Vibe.

Downtown I went to the vibrator store. I was imagining this kind of folksy interaction with cool salesgirls "Oh look everyone, she's buying her first vibe! Awwww." It was not like that. It was a big store and basically a wall of plastic boxes of vibrators. Not even good packaging. Just, well, the aesthetic was all wrong. Where were the bi-curious punkettes and the other repressed housewives kvetching over lattes? The counter girl was a black girl in a bright orange iZod - so not punk! She said "I'm going to put a battery in to make sure it works because it's non-returnable. When you're not using it, take the batteries out. If you use a lubricant make sure it's water-soluble. Do not submerge it. Use mild soap like Dove. Do you want to buy batteries?" Only that wasn't the cadence. It was like a well-drilled rap, like the one I learned while canvassing for an environmental group in college. Like, as soon as a person is in front of you go. Say the shit. Get it out and fast. It's a spiel, learned by rote. Not what I was hoping for.

I wanted a balloon! Or at least a sticker!

Now I have a vibe. The Rabbit. No batteries. Damn.