I bought a new sex toy. Lightning did not strike me.

Beard Man is holed up in the Midwest for two weeks for work. We’ve never been apart for so long. I miss him, and his furnace body with its silky appendage. He texted me yesterday, suggesting I should feel free to find the toy he knows I’ve sheepishly been crushing on. Sweet guy, he knew what I needed.

Lucky for me, my kids were off to the forest for nature school today. Since I completed the rest of my errands before the sex shop opened, I lounged at a tea house up the street. I stared into my tea leaves for nearly an hour after the sex shop had opened, lest I appear too eager, then walked past my car and three blocks up, lest my car be spied in front of the shop. Who or what am I worried about? No idea. Ah, the paranoia of a punitive childhood. But I digress.

Once inside, I maintained a casual attitude, because I’m an empowered, grown-ass woman. I am, I am, I am. Turning on display models, I slowly ran my fingers over them, pausing to consider the motions of each one. Chatting with the sales clerk about various shapes and styles, I willed my cheeks not to blush. I held an egg-shaped toy that vibrates faster the harder it’s squeezed, a sexy spy vibrator made to look exactly like a tube of red lipstick, and toys made to be used with a partner. Contemplating the partner toys and their many shapes, I walked away still flummoxed as to how they get wedged into a pile of genitals. Maybe we can try that one day, but what I really showed up to see was a Pulsator. It thrust in my hand and my eyes widened as an imagination orgasm shuddered through me from crotch to toe. Check out Fun Factory’s line of Pulsators here.

Unboxing my new toy, I was disappointed to realize I had to charge it for 8 hours before first use. Dammit, it was my one day without the kiddos around. Oh well. I set it on the charger. I packed the bowl of my one-hitter with some freshly-ground kush while warming up leftovers for lunch. A wisp of fire-belly smoke escaped my lips as I stony daydreamed about the Pulsator. My excitement turned sour when a current of shame carrying the message, “dirty” looped around my consciousness. It was probably the weed, but for the first time I could separate the thought from myself. Logic or objective study hadn’t convinced me that my body was yucky – I had been conditioned, just as a bell made Pavlov’s dogs drool.

For me, Peggy O’Mara’s words have held true: how you talk to your children becomes their inner voice. No child should hear “yucky” associated with their genitals before they can say “penis” or “vulva”. My inner voice whispered disparaging words about my body and how I wanted to make it feel good.  Disgust at my own sexuality is an imprint I’ve accepted for too long.  With my back pressed against the kitchen counter and my palms to my cheeks, I hiccupped my sadness. Rejecting thoughts that no longer serve me isn’t easy.

The kids are asleep, and the battery is charged, so I’m going to go play. With myself.