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OnceuponaIwasusefull, I went grocery shopping, probably bought too many boxes of Lifestyles and couldn’t get the overflowing shopping cart onto the conveyer belt to take me to my car. The weight of the trolley meant that the wheels became stuck, the trolley tipped over, which then tripped me over and I was suddenly saved by a security guard with the ability to press the Off switch.

“Are you OK?” a middle-aged women holding an errant box of condoms asked me.

 I immediately wondered what lengths it would take to embarrass me in the future[?].

 

My mother’s only life objective for me is that I clean my bedroom. I could cure cancer, but it probably wouldn’t resonate with my matriarch unless my laundry was folded. The problems in our relationship arise because I don’t clean my den of sin. I just have better things to do with my time (see: aforementioned condoms).

 

Onceuponamonthago, I bought a My First Vibrator because my laziness is starting to evolve past my ability to vacuum and directly correlates in intensity to my magic number.

For one month, it was the best relationship I have ever had.

“It doesn’t speak and it is always just There,” I told boy friend. “If I could find a guy who wanted to live in a cage in the corner of my room, maybe he could compete…”

“But isn’t your room messy?”

“How is My First Vibe going?” My girl friend asked me days later, sharing my excitement over the greatest battery operated devise since Nintendo GameBoy’s.

“Well…” I began, sighing.

“Oh no,” girl friend immediately knew what was coming. “Have you fucked this up like every other relationship you have ever had?”

 

I have passed out during sex maybe two times in my life. The first time, I had been working on a film and hadn’t slept for three days, so Johnny Depp with a shopping trolley full of Trojan’s couldn’t have gotten a rise out of me. But I at least tried to be a trooper. The next time, I was simply too drunk but fortunately had an understanding boyfriend.

“I broke my vibrator,” I told girl friend.

“Just now?”

“No. Last week. I was too drunk and I passed out on My First Vibe.”

*Customary break to laugh and realize just how retarded Sall is *

“So…” Girl friend finished the rest of the bottle in one gulp. “Just how big is your sexual appetite?”

“No, no, no!” I corrected her. “I had hardly used it. But I passed out drunk…during…and it was on all night and the next morning when I came out of my coma, it was on the floor shaking like a junkie in desperate need of a hit.”

 

My First Vibe lives very comfortably between a care bare and a photo album in my cupboard [which isn’t a euphemism. It is simply where it is stored]. I needed to find a place to put it where AM wouldn’t discover it on one of her cleaning missions. However, the morning after My First Vibe officially started to fail and therefore resemble every other relationship I have ever had, I ignored it (like a boy) and kicked it under my bed (ditto).

I came home to find my bed made, my laundry folded and My First Vibe resting on my pillow. AM was vacuuming.

 

“I think you need to find a boyfriend,” She announced at dinner.

I immediately had flashbacks to laying flat on my back outside Coles with condom boxes falling over me and realized that, BAM, I had found something to trump the embarrassment.

“Why do you say that?” I asked. I finished the rest of the bottle in one gulp.

“Unless we want to invest in Duracell Battery shares, it is probably a good idea.” 

 

My stubbornness knows no bounds. I still maintain that Zac Efron is straight and, until I am floating around in space, the earth is flat. Late one night, I went in search of a Vibrator Doctor. Known to most people as Double A batteries.

“This has to be a power struggle,” I thought, just like I convince myself when fighting with a real life boy. “I just have to give [It] more power and I will be able to be sexually satisfied.”

Dressed in I Heart New York pyjama pants, wearing an I’m With Stupid T-shirt and holding My First Vibe, I went on a two A.M search around the house for anything that housed batteries.

 

Damn the digital age.

 

“What the Hell are you doing?” AM asked, sleepy, disorientated but not oblivious to the mess I had made.

“Looking for something,” I declared, throwing boxes out of a cupboard (again, not a euphemism) while desperately trying to locate an errant power source.

“If you’re looking for Double A’s, I put some next to your wardrobe, next to your care bare.”

“Oh.” Trolley Falling.

“I decided that buying shares were a more successful option than you finding a boyfriend.”

 

Armed with everything necessary, other than a heartbeat and pulse, to Get Me Off, I persisted with my stubbornness and changed batteries in My First Vibe like one changes partners. But My First Vibe was no more.

It moved like starfish.

 

I gave up and wandered into the kitchen and sat down with a box of Tim Tams I had bought earlier at the grocery store.