Can a Vibrator Ruin Your Sex Life?

One writer's experience with the Rabbit. (And no, she's not talking about a bunny.)

Peter Kaaden

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I was a vibrator virgin until my 20s, when a friend dragged me to a "Girls' Night out" party. Our host introduced Hope, a self- described sexpert, who displayed a collection of phallic-shaped plastic wares. These had turned her marriage into a nonstop sexfest, she professed; then she paused dramatically before asking, "Who wants to orgasm?" everyone whipped out credit cards, except me.

My mind raced with concerns. like, isn't sex about two people, not a person and a thing? Hope wasn't dissuaded. She poked me with a pale-pink rabbit vibrator, asking, "Why not?" mortified, I bought the pet bunny.

I left the Rabbit in its box for months. But then i met a cute guy and wanted to take things slow, so I turned to the rabbit for a little release. It was louder than a lawn mower. I crawled under a fort of extra blankets, worried my neighbors might file a noise complaint. Too mechanical, I thought, and promptly fell asleep. I dreamed about sex—the greatest dream one can have—and awoke feeling inspired. I turned up music to drown out the sound and let the rabbit work its magic. Afterward, I basked in the sunlight and afterglow.

Experimenting with the Rabbit let me discover what I enjoyed, which gave me confidence. Within months, the rabbit and I were hanging out so often that I looked forward to saying good night at the end of dates with the guy. I started to wonder whether a mere mortal could possess the prowess of a battery-operated toy. Instead of enhancing my options, i was now concerned that I couldn't climax without the rabbit. Sure, I'd orgasmed before, but not as easily or often: Now I came in record time! When I finally told my new man about my secret pink lover, he said he preferred to date me and not a device. At first, I understood—I wanted to be with a human long-term, not a piece of plastic. But it started to feel silly and judgmental that he'd asked me to choose between my own pleasure and being together. Eventually, we split up.

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After the breakup, I flew home to visit my mom and brought the Rabbit with me, which defies all logical explanation. I decided I was done: I needed to "retrain" myself. So I left it in the night table of her spare bedroom. For several weeks, I went through withdrawal while getting to know my body all over again.

That wasn't the end of my Rabbit, though. The next time I visited my mom, I was searching for some tissues under her bathroom sink when I saw my old friend tucked between some makeup bags and hair rollers. The housekeeper walked by. Seeing my startled expression, she said, "That's for massages." I didn't ask mom about it; some things are better left unsaid.

This article is a part of a week-long series on female orgasms. See the rest here .

This article appears in the May issue of Marie Claire, on newsstands now.

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