?
“You vill attend Erotica viz me! You vill buy cheap sex toys und crippling fetish shoes, and vill not leef until you haf spent at least two hundred pounds on items zat vill lie unused in your bedroom drawers for effer and effer...” It just isn’t going to happen, is it?

So, why in heaven’s name can’t we take our clothes off in Olympia if everyone inside has agreed? Do the doormen get offended? I don’t think so. I shouldn’t imagine that the staff on the hot dog stand take offence at suddenly having to serve topless ladies...The ‘no nudity’ law at Erotica has proved once and for all that England has become a Nanny state, and obviously Norland...

I shall slip gracefully off my soap box now and climb on to my pole instead. Speaking of which, this year I caught the most innovative pole dancer I’ve ever had the pleasure of watching slither, slide and contort for the entertainment of the Erotica audience. She is, in fact a ballerina who pole dances in a black tutu and ballet shoes and does a fair amount of her act en pointe. Made me want to run home and start trying to touch my toes without bending my knees again...I always get inspired at Erotica.

Sadly, just as I was about to leave, an unfortunate texting incident happened which spoiled the light-hearted glow of the afternoon. I sent a message to my mate, by way of a tease for being a party pooper and staying home to work instead of joining me for a jaunt round my favourite indoor market. It said very simply, “Just bought a fabulous glass dildo. Do you think I should go back for the satin sheets?”

Now, I’ve had the same mobile phone for a few years, and over that time I have got to grips with how it works, so I was shocked and horrified to notice a message pop up on my screen, never seen before, saying “Sent To Many”.

What did this mean?! Had I just sent the most embarrassing text in the history of texting out to my entire address book? My mind went crazy and started running frenetically down through the list, “Oh my god...my publishers...my ex husband...my aunt...my ex mother in law...MY KIDS!!....” It went on like that for a few minutes and I finally came to, finding myself crouching on the floor in the middle of Olympia with sweating palms, my life flashing before me.

Somehow, I pulled myself together and called my ex-husband (always good in a technological crisis) who confirmed that, yes, he had indeed received the text and suggested (calmly and rather kindly under the circumstances) that if it had gone out to everyone perhaps I should send out another saying it had been some kind of joke that had arrive on my phone and during my attempt to delete it, the horrid thing had accidentally been sent out to all and sundry.

Not knowing how to send out a group text I floated in a blind and delirious state to the cafe where I called my mobile company and enlisted the help of a patient employee who seemed unperturbed when I told him the content of my text, and assured me he’d heard worse. The mind boggles...

Off he went to check what I’d done and for the three minutes he had me on hold, my life flashed before me some more, my mind running through the list again, “...my financial advisor at the bank...the hotel I stayed in last month...oh shit, my son’s schoolteacher!...” on and on, while I tried to think of what I’d say to rectify the situation with all of those innocent and kindly people who think of me as a mum, or a serious writer, or a great-niece who visits a couple of times a year for chats over smoked salmon and bagels.

Finally he returned and told me that I’d only sent the message to two people. Two men with the same name, sitting side by side in my address book. My mate and my ex.

I almost burst into tears of gratitude. It was like a religious experience. Light filled my head and I began to smile beatifically at the coffee drinkers around me. Slowly my breathing returned to normal and suddenly what had seemed before like a vast and embarrassing amount of money spent that day at Erotica seemed insignificant and paltry. Life felt gooooooooooood...

Never again will I send a text without checking exactly where it’s heading, but I must admit that while writing these lines I’m remembering the delicious sensation that came over me as I realised that all was well in my world. This will be a useful point of reference for me. Whenever I think that life’s too heavy, too tough, too anything, I will sit for a few moments and remember that joyous rush of relief in a Costa coffee in the middle of Olympia on a late Friday afternoon.

By the way, while I’m on the subject – a big shout out to the guys at Wildcat who sold me the glass dildo. It’s perfect!