It’s a love story as old as time itself – girl meets boy, girl is asked to review sex toy, boy takes girl to dinner with remote controlled egg in her vagina. At the risk of being cliche I must report that I (too) have experienced this romantic tale- and almost lived to tell about it- though the vibrating egg may or may not have died in the interim.
So it begins- I find myself sitting in the car with said Boy, who is actually, unlike my previous friendlies, a Man. For the purposes of this story let us call him the Egg Man, for he is in this case, at least the man who will shortly be entrusted with the egg remote. (Goo Goo G’joob.)
So we are outside the restaurant having parked, and I am in suitably slutty attire, as that’s what he has requested and let’s just say this is not the first time I have given him my remote. Short black dress. Boobs. High heels. I’m his Valentine’s slut and I play the role well, as I have studied hard and know the part.
I am debating whether I should now put in the egg, or wait until the restaurant. Now would be the time to tell you that what I speak of is not a literal egg that would crack inside me shell and all, causing me to squat over a pan and make a small omelet. No. This is a Vibrating Egg from Mystic, and I have longed to have someone to try with for a while. Both it and the remote are black, the construction does not feel sturdy to me but I am hoping I am wrong about that. Both the device and its counterpart require triple A batteries and also, I’m hoping, roadside assistance.
“Put it in,” commands the Egg Man.
I look outside and see a hipster smoking outside a different restaurant who spits phlegm vehemently on the sidewalk.
“Ugh, it’s amazing how disgusting people are when they think no one is watching them…” I say, and then stick the egg into my vagina in the front seat of the car with people walking past. Amazing indeed.
I totter to the restaurant on my heels, not really feeling the egg. Years ago I had two C-Sections so have a fairly intact love-cavity, the toy is larger than I anticipated but rests comfortably inside. Or numbly inside. My date holds me (so I don’t fall over in my stupid heels) and we go inside the small sushi place.
He has already tested the speeds against the back of his hand in the car, and as we sit in the intimate sushi place which is not very loud (doesn’t seem loud enough to drown out a buzzing “marital aid”) I get a tingle of anticipation. He stares at me, the Egg Man, as we are given menus. He is diabolical, and I know this. I start to sweat.
He stares at me expectantly.
“You don’t feel that?” He asks.
“How about now?”
We order green tea and water and he fumbles under the table with the remote. I sigh. His competence has been let down by analog technology. This is not a complicated thing- it does not require the modern science of Bluetooth, Airdrop or Infrared. He has made me orgasm in the past without the aid of any of these things, with nothing more than a look and a whispered word in my ear. This is balls.
“Can I have it?” I ask him, crestfallen.
I bring the remote right up to my vagina and start clicking around under the table. There is no table cloth so it’s fun to think I have to avoid being seen. We are almost the only ones in the restaurant though, so if we are seen, it will be by the guy of non-specific ethnicity making the sushi. He is talking loudly about comedy to the only other customer, an older guy eating alone at the sushi bar. I overhear their loud conversation and start to get inexplicably pissed off. I feel the egg turn on and start to vibrate…
My man stares at me as my eyes flicker to life a little bit.
“Okay it’s working…”
The remote is right up next to my vagina. It is supposed to work the egg UP TO TEN FEET AWAY. (The only thing more lame is if the thing came with a cord.) I mentally confirm my long held belief that my pussy has such powerful energy that it can stop locomotives and repair nations. Or at least cause reasonable interference on the frequency of 400 THz. My pussy should come with a disclaimer. (Probably not just one.)
I keep switching around and get nothing more than the feeling I might encounter if I were sitting on a vibrating bench. I experiment with clutching the egg with my Kegels with very little difference. At one point, it almost gets good. The Egg Man stares at me intently. It would have been faster to make myself come with the non-vibrating remote.
“Take it out,” he says. So I do. I figure out how to turn off the disappointing device and the pull it out by the external vinyl loop which has stayed external, and pop it into a napkin. We have finished dinner by now and I consider leaving the egg on the table as a tip. “Lick it,” he says, because he’s a diabolical fucker and I would expect nothing less, so I do.
“Mmmm,” I say, “Better than the Flaming Scallops.”