I first used a vibrator nine years ago. It was my boyfriend (now my husband) who suggested we get the toy and I was a little apprehensive. Yeah, I admit it; I was a bit of a prude.
Our first electric friend was a hard, plastic thing shaped nothing like a real penis. 
Didn't feel like one either. It did the trick though and I silently congratulated myself on becoming a sexually liberated woman -- with a hard and uncomfortable plastic vibrator. "Buzzby" (my husband named him) died a horrible death only a few months into our relationship due to a tragic battery acid leak. Though I mourned the loss of my first sex toy I knew, like a lover who just wasn't quite compatible, it was time to move on to bigger and better things.
"Let me buy the next vibrator." I told my husband.
"You didn't like Buzzby?" He asked, more than a little surprised (probably thinking back to all the orgasms I'd had as a result of our little friend).
"He was OK," I lied, "But let's upgrade."
Buzzby II was a drastic improvement from his predecessor. He was bigger; he was longerand he had a softer side to him thanks to some "cyber skin" coating.
Oh! Did I mention he was electric blue? Hey, if a girl can't get off with a little style then what's the point, right?
"Blue" (I had renamed him so he wouldn't have to live in the shadow of Buzzby all his life) was a swell fella. He felt better, worked better, and when I used Blue on my husband even he had to admit Blue was a definite improvement.
For years we lived in vibrating bliss with Big Blue -- he got a name upgrade for good behavior -- and we thought we couldn't have asked for anything more from a sex toy. Then, at the invitation of a friend, I attended a sex toy party and had my eyes opened.
I first spotted him from across a crowded room. He was making time in the hands of another party guest but even from afar I knew I was going to have to make him mine. "Pinky" (did I mention I'm not so good with naming things?) was about the same size as Big Blue but that's where the similarities ended. When I finally got my hands on Pinky I marveled at the raised bumps along his impressive shaft and the embedded pearls that promised to caress me while his head rotated. Oh...my...God. I was in love. So infatuated was I that I didn't even realize what the small plastic "creature" attached to the base was for.
"That's a beaver." The party consultant informed me.
"Pardon me?" I'd heard of a beaver before but I thought that's what I'd be introducing Pinky to later.
"The small vibrating attachment at the bottom," She said while pointing to a little thing perched on Pinky, "It's called a beaver and it vibrates for clitoral stimulation."
The consultant turned on the beaver attachment and placed my finger to its nose. The tiny proboscis like nubs caressed my finger like nothing I'd felt before.
"I'll take it." I replied, my voice a little shaky.
"Great! Now if you'll just pass it on for the next lady--"
I clutched Pinky to my chest like a jealous woman and shot the consultant the evil eye.
"I'll order you your very own."
Yes, even in my frenzied state I realized I didn't want a vibrator that had been making time with other women. I deserved my own virginal version of Pinky. I passed the vibrator on to the lady on my right and watched her eyes bug out of their sockets.
My new vibrator and I became the best of bed buddies. Pinky even accompanied me to London to visit my husband who had been working overseas for the last three months (this could explain my immediate and passionate bonding with Pinky) and my husband declared Pinky to be a hit. I felt a little guilty at having replaced Big Blue before his time but every time Mr. Beaver did his thing (that little guy was so good he rated his own name) I told myself I was doing the right thing.
Bliss and multiple orgasms were mine and my husband and I reveled in our ever improving sex lives. Modern technology -- it was made for lovers. I couldn't imagine ever getting over Pinky and it was no surprise that Big Blue ended up a dust collector in my bedside table. Poor guy.
One night I decided to let Pinky in on the action with my husband and me. I reached for my electric helper and directed him down south. That's when I discovered a problem with Pinky's design. Have you ever tried to sandwich a nine inch, pink vibrator with a squatting beaver on board between two people? Yeah -- not easy, is it? Damn it! Pinky, we have a problem.
Off to the sex store I went once more. I'd been greedy -- I can see that now. Bigger wasn't always better and I needed to downsize.
The words "Finger Fun" leapt out at me from a sea of tiny personal vibrators. This little guy was only a couple of inches long with an alluring crook in his tip. There was a small rubber ring at the base to slip a finger into and with the promise of being discreet and waterproof this little wonder walked out of the store with me.
I haven't named our newest addition yet. Perhaps I'm learning not to get so attached in order to avoid the pangs of guilt that come with replacing an outdated toy, or maybe it's just that this one is also pink and I just can't come up with an original name yet. My husband and I are quite proud of our collection of sex toys (even if we do only use one of them now) and I'm beginning to view each one not only as a drawer full of buzzing toys but as a testament to my own sexual evolution.
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Originally Published July 2006: Stripped! Anniversary Issue