I was pre-orgasmic until I was twenty years old; it wasn’t from a lack of trying.
I'd been consciously masturbating since I was around twelve, sexually active since I was fifteen, and had always been precociously erotically intuitive. I had no feelings of shame around my sexual urges, and I actively and methodically sought information about sex from reliable sources. But luck does not always favor the precocious, and I spent the bulk of my teenage years trying desperately to make myself cum. I had a lot of partners back then, and I made a habit of lying to the ones I cared for deeply and faking my orgasms.
This was because my forthcomingness with a few partners I didn’t care for so deeply was met with pretty predictable idiocy:
a) Insulting my intelligence: "Are you sure? You've probably had one and not realized it."
b) Offering up the magic dick: "No problem. You just haven't had ME yet."
c) Holding a funeral for my sex life: "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. That's AWFUL. I can't imagine that happening to me. How do you stand it? Can you even ENJOY sex?"
HELL FUCKING YES I ENJOYED SEX! It is, and has ALWAYS been, my very favorite activity, orgasm or no orgasm.
By the time I was in college, though, I was done with not being able to orgasm. I poured my heart into writing a twenty-page paper for my "Sexual Health for Sexual Minorities" class on the history of the medicalization of human sexuality and ran it parallel to my lifelong journey for orgasm.
.My professor Loraine Hutchins ,was incredibly supportive, and gave me the contact information for a sexological bodyworker. They're like talk therapists, but more woo, and they let their hands do the talking for part of the session. The bodyworker was wonderful but largely unhelpful; she demonstrated some various masturbation and breathing techniques, asked about my diet, and gave me some ideas for non-goal-oriented sexual activities with partners. I still didn't cum. Before I left, she slipped a coupon in my hand for the Vibrations store down the street and smiled kindly.
"Oh, and if all else fails—pick up the Hitachi Magic Wand."
I had my first orgasm within ten minutes of using it.
I have since become the Magic Wand's most fervent devotee. I've sung it's praises in product reviews. I've recommended it to the readers of Elle Magazine. I've introduced over a dozen partners (and over three dozen clients!) to it, and have been known to unabashedly carry it to a date, with a good 6" of the handle and cord sticking jauntily out of my purse.
I've even performed drag with one.
The Magic Wand is durable as hell, but inevitably every 12-18 months I need a replacement. Either I end up giving one to a partner, or a rat chews through my cord, or someone busts my car window, rifles through my trunk and steals mine. You know, the usual.
The last time tragedy struck was two months ago, and I headed to my favorite neighborhood sex toy store to make a purchase. While the store was awaiting a new shipment of magic wands, the owner suggested I try another brand, which seemed comparable.
I was suspicious, but my vagina was insistent, and so I caved. I thought "What the hell, how bad can it be?"
Oh readers, what a fool I was.
The Magic Massager is a B-level horror movie with a plotline that unfolds on your genitals.
Let me break it down for you. No, literally, here is the Magic Massager broken down:
The head has a detachable cover. Neither the fact that the cover is textured (you absolutely cannot clean it thoroughly. I've tried.) or the fact that it is detachable are advertised. The other two unidentifiable grey pieces are soft, unsanitary, FLAMMABLE "padding" intended to live between the cover and the terrifying metal skillet that passes for the head. The body of the vibrator, while unsurprisingly large, is dramatically heavier than the Magic Wand body I was used to.
I'll paint you a picture: I'm fooling around in bed with a partner, and it gets to the point where I'm ready to incorporate the vibrator. I plug it in (for the first time!), switch it to the "low" setting, and things intensify pretty quickly. The thing is just as powerful as the Magic Wand, I'll give it that, and in less than six minutes I'm approaching orgasm. Just as the fireworks are poised to erupt, the Magic Massager begins jumping around in my hand and making this horrific insistent wailing noise. It was basically the equivalent of popping up to unexpectedly voyeur on your sexy times.
My partner and I immediately startle and stop what we're doing (though, full disclosure: their entire right hand is stuck in me up to the wrist). I turn the vibrator off and inspect it. Everything looks normal, but I immediately become aware of how hot the body is getting. I go to wrap my hand around the head and re-center it (sometimes a problem with older Magic Wands—it develops a louder buzzing and you just jam the head down firmly on the neck to quiet it).
That's when I realize the head has a detachable cover, which I then (stupidly) pull off. Hey, maybe something got caught under it, and that's why it's making such a racket!
My boner is starting to wilt, and my partner's hand is cramping, but we soldier on. We smell something burning. I pull the curious grey padding pieces out from under the cover and see BLACK SCORCH MARKS all around the padding. THAT'S when I notice that the actual head of the Magic Massager is metal. In disbelief and wonder, I touch it and promptly sustain a gnarly second-degree burn on my hand, screaming and dropping the vibrator on the bed. The force of the scream actually ejects my partner's hand from my cunt and we scramble away from the affronting vibrator like crabs.
I'm pretty sure we spent the remainder of the evening cuddling and consoling each other.
At the time of this near-death experience, I was currently in a bit of a financial crisis, and could not afford to go out and purchase yet ANOTHER vibrator. Which meant that I had to continue using the Magic Massager for another thirty days or so. I can't reach orgasm without that level of vibrating intensity.
The whole situation began to fuck with my mind. Do I abstain from orgasm, or risk serious injury? Each time I erred on the side of orgasm, a similarly horrible outcome presented itself. If I was lucky, I'd cum before the burning smell started. And the noise? I just had to warn my roommate not to call Animal Control when they heard the desperate, piercing sound of a braying sheep coming from my bedroom.
If you'd rather not take my word for it and purchase the Magic Massager in the future, I certainly can't stop you. And honestly, how can I compete with their professional, strategic, high-quality, ?
People buy vibrators off the Internet with startling frequency, often drawn to advertised discounts of 30-50% off “the regular price” on websites such as Ebay and Amazon.
Fake Hitachis contain junk components, are not tested/approved ahead of time, and adhere to no safety standards. They have been known to spark and occasionally catch fire.
How to tell if you have a counterfeit Magic Wand:
- All real Hitachis, regardless of age or model, came with a warranty sheet. Counterfeits do not.
- Real Hitachis have a bulbous, firm head, while counterfeit Hitachis have a softer, skinnier head.
- Real Hitachis never have a protruding plastic base on the bottom of the head; instead, the shaft extends directly into the head through a metal ring opening.
- Recommendation: instead of purchasing one of the newer Vibratex Magic Wand models that are lower quality (and/or risking the chance that you accidentally buy a counterfeit model), purchase a used Original Hitachi HV-250 model with the orange switchplate and replace the head for around $10. Or hey, you can just settle for buying your future vibrators more intentionally from authorized Magic Wand dealers!
- Here's Sunny Megatron’s great guide (with photos!) to avoiding counterfeit Magic Wands.
Trust me, I know: it can be hard not to buy a knock-off Magic Wand if you can't afford proper one. But setting yourself on fire to save a few bucks only enables bad craftsmanship and worse safety standards.
Contrary to that burning, searing sensation on your skin, well, tell 'em Hulk Hogan:
