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Bet You Can’t Guess What My First Vibrator Was

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t began in the good name of wholesome, family fun. It was a Thursday night and we were watching the 1958 cinematic classic Auntie Mame. Mame is working on her memoir when her ghostwriter (and downright dirty scoundrel) O’Bannion begins to make sexual advances. He lays one hand on Mame. “You’ve revitalized me,” he bellows, kissing her in a dramatic swell of passion. My chest pounding — surely 12 is too young for a heart attack — I fled to the bathroom. It was there that I came to the stunning realization that it was not, in fact, my heart pulsating at the speed of a viral meme, but my vagina throbbing like the bass line of a Metallica song.

Awoken to the beat of my ever-palpitating vaginal glands, it became the soundtrack to my daily routine. Whether I was dissecting dead vermin in biology lab, eating a particularly robust nectarine, or listening to my mother describe the series of “bulbous” sculptures she had seen on exhibit at The Met — I could hear its cadence, taunting me. Afraid I’d surrender to the sound, I resolved to silence it.

I led the one-woman expedition into the great unknown that was my lady parts after school on a Wednesday. Laying down horizontally on my bed, with both my legs upright, I used one of my mother’s tiny compact mirrors — the kind that make your nostrils look really big — to go where no Iman had gone before. But what the mirror’s reflection revealed wasn’t scary at all! In fact, it looked rather silly: Two fat lips made of crinkly skin, hidden under mounds of curly locks that deserved a top hat and a matching mustache. The two lips opened like flaps of a tuxedo jacket to expose two holes. I curiously slid one finger into the first.

“Hello friend,” I giggled, quite literally playing with myself.

I slid two fingers in, then three. The amount that this little rift of wonder could expand was shocking! Soon enough, I was trying to fit random object in my room up my hoo-ha. An expo marker? Easy! What about the back of a mechanical pencil Sharpener? I moved the objects around, conquering new, unsettled territory. I didn’t have the language to describe what I was doing; I was acting on pleasure, not reason. I discovered an odd tingling sensation as I marched my troops back and forth. Suddenly, the rhythm picked up. It felt weird, but comforting — kind of like I had to pee. I took the composition one more time from the top, with feeling.

That’s where my Oral-B Pro came in.

It called to me, beckoning from the bathroom, begging me to play. I don’t remember how it got from one set of lips to the other, but I truly believe something deep within me knew intuitively that this vibrating virtuoso was meant to be kept on my nightstand and not on my sink.

I slowly lowered the electric toothbrush to my nether regions, then counted to three before turning it on. The sensation was so intense that I squealed and quickly shut it off. I had to ease into it, allowing myself time to react to the hoopla. At first, I was scared to make noise, but before I knew it, I was crying unapologetically. My entire body was humming, then all of my muscles tensed up. I clenched my jaw, paralyzed. And then, at once, it all slowly melted away, like ice on concrete in the month of March.

Finally, after weeks of deafening noise, there was silence. I had accidentally masturbated, without even knowing what masturbation meant.

From that day forward, my Oral-B Pro became my trusted ally and adolescent sidekick. It traveled everywhere with me, safely tucked away in the confines of my toiletries kit. It was my second in command — the Louis to my Clark — as I explored the free range of my private parts. It never asked questions or passed judgment. It sat by my side through many feature films on Pornhub. It provided a source of comfort when my high school boyfriend didn’t text me on Valentine’s Day. It congratulated me on the disposal of my virginity and the rupture of my hymen. And whenever I was overcome by the noise, it would encourage me to embrace my pleasure and chase the quiet.

Last Sunday, I was clearing out my childhood bedroom with my mother, going through cardboard boxes of birthday cards and animal rubber bands. I walked into the bathroom and came across my old friend sitting on the counter. It had seen better days, now discolored and slightly moldy. We exchanged pleasantries.

“Keep or toss?” my mother asked. Now in my twenties and the proud owner of multiple, phenomenal adult vibrators, I obviously had no use for it, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. That toothbrush wasn’t just a relic from my past, but rather, a cornerstone of my present-day self — an amalgamation of the girl I was once and the woman I’d grow up to become.

Iman Hariri-Kia is a New York based writer, musician, and Sex & Dating Editor at Elite Daily. You can often find her performing songs about those who wronged her in Middle School. Click here to follow her inner musings.

Photos by Louisiana Mei Gelpi.

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