Mr. Unavailable #126: In Heat

See The Imprinter, Business or Pleasure?, Spellbound, No Picnic in the Park, Squatter Love, Who Falls First?, Trouble, Purgatory, Pre-Disintegration and Sanity Takes a Turn for the background on this one.

After Kevin left, and with still no word from #126, I had only one thing in mind. Relief. I opened the night table drawer next to my bed and pulled out my trusty battery-powered boyfriend. Now, I know you don’t want to hear about my vibrator, but, funny story…

This was a vibrator I’d had for possibly seven years. Back then, when I’d gone shopping for it at Babes in Toyland, it caught my eye. It was fire engine red with bright yellow flames—a veritable flame thrower. I’m not sure how many times I’d used it, but let’s just say the flames had worn off long ago.

I'm not exactly sure why, but, whether it was the pill or temporary insanity, I was pretty much in heat. I leapt under my sheets, grabbed the flame thrower and twisted the top to the on position. Nothing. I groaned—a guttural, almost mournful kind of groan, like something one might hear at the wailing wall. I pulled out my entire supply of C batteries and tried them all. No signs of life.

I put myself back together—physically and, as much as I could, mentally—and headed to Babes on the Lower East Side. It had been seven years since I’d last been there...and there’s nothing embarrassing about buying a vibrator...at least it’s the one store on the planet that has made sex toys cool.

When I walked in, there were only a few other customers, so I went straight for the more utilitarian section and picked a large, silver-bullet-like Babes in Toyland-branded one. The funky redhead at the register gave me the schpiel: it had been battery-tested but, if it didn't work, was exchangeable within 60 days with the packaging and the receipt.

I didn’t tell her, but, if it didn’t work, I was phoning in a bomb threat.

“Do you need batteries?” she asked.

I thought of the pile of batteries I’d just left on my bed whilst trying to revive my old one.

“No, I’m good.”

At home, I put in a set of C’s and turned the top. Nothing. I tried different batteries in different combinations—old, new, old with new, upside down. Nothing.

This time, it wasn’t so much a groan but a depraved, animal cry, it’s full volume masked by my two-hour-old A/C. I threw the broken thing back in its bag and considered my options:

A. Go back right then, endure the embarrassment and put myself out of my misery.
B. Be cool and wait a few days, but remain in a hormonal pickle.

Considering the durability of my previous Babes buy, I probably wouldn’t see the shopkeepers for another seven years, so I decided to get it over with.

I walked in. “Hi,” I said. “I just got this and it doesn’t work.”

“Oh, OK.” It was the same funky redhead. “Let’s just check this out here.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a pair of new blue surgical gloves.

“Let’s just see here…” She carefully put on the gloves and reached into the bag as if in the 20 minutes it had been out of the store it had co-mingled with nuclear waste.

She pulled out the vibrator, unscrewed the top, put in some batteries, screwed the top back on and….

(At this point—after the surgical gloves, the attitude and the fact that, clearly, my needs were urgent—if it did work, I’d have to come disguised if I ever stepped foot on the Lower East Side again.)

…she twisted the top to the on position. Nothing.

“Yup, wow, there’s nothing happening there,” she said, sounding surprised.

It turned out that particular silver bullet was the last in the store, so she said to exchange it for a different one. In no mood to loiter, I grabbed a harmless white bullet one that was smaller than the silver bullet but looked like it could do the job. Back at the counter, she asked if I wanted her to test it out.

Um, yes.

She selected a fresh pair of blue surgical gloves, put them on, opened the packaging, pulled out the white bullet, unscrewed the top, put some batteries in, screwed the top back on and…

(At this point, if it didn’t work, then I was officially cursed.)

…twisted the top to the on position. Success. Ah, vindication.

My triumph, however, was quickly dashed as she processed the exchange, saying, “I’ve worked here for six years and this is the fastest turnaround time I’ve ever seen.”

Momentarily embarrassing? Yes. Hours of misery cut short? Yes…yes…you know where I'm going with this.

Later, on my way to meet Kevin, I turned my phone back on.

There was a text from #126: Did we get a bed?

Thanks to my new battery-powered, white bullet boyfriend, I was in no rush to get back to him.

Signs of Hope: Even after a large degree of embarrassment, at least I managed to satisfy myself.

Red Flags: The fact that I had kind of lost my mind.

Turning Point: When #126 finally texted me.

Diagnosis: For him: He’s staying the course.
For me: At least now that the ball is in my court, I have some semblance of control, which means I have regained some semblance of sanity.