quizzical pussy

Because my vagina is now so snobby and fancy and very used to getting expensive things shoved up it, it has informed me that we simply do not do tampons anymore.

A tampon costs about $.20 or so, making it the crappy $10 jelly dildo of menstrual devices. According to my vagina, I can go fuck myself if I think that’s going to cut it anymore. After all, my vagina is used to Feeldoes and Pure Wands and a boyfriend with the most beautiful penis I’ve ever seen. So to a point, I understand how a wad of bleached cotton with a dangly string is just insulting at this point.

The Diva Cup, a medical grade silicone menstrual cup, is mathematically just a better thing to put in one’s vagina, according to mine. At over a hundred times more expensive than a single tampon, it’s more appropriate for a fancy vagina, is the argument. I think. Now, I’m not sure how fair it would be to say that I honor my genitals’ wishes whenever they get ideas about things, but I was out of tampons and when I actually did the math¹ I realized that this scheme would actually save me money in the long run. So I ordered one and then promptly got my period, which ended shortly before my Diva Cup arrived.

…Which was a little annoying, but the thing about periods is there’s always another one coming along eventually. Until there’s not, at which point you throw yourself the best party ever.

So on that last period I used up my remaining Instead Softcups, which I hate. They feel roughly like sticking a garbage bag duct taped to a hula hoop up your hoohah, and yet somehow manage to leak anyway. Considering that these war crimes were my first experience with menstrual cups, the leap of faith I took ordering the Diva Cup only makes sense when you realize I’m often entirely ruled by whimsy.

I waited about a month and a half, I think, before I started my very first Diva period yesterday. I have to admit I was a little excited beyond that normal “Jubilation! Not pregnant!² Not in total thyroid shutdown!” rush. I like new toys, okay?

I’ve been using this thing for less than 24 hours, so I’m not actually writing a comprehensive review, just sharing some first impressions:

1. Size-wise, the Diva Cup is much (much much) more manageable than the Instead, which always seemed to end up askew inside me and half pushed out because my body had no idea where it was meant to go. The Diva doesn’t feel nearly as obtrusive.
2. There’s going to be a bit of a learning curve. You fold up the Diva Cup to insert it, and then you’re supposed to turn it 360° while still gripping the base (not the stem) in order to get it unfolded and correctly placed. Now, I said the Diva Cup was smaller than a hula hoop-sized apparatus. Notice that I did not say it’s small enough to perform finger acrobatics with inside my nethers.
3. Overall, I’m encouraged. It seems to be working without much leaking despite the fact that I’m almost certainly not doing the turny thing right. And a good thing too, because I’m already financially committed to using it exclusively for uterine lining management for the next couple years.
4. And! It just occurred to me that I’m doing something wonderful for the environment as well! I should really treat myself and chop down a few baby Mediterranean monk seals. I’ve earned it.

Moral of the story: My vagina makes sense. We should all listen to it more often.

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1. Math being a thing that I, being a person and not a vagina, can actually make use of. [↩]
2. Yes, even though my primary partner has a vasectomy and I haven’t played with another guy in months, and always use condoms with anyone who isn’t Laramy. I am that paranoid. [↩]

There is an art to giving a handjob. You will notice here that I don’t claim to have mastered this art, simply that it exists. I’ll admit that this is one of my weaker points when it comes to sexual skills. To me, a handjob is usually an entirely pragmatic maneuver: I’m trying to get or keep a penis hard until I can put it somewhere more exciting than between my hands. Handjobs, however artistic they have the potential to be, usually end up being transitional for me. I enjoy the penis touching, of course, but I can’t help thinking about what parts of me it could be touching forthwith.

And I have to admit, that sort of bugs me about myself.

I’m not a big fan of downtime. I would prefer that every moment with me be mindblowing for my lovers. In a perfect world my lips would vibrate, my cervix would have a tongue, and my hands stroking a penis would be as Aphrodite’s hands. In a perfect world. As it is, they are regular hands, and I sometimes worry that my handjobs are boring. There. I said it.

This is not why I gave my boyfriend Laramy the Tenga Egg Babeland sent me. But it’s part of why I offered to help him try it out. Also, though, sex toys are a hobby of mine, and you’re supposed to share your hobbies with your partner, right? It’s what couples do. Astoundingly, Laramy seemed much more eager to explore this than my equally avid interests in yoga and belly dancing.

The Tenga Egg is a cute, clever disposable masturbation sleeve. You can wash and reuse it if you’re careful, but it’s not the most robust sex toy ever made. It’s made of soft, flexible silicone elastomer, and available in six different textures. The cute, clever part is really in the packaging: these sleeves come in little plastic eggs with colorful labels. You can buy a fairly adorable single egg for $8.50, or you can save money and get a set of six in a crazy adorable egg carton! I haven’t seen a men’s sex toy presented this whimsically since some wag made it suddenly seem possible to fuck Yoda Yaddle.

I was excited to see how Laramy liked the Tenga Egg, and maybe even get to feel like a handjob goddess. Why should my mouth get all the accolades? I mean, seriously!

The different textures include: what seem to be twisty vertical ribs, wavy horizontal ribs, a spider web (clearly the most erotic pattern known to man), knobby polka dots, thin spun thread patterns, and, the one Laramy ended up with, the “Stepper”, which looks– just to put this in the sexiest terms possible– like semicircular flaps arranged like scales. Or something. It seemed promising… stimulating.

We tore open the little packet of lube that comes with the Egg, applied it to both toy and tool, and took turns stroking. The sleeve is kind of like a looser, thicker, stretchier condom. Laramy said it felt good and the material was pleasant, but he didn’t seem to feel transported, as you might be if you were getting a handjob from, say, a goddess. Gradually, two problems became  apparent:

1. The lube provided was more sticky than it was at all lube-like.
2. The textured part of the Egg was concentrated around the sides, instead of the tip. All that exciting, scaly sensation was focused on the less sensitive parts of his penis. When fully stretched, the sleeve was completely untextured around the head of his cock.

The first problem is easy: inferior lube tends to get sticky. I would generally recommend someone use a lube they know they like when playing with a new toy anyway. But the second issue? Made no sense to either of us. Why would anyone design a toy with an emphasis on interesting textures and make sure those textures only touched shaft?

“Maybe it’s having to stretch too far because your cock is too big,” I suggested. Laramy did not hate that postulation. I think that might actually be what it was, though. Laramy does have a formidable dick, and otherwise we’re looking at just a glaring design flaw. Whatever the issue, the Tenga Egg didn’t work for him, although he thought it was promising in concept. He actually asked me if it was okay if he threw it away.

We ended the session with Laramy washing that horrendous lube off his cock and fucking me, which is usually exactly what I’m hoping to get out of a handjob.

Thanks, Babeland!

 

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You didn’t honestly think Model T. and I were done having the sexes in the cars, did you? Oh, how adorably naive. This time we did it in sickening style. -Q.P.

Jaguar XJ: The new Jaguar XJ was the most expensive vehicle to show up in my queue in a couple of years. Without getting specific about the price tag, this British full-size luxury-sport sedan cost a fair bit more than the house whose driveway it sat in.

Six-figure window stickers are an open invitation to vehicular debauchery, and finding volunteers to get busy in the Jag wasn’t hard. Even without getting naked, the interior was a fun place to be thanks to Jaguar’s buttery-smooth hand-stitched leather, artistically-placed blue LED mood lighting, and the unique wood-and-chrome console that are designed to send one message: “This is the life.” It’s rather a lot of fun to drive, too: Jaguar’s supercharged V8 produces 510 horsepower and is a serious thing of beauty when it comes to acceleration. Stomp on the gas and the XJ will go, and go, and go. At 130mph, when you’ve hopefully discovered your common sense, it’s still accelerating.

Considering all of that, it’s almost disappointing to park the XJ in search of carnal enjoyment. Collecting QP for a second lesson in the fine art of sex in cars, we sought out a less well-lit place this time. It wouldn’t do to cruise off and find a woodsy makeout spot somewhere far from the city lights, though; the Jaguar’s a city kitty, after all. QP and I hid in plain sight, at an auto shop. Pull into the line of repairables parked overnight, and even a new Jaguar doesn’t look particularly out of place. Car dealers are also decent hide-in-plain-sight spots, but tend to have roving security guards so your mileage may vary, so to speak. A decent-sized Goodyear or Pep Boys store with a bunch of cars already in the lot is perfect, though.

The Jaguar was all to happy to oblige our need to sprawl across the back seat, though the somewhat narrow interior required some contortions. Discomfort is temporary, though, and most carsex is fast and furious, which mitigates any potential sprains or long-term discomfort. After I returned the XJ, the folks from Jaguar never did ask what the spots on the leather were.

Summary:

• Arousal: 5/5–Jaguars are sexy. Jaguars are like Porsches in that they make people want to have sex with you. Even people who are turned off by the attitudes of expensive car buyers seem to respond to the raw sex exuded by a Jaguar. It’s scary. Had my schedule allowed it, I probably could’ve had sex with a different person in the XJ every night that I had it.
• Discretion: 1/5–Jaguars are also eyecatching. The XJ’s styling is otherworldly, and it stands out at the curb. People want to know what it is. In cases of backseat hijinks, best to hide the thing as much as possible.
• Comfort: 2/5–While comfy for long road trips, the XJ’s got a low roof and a relatively narrow body. This limits flexibility of position.
• Best person to hump in this car: Someone who’s never ridden in a Jaguar before. Or been ridden in a Jaguar before. See what I did there?

I love Model T.’s automotive reviews so much that I crashed one. Not the car. The review. “Crashed” as in a party rather than a breakable item. Oh, you know what I mean. Just read it. And enjoy! -Q.P.

Toyota Avalon: After guest-posting for QP a few times, it came up in conversation that she had never actually had sex in a car. Wait, what? We set about making plans to rectify this grievous oversight as quickly as possible. The moment a suitable vehicle dropped into my hands, in fact, I sent out word over our secret network that it was on.

The “proper vehicle” was a Toyota Avalon. The Avalon is Toyota’s very successful attempt to build a better Buick, and it’s outfitted with hauling the bridge club in mind. The smooth V6 engine and plush suspension were pretty much immaterial, though–what we were after was that nice, wide back seat. The Avalon doesn’t look it at a glance, but it’s a full-size car, with full-size interior appointments. The rear seats even recline slightly, for additional space.

It’s reasonably boring to look at, too. Toyota’s spruced up the styling a little bit, but at a glance the Avalon is nothing special. This proved to be advantageous, as we cruised into a rather well-lit parking garage to find a spot for a tryst. The original plan was to head for the roof, but a maintenance man was apparently taking a break up there in his own truck, so we cruised back down a few levels, slipped the Avalon into an unobtrusive parking spot, and slid into the back seat. It didn’t take QP long to decide that carsex was quite all right, and after some suitably frantic partial-shedding of clothes (pro tip; when fucking in the car in public, skirts and kilts are your friends) the Avalon’s reclined back seat proved to be quite suitable indeed for straddling. Several vehicles drove past, but nobody paid the bouncing Avalon any mind.

Not that we cared much if they did. There’s a furtive, cautious air to engaging in carsex; you’ve got to pick your spot carefully, and be alert to potential interruptions or dangers. For all of that, though, there’s also a point of no return (somewhere between penetration and orgasm) where, seriously, you just don’t care. At this point, a busload of nuns and orphans could pull up next to the car, and you’d probably just keep going. When the first car cruised past the Avalon, looking for a parking spot, we both thought, Fuck it. Fuck them. We’re fucking. Deal with it.
Odds are they didn’t even notice anyway.

Summary:

• Arousal: 1/5–This is essentially your grandmother’s car. Not particularly sexy, either to look at or to drive.
• Discretion: 4/5–For the above reason, nobody pays any attention to it, either. Pork away, pal. Fuck’er blue.
• Comfort: 4/5–The good-sized back seat and copious legroom common to any full-size sedan worth its salt mean plenty of space in the back of the Avalon. If there’d been time, we’d have tried the front seat, too.
• Best person to hump in this car: Someone you know well enough to be comfortable having “borrowed-Grandpa’s-car-with-my-hot-cousin” fantasies with.

Today we have another car copulation confection for you, compliments of Model T! -Q.P.

Hyundai Equus: Hyundai’s Equus is an entirely new concept for the brand. Once known for economy cars with bargain-basement pricing, the Equus is Hyundai’s attempt to compete with luxury makers like Lexus and Mercedes. And, believe it or not, it works. The massive Equus is a four-passenger executive luxury sedan powered by a stately V8 and designed to carry passengers in first-class comfort. Heated, reclining and massaging seats, rear-seat radio and climate controls and a chilled wine refrigerator in the center console are all part of the package.

It was all so posh that A. and I just had to defile it. In addition to listening to noisy, epic Scandinavian heavy metal (Finntroll, if you must know), eating messy Subway sandwiches in the front seats and covering its glossy black finish with plenty of road grime and salt, we parked it under a burned-out streetlight in Detroit and got busy in the back seat.

It wasn’t as easy as you might think. Like many modern luxury cars, the Equus has daytime running lights, which means that if the engine is on, the lights are on. This became problematic, as keeping the engine running serves both to prevent the windows from fogging up and to facilitate a quick getaway should the need arise. This also meant we couldn’t fuck on the heated and massaging seat while it was heated up and massaging, which was a huge disappointment. The Equus’ rear windows all have privacy shades, at least.

The large rear console made laying down across the car impossible, so we reclined the rear seat as far as it would go and pushed the front passenger seat forward to provide enough room. Once that was done, there was enough space for a passionate quickie. Romance? Foreplay? The Equus needs not these things; we pulled the offending clothes roughly aside and went at it like a high-profile Hollywood star and a hooker on the way to an awards ceremony (only without the cocaine), and if we could’ve had someone to drive us around while we were doing it so we could rush to make ourselves red-carpet presentable after getting off, that would’ve just made the scene perfect.

Summary:

• Arousal: 4/5–The Equus has presence, that’s for sure. It’s often mistaken for a Lexus, but it’s a lot bigger and shows it, especially in black. This is a car that exudes confidence, and confidence is sexy.
• Discretion: 1/5–Depending on the neighborhood, it’s hard to be discreet in any $80,000 sedan, especially one this size.
• Comfort: 3/5–The wide rear seats provided more space than we expected, considering the executive-transport console that takes up a lot of space in the middle.
• Best person to hump in this car: The first vapid piece of bubble-brained eye candy who’s foolish enough to get into the back seat with you on the promise of a part in your upcoming movie/magazine shoot/music video/CD, of course. The Equus politely suggests, “Hump ‘em and dump ‘em.”

I once had an orgasm from someone touching my hand the right way. They don’t tell you about that sort of thing in those books full of sex tips because it’s not a normal sort of thing to expect from life. However, I was there and it happened. Confirmed: I’m, like, Sunday morning easy to get off. Nevertheless, I may be becoming a bit of a toy snob. And the more toys I try, the less and less I’m willing to fuck around with the ones that don’t do it for me. Why am I wasting my time, I think, when I could be finding someone to touch my hand?

So when I end up saying “meh” about a sex toy, it’s not because it didn’t bring me to orgasm. Let’s face it, it probably did. However, I’m reasonably sure I could get off by slapping my vulva with a wooden spoon.

Hrm. Brb. Yup.

For me to like a toy, though, it has to live up to my increasingly picky standards. And right now that means I have to at least want to use it again, ever.

Having said that, my opinion on Vibratex’s elastomer Rabbit Pearl? A resounding “meh”. Actually, I can go one further: I was actively disappointed.

I am far from anti concerning rabbit-style vibes. Didn’t I enjoy my Jackrabbit until it squealed uncle and then disintegrated from overuse? But the Pearl seemed like a huge step backward in power and detail. Maybe there’s a good reason for that: it is “the original” after all.

The Rabbit Pearl is famous, bitch. This you must realize. The packaging wants you to understand that it was “Featured in HBO’s Sex and the City”, and that this was the first dual action rabbit-style vibrator on the market. This might be a case of mistaken identity, though, because Babeland is telling me that the actual T.V. star toy is the Vibratex Rabbit Habit, but yeah. I don’t really care about all that. I just want to get off, and none of those Sex and the City chicks is really my type, so I’m not concerned with what they put in their pussies.

The Pearl is made of elastomer, a phthalate-free, latex-free, material that’s safe with silicone or water-based lubes. It’s soft and rubbery. The eponymous pearls are plastic beads that create textural interest as they move around the rotating shaft of the dildo portion of the toy.

Oh, and funny story: This thing takes three C batteries to actually work. If you go out and buy AA batteries it will not magically take them based on your good intentions and desire to get off now. This is, admittedly, not a shortcoming of the toy.

The Rabbit Pearl’s control system is different from the rabbit vibes I’m used to. Instead of buttons on the base of the toy, there’s a separate (also dildo-shaped, so don’t get confused) control console connected by wires to the shaft. The controls are simple:  there are two dimmers the console, one to control each type of action: shaft and vibrator. The separate console makes it a little more versatile and accessible for partner play, but considerably less one-handed. I found it difficult to click and close smut-infested tabs while changing the intensity of my Pearl.

This toy, like all rabbit-style vibes, boasts an insertable shaft that rotates (with the beads adding interest), and an attached rabbit-skinned bullet vibe. The latter’s ears, soft and floppy, are meant to flicker over the clitoris. The vibrations get reasonably intense at their height, and are never disruptively loud; the rotation is basically always quiet and uninspiring. The shaft/bullet one-two punch has made many, many women happy over the years. Me, I find that when the shaft is inserted the rabbit ears don’t line up quite right with my clit. This makes the whole dual-action thing more like pick-one-action for me, at least. Do I have odd pussy-to-clit proportions? Possibly.

But honestly, I suspect even someone with a perfect Fibonacci’s vulva could do better. I’ve had better vibrators; I’ve had better dildos. I suspect there are better combos. Overall, I wouldn’t bother with The Rabbit Pearl with all the other amazing toys that exist in the world.

Thanks, Babeland!

Today we have a sexy, sexy car (truck) review from the sexy, sexy Model T! Like a rock, baby (okay, I’m mixing my make metaphors here, but whatever). -Q.P.

Ford F350 King Ranch: The obvious solution to the problem of cramped quarters for car-sex is to find a bigger car. The obvious solution to needing a bigger car is to find a truck. And if you need a big truck, the Ford F350 is a good place to start. Ford didn’t just deliver us a one-ton pickup truck; we got a one-ton, four-wheel drive crew cab with luxurious King Ranch leather trim and dual rear wheels. With a payload of over four thousand pounds, a towing capacity on the far side of twelve thousand, and a thirty-inch step up just to get inside, the F350 was not fucking around when it came to being a piece of heavy-duty equipment.
What had our interest, however wasn’t the massive cargo bed, but the extremely spacious cab. The F350 crew cab is endowed with a cabin the size of a small apartment, only with high-grade leather seats and a DVD entertainment system. There’s almost enough leg room to lie on the floor, and enough headroom for five-footers to just about stand upright inside.

It’s probably no surprise that A. and I had a marvelous time in the back of the F350. It was easily large enough to accommodate pretty much everything we wanted to do–and with deeply tinted windows and a stiff enough suspension that it didn’t rock, we went undisturbed for a good long while as well. With vehicles like this, who needs bedrooms? To be honest, we could have probably had a foursome back there, but there weren’t any volunteers. Maybe next time.

Summary:

• Arousal: 3/5–The F350 has a rugged, working-class appeal. If straightforwardness turns you on, this truck is willing to get in there and do the job.
• Discretion: 3/5–On the one hand, it’s pretty hard to be discreet in an eighteen-foot long luxury pickup truck. On the other hand, the high cabin, dark-tinted windows, and a suspension that is unlikely to rock in the throes of passion mean that even if folks are looking at it, they’re not going to have a clue what’s going on inside!
• Comfort: 5/5–The F350′s about the closest thing to an apartment on wheels that you’re going to find this side of a full-size van or a motorhome. Generous leg- and headroom plus a very wide body mean that you can get into as many positions as you like. And if things are really secluded, you can always throw a queen-size air mattress in the cargo bed and do it under the sky.
• Best person to hump in this car: Anyone you want…and their cute best friend, too.

For a Monday treat, we have another carfucking review from Model T, vehicular virtuoso. Enjoy! -Q.P.

Chrysler Sebring: Chrysler’s Sebring was not well-received after its second major re-design. Very few cars have been quite so universally disliked by both the automotive media and the buying public, and the third-generation Sebring’s gone now, after just three years on the market. The styling was handsome but forgettable, the interior was a poorly-constructed afterthought and the powertrain would have been impressive…in a car ten years older. The Sebring wasn’t fun to drive, and in truth barely fulfilled its duties as a modern vehicle.

To add insult to injury, A. insisted that the cheap interior plastics emitted a smell she referred to as “soapy pussy.”

The Sebring’s general inadequacy as a family sedan worth $25,000 or so did not stop it from being parked outside yet another club after midnight while we went at it in the back seat, however. Chrysler’s decision to raise the Sebring’s roof compared to the previous model gives the car a slightly gawky look on the road, but also provides enough headroom for doggie-style sex in the back seat. We did it across the car, in deference to the scant rear-seat legroom, but then folded the front passenger seat forward so A. could look out the windshield–directly at the house party that was taking place at the end of the block, as it turned out. The folks on the porch seemed amused.

Summary:

• Arousal: 1/5–The Sebring is actually a rather off-putting car. It doesn’t drive all that well, the interior is cheap, and even its “new-car smell” is kind of nasty.
• Discretion: 2/5–Sebrings are common in the rental fleets, but while it’s a relatively common sight, Chrysler did see fit to jazz up the styling just enough that it stands out at the curb. Additionally, it’s got very tall windows and is easy to see into.
• Comfort: 3/5–Plenty of headroom and a back bench that’s kind of like a cheap loveseat make the Sebring a functional mobile pleasure chamber.
• Best person to hump in this car: That hottie who’s on your flight that was just cancelled, now that you’ve both got an evening to kill in a strange city…

It’s time for another automotive sexin’ review from the incomparable Model T! I feel like if I were in the market for a new car, this is the kind of information I’d really want, so I’m very pleased to be able to provide it here. -Q.P.

Honda Accord: The thing about fucking in the car is that, unless you have a garage or a large plot of land somewhere, it’s reasonably public. Sure, as long as the suspension isn’t bouncing off of the bump stops, nobody’s banging on the roof and screaming, the windows aren’t hopelessly fogged up, and you’re not parked in front of a school, it’s reasonably easy to get away with it. For the most part, people don’t pay close attention to the average parked car if there’s no reason to. But still, there’s the possibility of discovery, which can be considered an inconvenience or part of the thrill, depending on your personality. Maybe it’s a bit of both.

An important part of car-sex strategy, then, is to find a reasonably anonymous mobile boudoir. Bright yellow van with “PUSSY WAGON” writ large across the rear doors? Perhaps not. Porsche 911? A bit flashy, and also short on interior space (a caveat learned during my Infiniti G37 adventure). A Honda Accord? Now you’re talking. This ubiquitous family sedan is so common it practically blends into the background on Honda’s own showroom floor.

They even sent me a silver one. I could’ve robbed a bank with this thing, and nobody would have noticed it. Thus, when it was suddenly time to pull over to the side of the highway one evening and drag A. into the back seat, it was impossible to resist. She’s kind of impossible to resist, to be honest.

The Accord’s spacious back seat offers plenty of room for a breakdown-lane tryst, though the seat is a bit too square-edged at the front and sloped at the back for both partners to lie down. If it was a bit more couch-shaped, it’d work better. It’s sized just about right for a diagonal semi-cowgirl position though. Car-sex usually only involves one position–the roof makesmid-stream maneuvering difficult, and chances are time is short anyway. This isn’t about finesse or technique, it’s about real sex, right fucking now, and nothing else.

The Honda Accord’s a great car, though not much of a lust object. It seemed to appreciate the opportunity to be turned into one.

Summary:

• Arousal: 1/5–There really isn’t anything sexy about a Honda Accord. It’s a motoring appliance with a bit of personality, but really it’s about as charming as a nice hotel room.
• Discretion: 4/5–NOBODY notices this thing. Unless someone is standing in the sunroof screaming their ecstasy to the high heavens, the Accord blends into the scenery.
• Comfort: 3/5–A decent-sized back seat offers enough space for two, though the unusually low angle of the backrest prevents it from being sufficiently sofa-shaped for total comfort.
• Best person to hump in this car: An otherwise sensible, possibly slightly nerdy type–the ones you’d never expect to do something like this.

The Wand Controller: Has the Hitachi found its match?

I’ve made little secret about the fact that the renowned Hitachi Magic Wand doesn’t quite do it for me. I’ve had orgasms with it, of course, but I’ve had better orgasms from tight jeans. And in my bedroom, all unitaskers have to give great orgasms.

One of my major complaints with the Magic Wand was the two vibrations settings. They are, to quote my Magic Wand review, respectively “boring” and “clitoris-searing”, and both leave my clitoris feeling numb. This is generally not the sensation palette I’m looking for while fapping.

When I saw that there existed such a thing as a Wand Controller, though, I thought that perhaps this device would resuscitate my relationship with the world’s favorite sex toy.

Let’s find out if it did, shall we?

The concept is to provide a full range of vibration intensities beyond the Hitachi’s factory-installed two. In short, its a dimmer for your vibrator. Simple, ingenious concept.

The Wand Controller comes in a cardboard box. I hate it when anything, but especially a sex toy, comes in clamshell packaging, so I was instantly disposed to like it. On taking it out, though: truthfully, this thing looks a bit like Baby’s First RadioShack Project. Its cord is six feet long and puzzling in its thickness (it’s as girthy as my surge protector’s cord) terminating in a box with a dimmer, a fuse, a three-way switch, and an outlet for your Magic Wand.

Also, as a bonus, there was a stray blob of solder on mine. And this may just be because I’m clumsy, but I swear I could cut myself on the Controller’s plastic casing given half a chance.

The auspices weren’t great. The Wand Controller really doesn’t look like a feat of modern engineering. But to be fair, it’s not pretending to be one. And neither is the Magic Wand, for that matter. They’re both functional designs without superfluity of thoughtful details. The important thing is how they do their jobs.

So, how well does the Wand Controller do its job? Reliably, and pretty much exactly like you’d think. It opens a up a great many intensity options you never had before. With this device, you suddenly have a full range from nothing to max on both the traditional levels, just by flipping a couple switches and exploring the dial.

As someone constantly looking for a strong, steady vibration of the perfect intensity, this would be perfect for me if I liked the Hitachi’s vibrations in the first place.

It’s just, you know, I don’t. There’s something about the fundamental nature of how the Magic Wand vibrates that just doesn’t do it for me, and I see that now that I’ve adjusted the intensity every which way.

Out of curiosity, I also plugged my Wahl 7-in-1 into the Controller, but alas, no dice. The Controller was no better than an extension cord, rendering the Wahl cold and lifeless unless the fader was at its highest setting. It was worth a shot.

The product could be slicker, but the Wand Controller does what it promises. Overall, if you already love the Hitachi Magic Wand, you’ll most likely appreciate the extra flexibility of customized vibrations and a six-foot longer reach. I think it’s a wonderful companion to the Wand.

If you’re like me and don’t really get the Hitachi hype, the Wand Controller probably won’t be enough to change your mind. Go back to massaging your necks, people. Nothing to see here.

Thanks, Babeland!