A View Of The Silver Bullet

Or as I like to call it, rock bottom. You know, before I get started with this one:

If you're easily offended, this post may make you uncomfortable. If you're looking for something dirty, this post isn't for you either.

There. Now that we've gotten the preliminaries out of the way, we can begin. I was listening to a portion of Michael Baisden's "Grown Folks" radio show as I was driving home this evening. The topic being discussed when I tuned in was BYOB - Bring Your Own Bullet. He asked callers if they were letting their bullets or other adult toys get between, or even replace their partners.

Why is this rock bottom for me? Because it reminded me of something I forgot I had. Say hello to my little friend.



This is a "Silver Bullet." I got this as a gag gift recently after I confided to a friend about how I haven't been on a date since shortly after my boyfriend and I broke up, and am in the middle of a months long dry spell. My friend pulled me aside, slipped it into my hand (in a discreet brown bag, of course), and I was told to "go handle my business." I peeked in the bag and, through my laughter, said thanks and went home. There, in my bedroom, I sat on my bed, put in the two AAA batteries it required, flicked the switch to see if it worked, and then....

I turned it back off and put it in a catch-all box on my dresser under a couple of silk scarves. This was about two months ago. I hadn't touched it until I took the picture in this post a few minutes ago.

Really.

(Etiquette question: Does one send a thank you note upon receiving a vibrator and, if so, what should the note say? "Thank you for your gift of the 'Pocket Rocket.' I came because you care," perhaps? Where's Emily Post when you need her?)

Truth be told, I'm afraid of it. When I got it, the first thing that came to mind (after, "Oh no, she didn't....") was a woman with whom I worked several years ago. One day when we went to lunch, she talked about how her sex drive had gone off the charts when she got pregnant. Her husband was freaked out about how often she wanted to have sex - he was afraid it would harm the baby. She bought a vibrator. It was supposed to be a goof at first, but her and her husband tried it. She got so addicted to it, she began refusing him when he was interested because "he wasn't doing it right. I'd lie there for a few minutes while he tried, then I'd get frustrated and say, 'just get the thing, okay? Just get the thing!' and then I'd take care of myself."

This was the thrust (no pun intended) of the conversation on Michael's show. I only got to hear a few callers during my ride home, and only one of them said they preferred a man over their bullet or whatever toy they used. Think about that. It would seem that many relationships these days have come down to one question: Penis or plastic?

Now that's rock bottom.

And that's the root of my fear. Like I said, it's been a long time since I've seen any sort of action. And while the idea of, shall we say, getting to know my toy is tempting, I just can't bring myself to use it. It would be fun at first, but it would inevitably remind me that I'm missing a human connection. The touch of a hand, the look in the eye, the emotional bond - you can't get that from any silver bullet. I don't want to get to the point where I even begin to think of answering my question with the word, plastic.

So instead of firing up my bullet, I'm going to put it away again, grit my teeth, ride this dry spell out and start dating again soon. All things in their time. After all, there's only one way I can go now that I hit rock bottom. I can climb back on top. So to speak, anyway.

More to c....I'll just say I'll have a new post soon.