juicy, juicier, juciest

This post is a paean to my favorite sex toy, The Juicer.

Those of you who have seen HBO’s Real Sex—and if you’re reading this blog with any regularity, you probably comprise its core audience—may have passing familiarity with the tool. The Juicer is a Pyrex dildo, 4” long, 3 1/4” in diameter at its dimpled base (check asstroknots.com. I kid you not). The Juicer not only is hard, slick, and wonderfully bulbous, but it also spins easily, and it comes complete with both a knob and a little finger hole to facilitate its spinning action.

It also cost $399.00.

And all I can say is that if you haven’t had a $399.00 orgasm, you have no idea what you’re missing.

I was introduced to the Juicer by my then boyfriend Tyler (see Gunshy). Tyler works in the telecommunications industry, and his biggest clients, surprise, surprise, are purveyors of porn. Bless them.

Every year for work, Tyler goes to the porn expo in Vegas. He meets and greets, shakes porn stars' hands, and receives gratis porn and porn-related merchandise. And he has the opportunity to purchase non-gratis porn merchandise at a much reduced price. And that is how he bought his Juicer for under $150.00. Quite the bargain shopper, my Tyler.

Upon purchasing said Juicer, he phoned me from the floor in Vegas.

“There is no one hotter here than you.”

Tyler gives great compliments. And great head.

“And, Baby, I just bought you the best present. A Juicer. They say it makes even hardened porn stars' eyes roll back in their heads.”

I squealed. I don’t have cable—a fact which some of my friends have noted is ironic—but I managed to have seen HBO’s Real Sex #27, had seen the Juicer, and immediately wanted one with, to borrow a phrase from former President Jimmy Carter, “lust in my heart.”

Not to mention other organs.

Upon Tyler’s return, I met him at his apartment. We kissed, touched, yadda yadda yadda, what I really wanted was that hardslickshinyclear Pyrex toy. In my pussy. Nownownow.

Tyler warmed it first in a bowl of warm water (yet another of the Juicer’s charms is its ability to be heated or cooled. And because it’s dishwasher-safe Pyrex, clean-up’s a breeze!). Then, while gently tonguing my clit, he slowly inserted it in my pussy,

I felt as if an electric shock had coursed through me. It felt so hard, so unbelievably smooth, and as Tyler rocked it back and forth, bumping my g-spot, I felt a monster orgasm building.

Then he spun it.

I have previously described my banshee, demon orgasms, but, yowza.

I still find myself at a loss for words. And certainly, what I felt then was beyond words; I articulated it in a guttural, primal, animal keening. And if it is still beyond me to express adequately—and apparently it is—consider my present linguistic faltering as a mute testament to the wonder, the power, the glory of The Juicer.

As with many love stories, this one turns to sadness.

The Juicer and I broke up.

I mean, Tyler and I broke up.

He said to me, “The Juicer is retired now. It will juice no more.”

Liar.

I mean, if that’s the case, why not just give it to me?

Did I not mention that clean-up’s a breeze? And that it cost a buck-fitty?

Tyler bid me adieu, but he held onto the King of Sextoys, presumably not only sending it on a warm and wet journey through his Maytag, but also, perhaps, dipping it in some bleach for good measure.

And I would go, occasionally, to visit the Juicer online. I would moon and pine over the loss of my hard Pyrex love. So adamantine. So glossy. So transparent. So motherfucking expensive.

Over the summer, Donny and I began a Juicer fund. We deposited $5.00 in a box for each orgasm we had. Then it just got really expensive. And we kind of broke up, And then when we reconciled, we sort of let the practice lapse.

But never, not in the throes of passion with Donny, nor those with the rich and sociopathic WMB, not with the ever-tasty Daddy-O, nor while diddling my various angel-food chicks, did I forget my love for its Juiciness.

This past fall, I gave up on snackfood sex, the fuckbuddy, sportfucking activities that had defined my Summer of Sluttiness, 2004. And so, given that I was not having regular sex, I needed alternatives. So I invested in some toys, but for all their buzzing, their gyrating, their knobbiness, their silicone pragmatic usefulness, they were not, sigh, glass.

And glass is what I wanted.

This spring, I found a knock-off. Cheap. $69.00, and, Reader, I bought it (check herbalcantera.net. Yeah, not as good as asstroknots, but it is $330.00 cheaper).

It’s good. It works. It juices me. Donny watches in amazement at the amount of wetness it produces. It makes me come. Hard.

And clean-up's a breeze!

But it ain’t nothing like the Real Thing, baby.

Sigh.

Comments

[Lauren]

I just went and checked out the juice and became immediately wet. Damn.

They've got it on same for $100...

[luckyjade]

one day your prince will come (ahem)

and he'll buy you the real thing.

oh yeah, i've moved.

[introspectre]

Damn. Damnity damndamn. How could he take it WITH him? Who would DO such a terrible thing to a woman? He ought to be bitten by rabid weasels on his shins. I don't care if he bought it, that's just cruel and unusual punishment. Ugh.

Also, I want one. Bad.