I live in a one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.
A quiet place, with off-white walls, a galley kitchen that
doubles as storage for my reference books, and a view of the
East River, which sounds more picturesque than it is. The water's
not too murky, but the dismembered bodies that get fished out
on a quarterly basis ruin the ambience.
Anyway, I like my place, because it's my castle. At night,
it's just me, my television, and the pink pearl bunny that
makes me smile. As I was growing up, I found various methods
of pleasuring myself, some creative, some adventurous, and
some not completely sanitary. But one fine spring day, via
an anonymous mail-order site on the Web, I took back my orgasms
from all the black-hearted cads who were determined to leave
me either brokenhearted or celibate -- or both. It had taken
the best part of my adult years to find the key to my own sensual
nature, the solution being a motor-powered rocket launcher
that didn't care if my hips were too wide. When the stress
of my solitary existence got to me, I'd take out my frisky
friend and let him have his way with me.
I settled myself down on the couch for my nightly ritual,
The Late Show with David Letterman and my vibrator.
Over the years, I've learned the value of a good vibrator.
It's there when you need it, never insults you, never tells
you it had a good time, blah, blah, blah. And best of all,
me and Mr. Bunny have been together ten long years. That's
more than most marriages I know of.
So as the Top Ten List counted down, so did I.
I turned on Mr. Bunny's controller, and he buzzed just as
he's supposed to.
High...
Higher...
Highest...
Click.
No, that wasn't me. Mr. Bunny wasn't turning anything on.
I spent a few quality minutes cursing the undependable nature
of batteries and then padded over to where I kept the spares.
I padded back to the couch, took an extra sip of wine, and
flicked the switch on the controller, ready for liftoff.
Silence.
Okay, maybe those batteries were bad, too.
I tried one pair after another, my fingers working frantically,
until I had emptied my battery drawer, and the painful truth
began to settle in: my bunny had died.
It seemed like only yesterday that he arrived in a brown-paper
package, discreetly addressed from M&L Manufacturing, and
my love life had never looked back.
I took Mr. Bunny and his wire-attached controller in my hands,
thinking that maybe the batteries were overrated. After a few
fumbling attempts at manual maneuvering, I discovered they
weren't.
My stress levels were still heart-attack high, the wine bottle
was empty, and even Letterman was a rerun.
You ever had one of those days? When the best part of the
day turned to crap?
Mr. Bunny had been a faithful companion for ten years. He
was my rebound lover, my Friday night lover, my lover when
I didn't feel like shaving my legs. He was Everyman to me --
in many ways, far superior.
I hated to say good-bye, mainly because with the death of
Mr. Bunny, I had no excuse not to go out into the world to
try to find a replacement. A real replacement that's powered
with blood and passion rather than AA batteries. It had been
a long time since I had a man in my life. Three long, lonely
years, not that I expect your sympathy, although it'd be nice.
To be perfectly fair, men provided several things that Mr.
Bunny could not. Conversation, usually centered on their life,
their work, or another woman's breasts. The warmth of human
touch, usually as precursor to asking for either a loan or
a blow job -- sometimes both at the same time. But they were
human. They had a human touch, something Mr. Bunny could never
acquire.
With a heavy heart, I wrapped him in the Sunday Style section
and laid his translucent pink form out on a casket designed
by Pyrex, offering a quiet thanks for the memories.
I placed a single finger over the on/off switch and pushed
one last time. Hoping against hope for some sign of life.
Alas, it was not to be.
Eventually, I realized I could not mourn my tiny companion
forever, so I removed him from the Pyrex and then buried him
in my kitchen trash, right beneath the container of three-day-old
Szechuan chicken.
I tried television, music, but nothing felt right. Finally,
I showered and went to bed. After a couple of hours tossing
and turning, I knew what I had to do.
First chance I got, I was going to find a new vibrator.
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