Eventually, I figured it out. The Rabbit became my nooner, my Afternoon Delight, my All Night Long. I used the Rabbit so much that one day, it just stopped working. I hit the on button and…nothing. So I did what anyone in possession of a non-operational sex toy would do: I wrapped it in an old pillowcase and threw it down the trash chute. I wish it could’ve worked out, old friend.
A few years later, I was living in Paris and decided to extend my stay through winter. I called upon my same dear boy friend to send me a box of warm clothing from San Francisco.
“Are you dating anybody over there?” he asked me.
I paused. Should I try to paint an optimistic picture or just be truthful?
“What do you think?” I replied.
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “That’s why I included a little surprise in your box.”
I was giddy with excitement. I hadn’t brought any vibrating goodies with me for fear of having them publicly discovered while going through Customs. And because I was in grad school, I was broke and couldn’t treat myself to anything new.
When the box arrived, I ripped it open, turtlenecks and sweaters flying through the air in a woolen frenzy. Nothing. I picked up the empty box, shook it, then looked inside, as if it would speak to me and tell me where my special toy was. I picked up the box again and looked underneath. I shook it again. No vibrator.
I called my friend the next day.
“So, when you said there was a ‘surprise’ in my box, did you mean a vibrator?”
“Yeah, did you not get it?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Did you look through everything?”
We sat silent, thinking.
“Do you think…?” I asked.
“No, no. They couldn’t have. They aren’t allowed. Are they?”
“No. You’re sure you put it in there?” I asked
“Yes,” he growled.
“So…a Customs agent? Stole my vibrator? Some French woman from Customs is using my vibrator?”
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