It’s morning. I’m having my “early 20s English lit graduate, existential ennui-stricken lesbian, post-sleep nap”. All of a sudden, the puppies licking my face in my dream scarper. They’re being chased off by something that I can only describe as part-werewolf, part-blender. I sit bolt upright in bed. I’ve been woken by a loud rattling sound coming from my chest of drawers.
I freeze. I recently watched Paranormal Activity. I know how this goes.
After about 30 seconds frozen to the spot, my mouth slightly open and my heart pounding, I summon up the courage to investigate. I sneak up to my chest of drawers, empty Mini Cheddars packets crunching under my feet, and tentatively open the “haunted” drawer.
Relief. No lurking satanic spirit here. Just my vibrator that has somehow managed to switch itself on. I pick it up, study it for a few seconds, then switch it off. I try to switch it on again. Nothing. I replace the battery – number one rule of being single: always have spare batteries. Still no sign of life.
And then it hits me – I’ve bored my vibrator into an early grave. Was that final buzz in fact a death rattle? I only ever used it on one setting – continuous vibrate. All the other vibration patterns just seemed a bit… Edwina Currie.
So this is where I’m at, sex-wise. I can’t even keep my vibrator interested. I may be the first woman in history to have hit ‘lesbian bed death’ without the remotest sign of lesbian bed life.
Something must be done. First things first, I’m going to need a new vibrator. I Google “buy sex toys”, which is now tattooed onto my search history alongside, “diabetes symptoms”, “dealing with neurosis” and “is nipple hair normal?”
The selection is overwhelming. My old vibrator was fairly basic – a longish thing that, up until a few moments ago, went bzzz. The new, sexually adventurous me wants something fancier. Rabbits seem a bit 90s and all these double-penetration gizmos with twirly bits coming out in every direction just aren’t very… me.
“Ooh, look at that one – it’s got veins!”
My mum has snuck up behind me (one of the many hazards of having moved back in with my parents). She’s peering over my shoulder, squinting slightly because she doesn’t have her reading glasses on. Horrified, I slam my laptop shut.
“The problem with your generation,” she says, “Is you think you invented sex.” And off she trots to make a cup of Lady Grey.
Back to my search. I remember Fab, the online eclectic cool stuff shop, does a line in masturbation-chic. I got an email about it a while ago, back when me and the old vibrator were going strong. I check out what Fab has to offer and come face to face with the battery-operated companion of my dreams. It looks like an Alessi peppermill, perfectly combining two of my greatest loves: design and having orgasms. A few clicks later, it’s mine.
But this isn’t enough to cure my case of the borings. Must buy more sex toys. Must be exciting. I’ve never owned a strap-on, but suddenly feel that I need one. Immediately. Maybe I’ll start carrying it around in my bag, just in case. I browse through various online sex shops, and end up spending £50 on a high-end strap-on. I reason that I should get something sturdy. I remember an old Jewish saying that my mum likes to quote when justifying spending £500 on a toaster: “What’s cheap is dear.”
The next day I’m woken up by more vibrating. This time it’s just my phone. I pick up and grunt something.
“Hello, is that Ms Margolis?”
“Yeah…”
“My name is Andy, I’m calling from Barclays, regarding some unusual activity on your debit card”.
Shit.
“Oh…”
Andy takes me through some security questions. I know exactly what’s coming. And here it is:
“Now, Ms Margolis, I need you to confirm that you recently spent £50 at bedroompleasures.co.uk?”
My free hand is tightly clamped to my face.
“Uh, yeah. I may have done that”.
“Are you certain, Ms Margolis?”
“Yes. That is a thing that I definitely did.”
“OK, Ms Margolis. I’m going to unblock your card immediately. I’m very sorry for any inconvenience.”
So, the moment I step out of my sandwiches, clothes and Superdrug own-brand ibuprofen bubble of spending drudgery, alarms go off. It’s like the bank knows that I never get laid. It assumes that someone sexy and exciting must have stolen my card. Time to face it, Ms Margolis: you’re staid.
I thank Andy and hang up. I spend a few minutes screaming into my pillow.
Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose column “Lez Miserable” will appear weekly on the New Statesman website. She tweets @eleanormargolis
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