It was small, ugly, and made a noise like a two-stroke engine. The finish was plastic wood-grain – like a nasty seventies table decoration.
The thing is, I have a certain standard of good-looking before I think about getting jiggy, and this little monster just didn’t cut it.

I’d been waiting for weeks for Marcel to bring one over from France for me. Just to explain – Marcel was a friend of a friend, and also happened to be the owner of an incredibly chic French sex-shop. Me and my girlfriends had been pestering him for free gifts since we found out. We’d learned the French for ‘vibrator’ – god-micher (forgive my spelling) – and made stilted phone calls to Paris, trying to sound blasé about the whole affair.
When he finally made the trip we all received our packages, beautifully wrapped, naturellement. And I tore off the ribbons and paper to find the bastard child of ET and a hand-held blender looking up at me.

Of course, these days a girl can choose a vibe so pretty you almost want to display it on the coffee table – those lovely glass vibrators, for example. Would make a nice paperweight, perhaps, or a wedding gift to beat the hell out of Tupperware.

But then, as a naïve vibe-virgin, I was stuck with the sex-toy equivalent of an out-of-work pornstar. If vibes had personalities, this one would have been a short fat guy with a tache. I wasted no time in ditching it, and swiftly moved on to better things…

Nikki Magennis

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