August 8, 2007
Words to Stitch on a Pillow


cydypotd025.jpgI don’t have a family who passes much from generation to generation. There is a Hepplewhite table that used to hold our mail and telephone and now resides in my uncle’s log cabin in Wisconsin. There are some pieces of furniture and some sculpture that my grandfather crafted that are spread across three states and the respective homes of his four children. There are some Chinese vases and antique chopsticks and so forth that my great-grandfather brought back from China when he and his brothers taught English there.

And there are three pieces of matrilineal wisdom.

My great-grandmother said, “It hurts to be beautiful.”

And in many ways, she is right. High heels are painful. Working out-if you do it right-is painful. Push-up bras, yup: painful. And too people judge you if you’re too pretty. But that kind of pain is like OUCH! And my wallet is too small for my fifties.

My grandmother said, “Never pick your nose in the car because other people can see.”

True enough. They can. And what is more important is the far-reaching implications of this maxim: you may be in a private space, but that doesn’t suggest that other people aren’t aware of your bad behavior, so therefore you need to be aware and make choices accordingly.

I’ve never picked my nose in a car. Never. Not even in the dark.

And my mother said this: “It’s ok to touch yourself as long as your hands are clean.”

Too true.

But the implications here are greater than the sum of the parts of this piece of advice, and the parts here are pretty good. At its core, my mom’s advice informs simply: one ought not touch one’s genitals with dirty digits. However, like the bulk of an iceberg lying below the surface of the water, the subtext here far outweighs the visible text. For what my mom was really giving me was a blank cheque to masturbate. She was in effect saying, hey, have at it; it’s yours.

Which is a fairly groovy permission slip to have signed by one’s mother.

Now to put this female “mmm she-bop,” “oops, oh my” permissiveness within an even larger matrilineal perspective: when my grandmother died, we found buried under her carefully folded Orlon pastel cardigans, enclosed in a Chivas regal bag, a dildo of gigandenormous proportions. Grandma, it appears, was a size queen.

I don’t know what happened to the dildo. I suppose I could ask my mom. I haven’t found it around her house, but then I stopped snooping in my mom’s drawers when the contents of my own became more interesting. I do know, however, even without any anecdotal, pictorial or written evidence what my grandma did with her dildo, and even if I don’t really want to wrap my mind around that image for very long, I find my heart is warmed by the knowledge that my grandmother was a proactive septuagenarian onanist. I like the fact that my grandma took care of her private business.

At sixteen, I bought my first vibrator with two high school friends at Spencer Gifts when I was 16. I loved it. I loved it with a white hot burning passion until it died several years later. Then I was without a sex toy of any kind, inexplicably, for many years. Silly, silly me. I made do with my own freshly scrubbed hands.

About twelve years ago I bought a dildo, which led to a vibrator, which led to the purchase one of those Japanese contraptions that have a little vibrating woodland creature attached to a belly-dancing Janus-faced figure in the shape of a cock.

I rocked that for many years, with many, many orgasms, and then, inexplicably, it died.

It was a sad, sad day when, I pushed the button and…there was nothing. Sigh.

I went to Toys in Babeland to replace it. I was seduced by a much flashier-looking silicone number, lipstick red and designed within an inch of its life. I took it home in great excitement, washed it, inserted batteries, took it to bed with me and…no good.

It was a toy that simply was not ergonomically designed for my particular ergonomics. Damn, I thought, $84 down the drain. What does one do with sex toys that don’t work?

I’ll tell you: you give them to your friend.

It’s washed, I told my friend when I gave it to her. Just dip it in a little bleach, rinse it and you’re good to go. She did, it was, it worked.

Just remember, as my mother always said, it’s ok to touch yourself as long as your hands-or toys-are clean.

Go ahead, stitch it on a pillow. You have my permission.


Comments

3 Responses to “Words to Stitch on a Pillow”

  1. rob on August 9th, 2007 5:33 am

    absolutly ! ;-)

    The Eye Of Me

  2. badinfluencegirl on August 11th, 2007 8:13 am

    i love your mom

    and your grand mom

    i see you come by your rocking coolness honestly miss chelsea. and yeah, that’s how me and my doc johnson rabbit feel about each other… though i have it on good authority that other folks hate it too!

  3. ~Storm on September 9th, 2007 5:50 pm

    Awesome. And I have had toys I didn’t relly like. I think we should start a sex toy company, those of us who have toys ergonomically incorrect. I think girls just know what works.

    Sadly my mom and my grandma both– no vibes. And I had to clean my mom’s house when she went into a nursing home a few years back. But I have passed on bondage gear to my son (He is 26) and suggested vibrators to my daughter, who is 23, and she has shown me ones that work for her. It’s all very open.

    But I’ll bet my drawers and the boxes under my bed are more interesting than theirs. I could be wrong, but I’ve had more years of practice, not because they are not adventurous.

    Love the site by the way and thanks for linking to me. I’ll reciprocate.

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