Products: Well Hello, Kitty


By Molly Freedenberg

One little two little three little kitten toys...

I'll be the first to admit that I could've given the G-Twist more of a chance. I was lazy. Stuck in my ways. And, in the words of the poet Sir Mix-A-Lot, it was so black.

And then came Hello Kitty [ed note: available at Good Vibrations]. The slender pink vibrator with the rounded kitty-cat head and big, big eyes, packaged in a cute rectangular box covered in Japanese writing. Intimidating it was certainly not. But there was something else in the way... oh yeah!... it's a sex toy based on a character popular with 10-year-old girls (and, to be fair, the adults they grow up to be).

Not that I wasn't charmed. I was. And a little relieved. The small vibe, in all its smooth pastel adorable-ness, could've passed as an oversized pen - and, in fact, it sat on my desk - next to my Post-Its and concert stubs and Sharpies and empty coffee cups - for a few days before I took it to my bedroom. This vibe was much more my speed - no pun intended.

But still. I wondered if I'd be able to use such a thing on my lady parts. Could I get past the associations with kids? The images it conjured of Japanese vending machines dispensing young girls' used panties?

Turns out, I could. I could get past it. And under it. And off on it.

There's a funny thing, I discovered, about a sex toy that doesn't look like a sex toy. Somehow, Miss Kitty's sexy-ness-less took away some of the pressure I'd felt about the G-Twist - which was not unlike the pressure I've sometimes felt in the presence of an actual penis whose clear intention was only to penetrate and please. Miss Kitty had no agenda. No overt sexuality. Wanna display me on the shelf with your other Sanrio collectibles? Cool. Or use me for sex play? That's fine too. (And by the way, the oddity of feeling obligation to an inanimate object is not lost on me. But we'll save that one for my therapist.)

In short, minus the pyschic pressure, I felt more inspired to apply physical pressure.

And so. It was a weekday, a rare evening when I had no post-work obligations or plans. I had the luxury of coming straight home, unzipping my boots, and taking a long, leisurely nap on my luxurious Memory Foam mattress. Perhaps I'd watch some indulgently bad TV. Gossip Girl or Greek. Or even good TV. Battlestar? Veronica Mars? I don't remember what I chose. Because what I remember is grabbing Miss Kitty, switching her on (she has only one setting - so simple!), and placing her - almost mindlessly - above my clit above my clothes.

Cappie and me and Miss Kitty makes three.

The sensation was mellow. Pleasant. So much like a gentle pelvic massage that it suddenly made more sense why "massager" is a euphemism for "vibrator." I wasn't particularly horny before I grabbed Miss Kitty, and if the sensation hadn't turned me on, I still would've enjoyed the experience. But turned on I was. I applied more pressure to Miss Kitty, whose rounded head was the perfect size and shape for its purpose. I changed her location - higher on the pelvis, lower towards the labia, a little thigh, a little belly. I moved her into the sweet spot - the just-above-the-clit paradise - and used her as an extension of my hand, getting closer to orgasm with a sex toy than I ever have.

In the end, I couldn't stand it anymore. I turned over and finished the job as I've always done, the Hello Kitty vibrator wedged between my legs so she could still feel invovled.

And then? I plopped her right into my bedside drawer, with my checkbook and old business cards and half-used bottle of lube. No penetration or skin contact meant not having to wash her. No obscene length or girth meant not having to store her in a special place. And her innocence? It became her greatest asset. Perhaps she reminded me of the 10-color pen of yore - an object whose pleasures seem entirely mine to discover. Hidden. Innocent. Or perhaps she simply didn't demand too much from me, the lazy masturbator.

Whatever the case, I've found my new favorite toy. Though I think I'm still more likely to use the G-Twist with a partner. I'm still too afraid it'd kill the mood to introduce the coupling between me and the cute boy to a vibrator that has a matching lunchbox.

Thermos? Check. Sandwich? Check. Vibrator? Check.

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