For years, my relationship with Morrissey has remained platonic, unsullied by such base concerns as sexuality, cohabitation or actually knowing each other. Was I sure I wanted to risk ruining what we already had for one fleeting moment of sexual congress? Absolutely.
Bearing surprisingly little resemblance to the Pandora's box of weirdness that it is, the Freestyle’s packaging was like anything put out by Apple: sleek, white, discrete. It even came with several international adaptors, for solitary stimulation on the go. Eschewing the downloadable playlists the manufacturers recommend iMasturbate to, iSet my iPhone to play The Queen is Dead all the way through. (Because you can’t hook the thing up to your laptop, and I have yet to figure out how to sequence tracks on my phone, the songs were out of order.) I hooked the receiver into my iPhone on one end and my headphones on the other, and used the receiver’s dial to control the intensity of the vibrations it transmitted (wirelessly!) to the hi-tech slit stick.
As soon as the vibe started buzzing to “Frankly, Mr. Shankly,” I had to turn it down: too much vibration too fast will get me off, but only in a cheap and flimsy way.That said, this thing packs a punch if you want it to. The next song, “I Know It’s Over,” which I generally listen to only when miserable, brought me joy like it never has before, containing as it does the perfect mix of teasing dynamics and existential taunts to push this sad sack of frustration right over the edge. “If you’re so very good-looking, then why do you sleep alone tonight?” asked my platonic husband. Maybe because I’d rather get myself off?
The second climax happened during “Vicar in a Tutu.” I laughed out loud as if to say, I can’t believe I am actually still doing this, but pressed on (and harder). They say the thing’s insertable, so I tried that. I know some girls are bigger than others, but I found the vibe too straight and girthy to have much fun that way; it wasn’t designed to hit the best part of a woman’s love hole.
I stuck it back on my clit, and le petit mort to end all morts came on the heels of the greatest death of all, that of the Queen.
$130, Babeland, 94 Rivington St. (at Ludlow St.), 212-375-1701
