It’s had a minute to cool down, maybe if I’m gentle?
Feeling like a junkie that got duped by a bag of baby powder instead of the premium stuff, I get out of bed on antsy legs. All hopes are dashed when the red flickering light blinks for the last time.
“Satisfaction guaranteed my ass.”
Haven’t even got my money’s worth. I know I got rid of the box, maybe there’s an 800-number printed on the side.
Of your vibrator? Are you even listening to yourself right now? Did that shock fry your brain?
It’s the middle of the night, during a pandemic. Am I seriously about to call the vibrator factory to give them a piece of my mind? Even I don’t have balls that big. Near tears, I kick the worthless vibrator and begin to pace. The last bit of comfort in this crappy situation just went bye-bye in a poof of smoke.
The wall climbing anxiety of the early days tries to rear its ugly head. My mind dives deep into places it shouldn’t go. Betrayed, I can’t stop imagining my ex having rip roaring, chandelier swinging sex with someone new while I’m sitting here with a defunct vibrator.
Brenden is pretty good with his hands. Wonder if he’d still come if I called?
That settles it.
After a cold hard look at my finances, I peruse a variety of available replacements closer to my budget. No bells, very few whistles, just the basics. Except for one.
The Unihorny. A graduated pleasure probe of pastel rainbow colors. Says it’s great for beginners, only three speeds. I’m more of a professional. Hmm. It’s no Joy-1000.
But the glitter and rainbows. And what’s this? When turned on, a tiny disco ball circulates inside turning each session into a masturbation party! That sounds fun. Sold. Bonus, it’s got the fastest shipping.
Five to seven days. Not bad by today’s standards.
2
An eternity. Felt like I was kicking it cold turkey.
Pussy limping along on life support, all attempts at self-care have crashed and burned. Digital stimulation was a bust. Halfway through, I got a wicked cramp. Took a full day before I got the total use of my hand back. Wasted the last of my hand sanitizer too.
The cucumber in the crisper kept calling my name. But I needed it for a salad I might get around to making.
Not even my rainforest showerhead could soothe my nerves. Crouched under the pelting drizzle, I couldn’t even be grateful for the hot water. I was too busy berating myself for not thinking ahead and ordering a massaging shower wand before they ran out.
Sick of doing laundry I get dressed in my house uniform of a Hane’s T-shirt and boy shorts. Why the hell bother with a bra. I’m not going to the Casbah, just the couch.
Netflix and chill, it is. Though due to recent vibrator difficulties, I’m having a hard time with the chill part. I’ve lost my chi along with my focus.
Judge Judy’s almost over and there’s still no cardboard box on my porch.
This is bullshit.
Irritated, I log onto my account. In my mind I’m already formulating the complaint I’m going to write. I’ve even got the title. “Feeling good is just a pipe dream that’s gone the way of Prime shipping.”
Something is fishy right off the bat. It takes a minute to figure out.
What the…? Why’s my profile blank? Clicking on recent orders brings up a 404 error page. I’m sure it’s not just me. The whole site seems to be having issues, I can’t click on a thing!
This is not good. Did A2Z get hacked?
The way my stomach’s churning, it feels much bigger than that. Little green men maybe?
Right before my eyes, my whole account page flickers twice. Wiped clean, it’s as if I was never there at all. Am I being attacked?
Customer service is a joke. The same end of days message plays on repeat. “Due to recent events, expect delays.”
Anxious and out of options, I turn to the last place I’d expect to find answers. The news. The same breaking story is playing on repeat on all the channels.
A2Z workers threaten strike.
Biting my nails, I watch the clip. A stout man in his fifties walks up to a cardboard podium. Crossing his beefy arms, he glares into the camera. Either he’s union or someone’s pissed off dad.
A reporter calls from the audience. “Is all this over a sex toy?”
What? Oh no.
"Of course, it is. I mean, what kind of sick pervo needs a vibrator during the pandemic?”
“I do!” Someone yells from the back. A smattering of chuckles throughout the crowd feel like needles under my nails.
I do too.
But it’s not my fault. It’s the Surgeon General’s fault! He’s the one that reported that masturbation eases anxiety. I was just listening to the science! I know I’m not the only one. There have to be other lonely terrified women desperately in need of a little stress relief.
It’s not until he raises a beefy fist in the air. Clutched tight, I see a rainbow probe. Glittering strobe lights pulse on his angry face.
“Orgasms have been deemed nonessential, that’s enough with this bullshit, Sally,” the union man proclamations.
Did he just say my name? Am I the sick pervo?
My heart bottoms out when a hairy arm pops out of the crowd and flicks a Bic lighter. The Unihorny ignites like a torch on the first try. Oh poor baby. At least I know what happened to my vibrator. Supposedly nonessential.
Then why did those fuckers wait eight days to tell me?
Couldn’t do the civil thing and just cancel my order, nope. They had to wipe the floor with me too. Might as well burn me at the stake right next to my vibrator. I better get a refund.
Good luck on getting that money back, I’m pretty sure I’ve been banned. Probably for life.
I’m hanging on by a fraying thread here and someone that looks like my dad gets to decide if my sleep aid is necessary. Who is he to say what's essential and what's not? My vibrator is the most essential thing to me. Why, without my Joy-1000, I don’t even know how I would have made it. One click was all it took to remind me. As long as there’s orgasms, the world is still a good place.
Not anymore. Orgasm shamed on the nightly news. What is this world coming too?
A loud rap on the front door has me toppling off the couch. Is it the A2Z police? Here to arrest me after finding out I was the instigator of the Vibrator Walkout of 2020? Persistent, there’s more knocking. Is that, Shave and a Haircut, two bits?
Who the hell would be cute knocking during a pandemic?
3
Already conditioned to isolate, I’m on high alert as I approach. Eyeing through the peephole, my hand instinctively chokes up on the Louisville Slugger I keep parked next to the door.
There’s a strange man on my doorstep. Not strange per se, but I don’t know him. Looks pretty squared away actually. Pressed khaki uniform. Shirt sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos and muscles.
What’s this? A strip-o-gram?
Nope, he’s got a clipboard. No good news has ever been attached to a clipboard. Looks pretty official. With the way my lockdown luck’s been going, I’m sure it’s PG&E door-knocking to announce more rolling blackouts. Oh joy.
Still a woman on her own can never be too careful. Trying to sound all M.M.A. chick fighter, I rough up my voice and implore. “Yes?”
He straightens up to really tall when he hears my voice. Leaning close to the peephole, he flashes a laminated badge. “Joy Repair, ma’am.”
About time.
Hand reaching for the door, I freeze.
Wait. “I didn’t call for any repairs.”
“I know. Your vibrator did.”
What kind of hocus pocus bullshit is this?
4
“Hello?” He cartoon knocks again.
I open the door and speak through the screen. “I’m here. Did you say my vibrator called you? What are you? Some kind of Vagenie or something?"
When my eyes adjust to the sun, I see a strong jaw accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard. An
infectious grin that he tries to hide behind a ringless left hand, I wish I could take that last part back. Vagenie?
It’s possible we’re imagining a joke cracking blue genie at the very same time.
Eyes playful, he admits, “Nope. I’m no superhero, just answering a distress call is all.”
“Like a vag-signal?” I blurt out. Scratch that part too. Stop trying to be funny. You’re not.
But I’m rewarded by dimples. “Something like that. Anytime the tool is compromised, it sends an S.O.S. to the service department. Lucky for me, the dang thing can’t fix itself or I’d be out of a job.”
Leaning on the doorjamb, I ask. “And what is that job exactly?”
He opens his arms wide. “Joy Repair.”
“Surprised that’s still essential.”
He cocks his head. “Orgasms are always essential.”
That’s what I’ve been saying!
“It’s all part of the Joy Protection Plan. See right here?” He raises the clipboard to eye level and that’s when I see my name. On an invoice. Of course.
He’s cute. Wait and see how much it is first.
Doesn’t matter, I can’t afford this. “Listen, whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
“That’s the thing, the service was included in the purchase price. And the best part?” Eyes twinkling, he leans in close to the screen. I giggle like it’s going to be a really good secret. “If we can’t fix it, you’ll get a replacement of greater value. Give me a chance. What do you have to lose?”
Chewing my bottom lip, I can’t think of a single thing except my vibrators getting fixed! Excitement swells but I keep it at bay. This bitch didn’t spend six months in lockdown just to let germs walk through the front door. My mental well-being doesn’t take precedence over my physical health.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Nodding like he’s used to it, he takes a step back. “Knock yourself out.”
The interview is brief and consists of several HIPPA violating questions.
“Quarantining alone?” That’s one way to ask if he’s got a girlfriend.
He gets this thirsty look in his eyes. “This whole damn time.”
“And you’ve adhered to all the C.D.C. recommendations?”
He rolls his eyes. “So far. A little hard to keep up. You know how quickly they change.”
“True.”
Here it comes. I stare into his earnest eyes. “You haven’t been sick. Any fevers?”
“Not a one. Strong like bull.” His dimples deepen when he kids.
I open the screen door and invite him in.
5
Unshouldering a backpack that Mayguyver would envy, he looks around my bungalow. “Okay if I set up at the kitchen table?”
I’m caught staring and attempt to recover. “Sure. It’s out-of-bounds weird to have someone over. Before all this, I wasn’t much of an entertainer.”
“Totally understandable. I just need the ah…tool,” he prods.
“Right away.” Holy shit, I hope there’s a bleach wipe left.
Surrounded by wires and tiny tools, it looks like he’s about to perform surgery. Before he starts, he offers some encouragement. “If it’s any consolation, you picked the top of the line. Even under extreme use, it should’ve lasted longer than a couple months.”
Cringing, I can’t believe we’re talking about this.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a heavy user or anything.”
Is he waiting for an answer?
“My modesty went out the door when I let you in. Just take good care of her. That’s my entire Stimulus check you’re working on.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
Mmmm. “I’m sure you will.”
Hands clasped, I’m not only staring, but micromanaging.
“Where are my manners? I’m going to have a Gatorade. You want one?”
His eyes are huge behind the safety glasses. “No, really. Save the supplies for yourself. Sides, I’ve got a jug of water out in the truck.”
I wave him off. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got plenty. Once Disneyland closed, shit got real for me. Something in the air, I don’t know but I started setting a little aside. I wasn’t hoarding, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just enough that I always have enough rations for two.”
He doesn’t need your life story! Let the poor guy work.
“Excuse me.”
The air from the fridge cools my hot cheeks. When did I become such a Chatty Cathy? Feels like I’ve lost the art of socializing, although not sure I had it before.
Hey, this is not social hour. He’s working hard trying to fix your vibrator. Act accordingly.
Wavering, I end up grabbing a drink for him too anyway.
“You sure? Okay thanks.” He chugs the whole thing while I’m still trying to get the cap off mine.
“Here, give it.” One quick twist, but he holds the bottle a second too long.
“You said two. Are you quarantining alone?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Good.” He lets go of the sports drink when I gently tug.
A smile sneaks up on me. Did he say good?
Whistling, he pulls the back panel off. For such big hands, he’s mighty dexterous. I find him more fascinating than any reruns on T.V. “Okay if I sit?”
“Sure.”
Chin propped on my hands, I’m interested. “Wow, what’s that?”
“A screwdriver.” He scoffs.
Shaking his head, the laughter dries up when he looks into my haggard eyes. “Been awhile?”
“Yikes. That’s a little personal. But it’s okay. I haven’t had sex for about six months.”
A whistle escapes between his white teeth. “Not since the lockdown started? That’s rough.” Then it’s him who’s blushing. “Sorry to hear about your troubles. But I meant the vibrator. Has it been broke awhile?”
Oh my God. Embarrassed, I try to recover.
I uncross my legs and open my thighs. “Why, does it show?”
Didn’t think that one through. All I end up doing is inviting him to check out my junk. And he is. Looking it over like he’s the junk man.
Stuck straddling the chair now, it’s a bit of a conundrum. I mean, I’m the one that put the open for business sign up. If I lock it down early? Hmmm.
But he makes the first move and slides his chair a good foot away from me.
Omg, you weirdo. He wasn’t showing interest. He was trying to get you to take a hint. Me and my imagination, I tell you.
“I’ve been practicing social distancing so long, by now, I should be an expert. Too close, I gotcha.” I stand to give him even more space, then his hand drops onto mine. I’m struck by the connection.
“No, really. Your fine. Don’t go. I like you watching me work.”
My hand gets all tingly when he squeezes.
Stunned, I drop back into the chair. Staring down at my hand I wonder. When was the last time something like that happened?
For once I’m quiet and he notices. “Are you worried that I touched you? Don’t be. I mean I’m clean. Do the antibody screen every morning for clearance to work. I’ve got my immunity certificate in the truck. If you want to go wash up, I won’t be offended. That was really stupid of me.”
His face darkens. Inwardly, I’m sure he’s berating himself.
“No, hey. It wasn’t that. Or maybe it was. Everyone is so anti everyone else nowadays, it just made me miss the old days when we used to reach out to one other. Just took me by surprise is all.”
Interested, he leans back in his chair. “Oh yeah. Why’s that?”
My heartbeat sounds like a drum in my chest. “You’re the first person to touch me since this whole thing started. Well, there was my ex, but he stopped showing affection long before this started.”
Relieved to finally admit that, I blow out the breath I’ve been holding onto for half a year.
“Feels pretty goo
d to get that off your chest, right? We’ve got at least fifteen minutes before the tool’s fully charged, I’m a good listener if you want to talk. Now or whenever.”
His words are encouraging. Boy is it tempting to rehash. Maybe grab my construction paper and colored pencils. Highlight every single reason why Brenden Harrison is my ex-boyfriend on a pie-chart. But where would I start?
Probably, the dead look in his eyes when he admitted. “Sally, I can’t do this.”
It’s rather silly now, but I remember feeling rebellious.
“Not following orders? Where would we go? That cabin up in Big Bear?”
Giggly and carefree, I’d asked, “Do I need to bring my boots?”
Practically skipping, I’d dropped my go bag on top of his and stood on tiptoes to give him a kiss.
That’s when Fucken Brenden flinched. Not much, the slightest tic to his jaw. But it felt like a backhand across the mouth.
Untangling my arms from around his neck, he finally quit pretending. “Enough Sally. You misunderstood me. I’m still on quarantine. Just not with you, nothing personal.”
Nothing personal? Oh Brendan, you’re such a fucking dick.
But why waste any more of my breath blowing raspberries at the past? Besides the repairman doesn’t want to hear all that. But he does want an answer.
“The short and sweet of it is he got a better offer. The comely widow two streets over enticed him away with a heated pool. Nothing beats working on your tan while quarantined.
“Oh, okay. I Gotcha,” his voice trails off.
It’s so quiet I can hear myself swallow. Sounds like a cat choking on a hairball. That’s when the repair guy reaches over and touches me again. Light as a feather, he raises my chin. The gentle pick me up somehow feels more intimate than my confession. We’re not even supposed to touch our own faces!
Are you crazy? Do you want to get sick? Throw him out!
Joy Repair Page 2