I like stuff. Stuff is awesome. Some of my favorite stuff is, yeah, you got it, stuff. I’ve discussed my zealous love of books (and DVDs and legally downloaded music in hott, streaming MP3 form), a bibliotaphic love that approaches abibliophobia, giving yet more credence to the ideological love-child of Freud and Hegel: the concept that what we love is that which we fear and vice-versa. I fucking love boots, especially Frye boots, and I love Very Important Handbags, especially Botkier bags. I love t-shirts, sweaters and soft, overpriced warm socks. I also love lip gloss; I mean I really love lip gloss.
I received several of the above items of stuff this Christmas from some of my favorite people. I like getting stuff I like from the people I like. More than gratifying my need for/love of the stuff itself, it makes me feel as if the people who love me really know me because they can accurately choose stuff I’ll like. They know what stuff speaks to me, and that choosing somehow materially testifies to their love.
Some of that stuff I kind of expected—because I find I do have to guide the people I love to the stuff I want, or else I end up with scarves. I have eleven scarves. All but two were presents. I like scarves a lot, and the scarves I received as gifts are all very nice. Eleven is enough scarves, so I admit providing some power of suggestion to the people who love me and want to give me things, but I stop short of naming exact presents to specific people (except for Donny who gets so tangled up in the anxiety of gift-buying that I have to give very detailed directions, or he’d flounder and fail and then beat himself up unmercifully for months). I like surprises.
Which all is but a lexiphanic prologue to this statement: Greg of NJoy Toys must love me a lot. His love for me clearly goes up to eleven, because the stuff he gave me shows he knows me well, very well indeed.
In the interest of full disclosure, Greg and I have had a long and torrid business history comprised of his sending me a full complement of the early NJoy toys from Pure Wand to Butt Plug and then his paying me to write an as-yet-unpublished technical manual for using said early line of NJoy toys. Amidst and among the discussions surrounding his sending and my writing, and my queries when and if he was ever going to publish the piece I wrote for him and for which he paid me cold, hard American cash (as well as cold, hard, Chinese-made toys), Greg had the opportunity to discover quite a bit about me.
He knows, for example, that I am not shy about proclaiming my love for anal. He knows too that I am an unabashed size queen. He knows that my handbag was searched last January at the airport because the X-Ray image showed that secreted away in its voluminous folds was one of his butt-plugs (although he may know that more because his fiancée reads my blog; Greg, however, doesn’t. He says he’s too busy). He knows about Donny’s love of using the toys on me. Greg knows other stuff too—we don’t always talk just about sex, but somehow our conversations always end up analytically prurient.
The stuff that Greg sent me, the piece of stuff that silently says to me that Greg loves me, and loves me a lot, loves me hard and long, is this: a new eleven-inch, two-and-three-quarter-pound, stainless steel, ribbed for her pleasure and gripability, Perfect Eleven Wand. It is, in short, a thing of sturdy and elegant beauty.
I’ve written before about how much I love this line of toys. Their weight. Their sinuous electric smoothness. Their pleasurably bulbous shape. Their easy washability. And whether P or G, their uncanny ability to hit all the lettered spots. These toys have a pretty flawless polyamorous marriage of form and function.
The NJoy toy manages to be both cute—all squat and happy-looking like a cartoon baby—and faintly medically menacing at the same time. If the “Love Is…” children had an unholy union with the medical instruments in Dead Ringers, the offspring might be NJoy Toys. (This last sentence gives an analogy either less or more favorable depending upon whether the reader likes his or her sex less or more lugubrious.) There’s something about polished stainless steel that makes me want to rub it against my more delicate mucous membranes, but maybe that’s just me.
I an unabashed big fan of the past NJoy incarnations—the only complaint I have about any NJoy toy is the tendency of the butt-plug to twist around such that its rounded beak no longer presses exactly where I want it. I admit too my panting desire to own one of the new Perfect Eleven Wands lo these many months since Greg first told me about it at the beginning of last summer. I have waited, pined even—languished, really—for seven or eight months, knowing that the Perfect Eleven existed, that other people (cough-cough-Nina Hartley-cough-cough) had received one before me, and yet I found the strength to live on without one…somehow.
No more, for today, shrouded in an unassuming brown box that was labeled with a discrete “Vibe Creations” sticker and carried by an ignorant UPS man, was my Perfect Eleven wand. It is big, shiny, heavy, and mine, mine, all mine (insert diabolical cackle here). I now know how I’ll be celebrating my boxing day.
Thank you, Greg. Thank you very, much. I love you too.
(Here’s a picture of the Perfect Eleven. The ball at one end has a sufficient 1-3/4” diameter, while the other sports a challenging 2”. You wish you had one. You really, really do. You, however, cannot, for these wands are not yet available to the general public. Insert Nelson Muntz sound effect here. It's great to have friends in naughty places.)