When I received the G-vibe in the mail, I texted a photo of the vibrator to my sexual sidekick, Robin (not her real name). She feigned excitement but later admitted her initial reaction was similar to that of the female friend she forwarded the picture to: “Where does he plan on sticking that!?”
For those of you who don’t dabble in the nuances of female disgust, the translation of this statement was something like, “If that mother fucker puts that thing anywhere near my butt I'll sucker punch him straight in his brown eye."
This was not my intention. Getting an invite into the butt often requires months, if not years, of oral arguments, a combination of passwords involving love, a background check, medical screening, and enough lube to grease a greater ape.
We experimented with the toy superficially, pressing one of the vibrating ends against her pleasure button. The sensation electrified her. She couldn't just lie back and remain a passive participant. Oral sex ensued. I turned up the power. The intensity was such that it compromised Robin's lingual abilities. She drifted in and out of conscious thought while the vibrator buzzed like a helicopter airlifting her to pleasure town. She reclined on the bed in a more receptive position. I inserted one of the toy's vibrating prongs while the other pressed against her clitoris. She was trying to hold back, to prolong the rising feeling. I increased the intensity again. Her orgasm overwhelmed her defenses.
“I really, really like this toy," Robin uttered from her post-orgasmic stupor.
Keep in mind this is the same thing she says about me, that she really, really likes me, which is a pretty serious compliment considering how freaking lovable I am.
Robin recovered enough to resume our play session, though she needed a brief break from the electric enhancement. Despite my majesty in bed — I’ve been told I make love the way a unicorn's mane galavants in the wind — something curious happened. After a few minutes of vanilla loving, we both reached for the G-vibe at the same moment, our fingers finding each others on the fleshy silicone. It was like a scene from a romantic comedy staring Meg Ryan and a double-headed dildo.
After her second orgasm I became a kind of backseat driver. I wrapped my arms around Robin and held the toy in position as if teaching her how to shoot a mean game of pocket pool. This limited my own thrusting potential. However, the G-vibe's intensity was such that she kept reaching back to grab my ass, both to pull me into her and for something exceedingly firm to grip during Mr. Toad's Wild Ride.
Her third orgasm came like a TKO. She crashed face first into the bed. The hum of the G-vibe mixed with the sound of her heavy breaths. She lay as though recovering from a massage, unable to move, to shake off the residual buzz of ecstasy pulsing through her.
“I would like to be sexy and make you cum but I can’t move,” she said when she regained the power of speech. “That was really intense. It gets so fucking powerful. I feel like I had 15 orgasms.”
She asked what level of intensity I had taken the vibrator to, if we had gone all the way to eleven.
“Four,” I said.
She shook her head, wondering what kind of cockpit could receive that much electric juice and not short-circuit.
“Seriously, it’s the best vibrator I’ve ever used.”
She had a Crown Royal bag squirrelled away in her closet containing the vibrators she had yet to wear out with use: a small dildo, a rabbit, and an overpriced bullet vibrator I bought her days before. Now, with the G-vibe in the picture, my purchase was obsolete. She couldn't even pretend my gift still held a special place in her naughty heart of hearts.
For Robin, the G-vibe was far superior to her rabbit. In particular, she liked the soft, silicone coating and how pliant the vibrating tips were. Like most women who purchased a rabbit after it appeared on Sex & The City, Robin did not use the toy's shaft for insertion. It was too stiff and uncomfortable. She, and I suspect most women who mistakenly purchased rabbits, simply turned the toy upside down, and held the vibrating appendage against her clit. While this got the job done, the vibration was not as intense, and the rabbit was way too bulky for partner play.
The G-vibe also comes with a detachable USB cord for recharging, a year warranty, and a water-resistant coating that is easy to clean. Several pulse patterns are programed in for variety, though I suspect most women, like Robin, will keep the vibrator on the standard setting of constant pleasure.
The toy’s biggest drawback is its appearance. It looks intimidating, like the forked tongue of a devil — albeit a devil that knows a thing or two about pleasure. If anyone were to discover the vibrator under a bed or burrowed away in a Crown Royal bag, they might assume its owner is into some freaky shit — namely anal and double penetration. Indeed, the toy can be used for some freaky shit — namely anal and double penetration. Originally, the toy was designed for both of the flexible prongs to slide into the vagina then to spread apart gently, simultaneously stimulating the g-spot and the vagina’s lower wall. While I'm sure such a position would delight some women, it made Robin uncomfortable, which is the opposite of how you want a woman to feel when testing a toy.
For me, the G-vibe was the best couple-friendly toy I’ve used. The bifurcated shaft made it easy to hold in position. I also liked the looped handle, which gave the vibrator a unique look without hindering its function.
While Robin lay facedown on the bed, defeated by ecstasy, I spun the vibrator on my finger and blew fake smoke off the dual barrels. The G-vibe had transformed me into a sexual superhero. I was like a perverse Batman, using super-powered toys to compensate for my minimal training in the dark arts. Bringing the G-vibe to bed was like bringing a machine gun to a kung fu fight instead of just a six-inch stick.