You'll Never Believe What I Bought for My Mother

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My mother was a private woman. I learned more about sex and marriage from reading the "Ann Landers" newspaper column as a kid than I did from her. But, I knew my parents had a happy sex life. The signs were all there. With their consistent hand-holding, affectionate pats, the knowing looks; it was obvious they were both active and gleeful in that arena of their marriage.

When my dad died in 1999, the physical loss of his presence had to be nearly as great as the emotional one for my mom. (He was tall, wide-shouldered; the kind of man who walks into a room and owns it.) She was 74, had loved him full-heartedly, and would spend the next 19 years still wearing her wedding ring.

So, I bought her a vibrator.

There was no pre-discussion. I didn’t say, “Hey, Mom — I’ve got some errands to run. While I’m out, would you like me to pick up a sex toy for you?” Even if she’d considered a vibrator, she sure wasn’t someone who’d waltz into a store to buy one.

The thing is, at the risk of sounding totally uncool, I’d never bought a vibrator either. However, I figured there were two types of places to make my purchase; one where I could also buy handcuffs and studded dog collars, or a store that sold electronics.

The last time I’d felt as self-conscious making a purchase was when I was 12 in our neighborhood drug store waiting for the young man behind the cash register to go away and a female to show up so I could buy a box of tampons. But there I was, on the 8th floor of a department store in the household appliances section where, tucked away from the shelves with the coffeemakers and slow cookers, I found a box labeled: Massager for Back and Other Uses.

The model on the package, wearing a pretty blouse, massager pressed playfully over her shoulder, looked deliriously happy. Wink. Wink. I felt like I was 12 again, back in the drugstore. “I bet my back will feel a million times better after using this!” I said to the grandmotherly sales attendant.

In return, I received a withering look that said, “Who are we kidding here, lady?”

When I handed the back massager to my mom, she looked at it wide-eyed, half-smiled, nodded and walked off with it toward her bedroom.

We never discussed it. Not a word. Years later, cleaning out her closets after she died, it didn’t show up. So, whether it was a gift that kept on giving until it gave out, or was the reason she was never interested in dating, I don’t know. But I often wonder what happened to it.

Then just this year, right here in The Ethel, I read Dr. Lauren Streicher’s article about all the extra va-va-voom vibrators we can add to partnered sex. Ann Landers had never mentioned that! Maybe it was time to mix things up a bit. I mentioned the article to my husband, Randy, and he said "Sure why not?" before going back to watching football. But now what?

I wasn’t eager to do any online research. I could imagine all those algorithms inside my computer whipping into high gear to spit out endless vibrator ads. I still haven’t recovered from the dozens of dental implant ads that popped up on my 60^th birthday. But after the final football play, my now enthused husband — who’s not afraid of algorithms — announced, “I looked up which vibrator gets high marks on Wirecutter."

Wirecutter is a product testing service owned by The New York Times. It doesn’t matter what the category is, lawnmower, dishwasher, toothpaste, Randy’s motto is: "If Wirecutter loves it, it must be good."

I placed my order online. My new purchase was only 24 hours away. The next day a big, long box arrived. My first reaction was, “Wow! Someone sent me flowers!”

I was wrong. Inside was a vibrator the size of a paper towel roll, complete with a silicone topper that could have doubled as a cabbage head. The thing weighed as much as the small barbells I use in my gym workouts. I flipped it on. It sounded like an airplane was about to take off.

“Well, something might take off,” said my husband, grinning, and looking a bit disappointed when I said, “This contraption is not getting anywhere near my private parts. I’ll just send it back."

Fine. Except when I went to arrange the return online, there was no same-as-usual box to click. I was instead instructed to Please call.

“Call? I have to discuss this?” I thought.

But the contraption was expensive, so I dialed.

“Is the product defective?” the nice young man on the other end asked.

“I don’t know,” I told him.

“Did you use it?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Did you unwrap it?”

Oh, how I hated this conversation. “Yes,” I said.

“We will say it’s defective. Please dispose of the defective item. You will receive a full refund.”

“Really? I don’t have to return it?” It was reassuring to know that the source doesn’t sell used vibrators. “Thank you. That’s very understanding of you.”

I hung up and said, “Honey, we just got a free king-sized vibrator!” I gave my mother a vibrator. And then the universe gave one to me.

So, did I try it? Did I love it? Like my mother, my lips may be smiling, but they’re sealed.
 
Have you ever purchased a vibrator for yourself or someone else? Let us know in the comments below.