My now-ex boyfriend and I were feeling quite frisky one night and decided to find a sex shop. Apparently, the one we punched into Google burned down a few years ago, so we had to drive another hour (across state lines) before we finally found one. On the outside, it looked like one hell of a place–like the counters would be made of marble and there would be a strict “no creepy people” rule. We rush into the store all excited, discussing what items we were thinking of purchasing.
The moment we walked in, our smiles disappeared. It was an abandoned warehouse of some type that had plywood on the walls and a carpet that hadn’t been cleaned in many years. We thought the size of the place would mean a wide selection, but the entire middle of the store was empty, save for a stand for lube. We split off and grabbed the first toys that caught our eye, quickly paid the possible serial killer that was undressing me with his eyes, and rushed home.
We walked into the house, went into the room, and opened the boxes. Mine was a blue metallic G-spot vibrator, his was a pink pocket pussy. We traded off for a minute to play around with them–I’ve never seen a male masturbator before, so of course, I had to defile the hell out of it. All of a sudden, I hear a really loud buzzing sound. I whip around, and he’s playing guitar with my vibrator! I snatched it out of his hands and surveyed the damage. All of the paint was chipped off on the tip and some of the plastic was scratched. It was completely unusable. As for his toy, he ended up disliking it and using it as a mic cozy, and mine became a stage prop for him during guitar riffs.