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Self-Fulfilling Prophecy (Tribe of One Excerpt)


As a twenty-something sweet young thang, I’d boldly claim, “If a woman is still single at thirty-five, then she’s either going to start dating younger men or buy a vibrator.” There aren’t a slew of younger men beating down my door, and now I’ve hit the magical need-to-buy-a-vibrator age. I’m researching the perfect vibrator as a side project to my “How to Pick up a Man and Still Be a Smart Woman” research.

     Nowadays, sexuality and sexual expression have really come out of the closet. I can, without the slightest bit of embarrassment, walk into any drugstore, casually peruse and compare the assortment of condoms as if picking out deodorant, toothpaste, or cereal, and buy what I want, providing none of my students are around. The whole sex toy thing is a different ball of wax.

     I feel partially like I’m throwing in the towel. Yet, I’ve come full circle. I always thought that single women thirty-five and older were pathetic. I understand now that a woman doesn’t have to be married with children to be fulfilled—obviously. (Besides, I’d have a hard time coming up with a boy’s or girl’s name that doesn’t remind me of a student I want to forget.) However, I still feel pathetic since at my age, I should be better at this whole “dating” thing.

     The one good thing on my side is high-speed Internet. At least when I finally narrow down the myriad of vibrator choices, I can then order one or at least use the “store locator” to find an out-of-town shop.

     Good gravy! Wouldn’t that make headline news if one of my students or a student’s parents saw me coming in or out of a sex shop? No one wants to believe that teachers actually have sex, for crying out loud. As if sexually active veterinarians would be accused of having sex with animals or sexually active dentists would be accused of being oral-sex freaks…hmm, that last bit might not be too bad.

     Things to know when choosing a self-pleasuring toy:

1. Decide whether you want a dildo or a vibrator.

2. Choose the desired shape.

3. Choose the desired size, color, and material it’s made from.

4. Try not to become antisocial once you find the perfect sex toy, unless you have few friends to begin with.

5. WARNING: you can train yourself to orgasm with your sex toy so well that having an orgasm by doing the “real thing” becomes more challenging.

     The first thing I learn is that there’s a difference between “dildos” and “vibrators.” Logically enough, most dildos are phallic-shaped but require no batteries since they don’t vibrate. Vibrators, on the other hand, require two to four double-A batteries since they vibrate and come in various shapes. Some even illuminate.

     I figure that I might as well go with the vibrators since I could just use my fingers rather than buy a dildo. An interesting play on the whole “dildo” concept is the two silver balls. A woman inserts those balls and stimulates herself by moving her vaginal muscles while lying down or walking in order to achieve an orgasm. They’re also supposed to build up those vaginal muscles and the muscles that control urination. Three benefits in one!

     So, the next thing I need to choose is the vibrator’s shape. Here, there are several choices: bullet-shaped, mouth-with-tongue-shaped, fingertip-covering, phallic, phallic with variously shaped clitoral stimulators, and phallic with variously shaped anal inserts.

     The first kind I eliminate is the bullet-shaped one. These little sex gems are attached to a control pad, which changes the speed of the vibrators via wires. Even the remote controlled bullets have wires that one pulls on to remove. With use, the wires will eventually loosen and the bullet could become stuck. That’s one emergency room embarrassment I’m going to save myself.

     I pretty much eliminate all the fingertip massagers for the above reason. I just don’t trust that the straps holding the mini-massager on my finger will stay on after frequent use. The only good thing about the fingertip massager is that it’s about two and a half inches long, which means it lengthens the finger in order to reach the G-spot but is small enough to pack anywhere.

     The mouth-and-tongue-shaped toy tempts me. After all, what woman wouldn’t want a mouth and flicking tongue that would never tire out, given a ready supply of batteries? Then again, I also enjoy vaginal penetration and I can’t see myself buying two sex toys. I need an all-in-one.

     That leaves the phallic vibrators. Apparently, going by the vast selection of phallic ones, I’m like most women. There’s a huge selection of sizes, “attachments,” and colors (anywhere from glow-in-the-dark to more realistic colors and there’s an interesting tendency among manufacturers to refer to the darker ones as “chocolate”).

     Among these, I rule out the ones with the anal insert attachments. I generally regard my anus as an “exit only” although, theoretically, in the height of passion, a man could successfully slip in a finger. I just don’t envision doing that to myself.

     Since I love clitoral stimulation, I rule out the plain phallic vibrators; so phallic with clitoral stimulator is the big winner. Yet, I still have more choices. (I took less time researching my first car!)

     The two main material choices are hard plastic or “jelly,” which appears to be a softer, see-through plastic. I opt for the jelly.

     Next up, size. Most of them are from five-and-a-half to six inches, but one, which comes with a warning, boasts of being fourteen and a half inches. My vagina cringes at the thought. Or rather at the memory of a very well-endowed brother who managed to tap against my bladder during sex. (Ouch!) I settle on six inches. Sounds like a good, round number. Besides, I think Alan was about that size.

      In memory of James’ beautiful, rich, brown skin, I look for a chocolate vibrator. Too bad there’s not a made-to-order vibrator. Then again, a vibrator factory would probably lose money since few women would want the exact same thing. Finally, I settle on an six-inch jelly chocolate phallic vibrator with two clitoris-stimulating flaps—the Almond Joy. And here I thought it was merely a candy bar. The added plus for the Almond Joy is that it contains two bullet stimulators within it, including one in the “head” for additional stimulation.

     Fortunately, the closest out-of-town branch of the sex shop that sells the Almond Joy is only about forty-five minutes away. Hoochie Koochie, here I come! In more ways than one.


     With the amount of preplanning I do for my visit to the sex shop, one would think that I mean to rob the place rather than make a purchase. I’ve even scored an unsuspecting accomplice, Stacey. My ulterior motive is for her to drive. After going through several scenarios about where to park my car in relation to the sex shop, I’ve concluded that I don’t want my car with its personalized plates, KISS MBA, anywhere near the “scene of the crime.” Besides, I’ve not gone out with her since New Year’s Eve, so I’ve had time to rebuild my tolerance for “hanging out” with her. Fortunately, she readily agrees to go with me.

     Before she picks me up, I go through several dress changes. First, I put on a coat I hardly ever wear, a baseball hat, a scarf, and big sunglasses. Sensing that I look as if I’m trying too hard to disguise myself, I lose the cap and scarf. Yet, someone can still make out my face if they see me in the parking lot. I put the cap back on and change into a jean jacket. I like the idea of wearing shades, though, since they’ll partially cover my face. That’s not too suspicious on a bright day like today. Even though lots of people wear caps and shades, I still feel obvious about disguising myself. So, I lose the cap, put a kerchief on my head and wear smaller shades. Before I can change again, Stacey arrives.

     “Hey, girlfriend!” Stacey chirps loudly. She’s also wearing a kerchief to hold back her shoulder-length braids. At least I look less suspicious and more like a woman who dresses similarly to her girlfriend.

     “I printed out a map to Hoochie Koochie,” I tell her as I get into her car.

     “Map? It’s just at the mall. I know how to get to the mall like the back of my hand!”

    “I’m not going to a sex shop at the mall. That’s where all my students hang out,” I protest.

     “Don’t you think they’d be impressed that their teacher’s a ‘Hoochie Mama’?”

     She’s so clueless. “I want my students to think I’m asexual.” Which is unfortunately too close to the truth these days. “Besides, I don’t like bumping into my students outside of school.”

      “I thought you liked your students.”

      “I do. Monday through Friday from seven-thirty to three. Make a right at the light.”

      “How far away is the Hoochie Koochie shop we’re going to?” Stacey asks.

      “About forty-five minutes.”

     She laughs. “This is like an undercover mission.”

     “In more ways than one,” I reply.

     “Huh?” She’s so slow. “Oh, oh! I get it! You’re so clever.”

     “Thanks.” Someone has to be the brains behind the operation.

     Once we arrive at Hoochie Koochie, the roles are reversed. As soon as we enter, I’m surprised the salespeople don’t yell out “Stacey!” since she seems to be familiar with a lot of the products. When I question her about her vast product knowledge, she says, “Are you serious? Girl, I’m a Hoochie Koochie Hoochie Mama!” She flashes a fifteen-percent discount card. Indeed, it does say in bold red letters “Hoochie Mama” with her typed name and signature below. “I just hope they accept it here.”

     “We do,” answers a pimply faced boy who could be one of my students. His nametag reads “Brad.”

     “So, tell me, Brad, what’s the edible lubricant flavor of the month?” Stacey questions as if she’ll get an extra discount for being animated.

     “In celebration of the upcoming Valentine’s Day, the edible lubricant of the month is ‘mouthwatering passion fruit.'” He whips out a convenient tube from his pocket to show us—a gesture I find a bit alarming. I guess in this place anything goes. My God, when did I become such a prude?

     “Ew! I’ve never tried this flavor before! And it’s self-warming,” Stacey exclaims as she intently reads the tube as if reading fine literature. She quickly turns to me. “What’s your favorite lubricant flavor?”

     As I open my mouth to tell her that I still haven’t tried the one I bought nearly a year ago, waiting for a “special occasion,” I’m cut off by Brad’s continuing “mouthwatering passion fruit” sales pitch.

     “You can buy the lubricant by itself, or if you want to have a special Valentine’s Day, you can get the tropical sex fruit basket.”

     “Ew! What’s in the that?” Stacey asks excitedly, clapping her hands and reminding me of some sort of sex cheerleader.

     “Along with the mouthwatering passion fruit, there’s kiwi-flavored edible panties, toasted coconut massage oil, which is nonedible, and wild cherry-flavored whipped cream with strawberry sprinkles,” he says matter-of-factly.

     “That sounds yummy, yummy, yummy!” She grabs my wrist so tight it hurts. “Doesn’t it, Salome?”

     I cringe at the sound of my name. Of course, she doesn’t understand that if I go forty-five minutes out of my way to a sex shop, the last thing I want is for her to say my name. “Sounds fattening.”

     Stacey just laughs while giving me a playful punch in the arm. “You’re supposed to work off the calories, silly!”

     Yes, better to call me “silly” than “Salome.” I just nod.

     She returns her attention to Brad. “We’ll have to think about that little bundle of joy, but in the meantime, Brad, my friend here would like to look at your Almond Joy…oh, but not your almond joy! An Almond Joy.” She giggles inanely. “You know what I mean!”

     “Yes, I do. Plus, my ‘joy’ isn’t chocolate,” Brad replies.

     “Oh, isn’t he adorable?” Stacey asks me as Brad leads us across the store.

     I swear I still hear the words “Almond Joy” echoing around the shop. For a small shop, it’s a fine example of efficient use of use of space. We walk past the S&M leather, vinyl, and chain wear, which are next to the “normal” lingerie consisting of corsets, garter belts, fishnet and lace stockings, see-through one-pieces, and a funky, colorful selection of stilettos and feather boas.

     I stop to look at an earring kiosk. To my amazement, the “earrings” are actually non-piercing nipple and clit clips. I wince looking at the picture of the smiling woman sitting with her legs wide open and multicolored chained beads dangling from her clit.

     “Salome?” Dammit, stop saying my name! “Oh, there you are! Leave it to you to find the jewelry. She has the most interesting collection of earrings,” Stacey informs Brad, who has followed her over. “Y’know, I’ve never tried any of these clips, but I used to date a guy who wore a silver cock ring like this one.” Stacey reaches for one at the adjacent kiosk. “Hey, I’ve worn these fun little guys before!” Stacey squeals as she holds up a package containing two blue flower stickers.

     “You put stickers on yourself?” I question.

     “Stickers? No, silly, they’re temporary nipple tattoos! I see now that I’ve got to educate you on the fun sex stuff.”

     “So, Salome,” Brad starts. Stacey’s said my name so many times that this numbskull will surely never forget it. “I believe this is what you’re looking for.” He hands me the Almond Joy.

     Looking at it all packaged up, I think it’s so…manufactured and impersonal.

     “Ew, that looks like so much fun,” Stacey says encouragingly.

     “And with every vibrator purchase, you get a free tube of self-warming lubricant,” Brad adds.

     “What flavor?” Stacey asks.

     “It’s vanilla-scented, but nonedible.”

      “Perfect. I’ll take it,” I say. I just want this moment to be over.

     “Hey, Salome, how about a purple feather duster to heighten your pleasure with your Almond Joy?” Stacey playfully sweeps it across her chest.

     “I would, but I’m not ambidextrous.”

     Stacey throws back her head laughing. “I just love your one-liners! Oh, here’s something you don’t need a hand to enjoy—a penis pacifier.” She dangles it in front of my face like a motivational carrot.

     Somehow, I don’t think putting an inch-long penis in my mouth would pacify me. Besides, I have a poor blow job attitude. “I’ll just stick with the vibrator and lubricant for now, thanks,” I say as politely as I’m able.

     “And how about you, ma’am? What would you like today?” Brad asks Stacey. Note how he doesn’t know her name.

     “Well,” Stacey says, rubbing her palms together with eyes twinkling, “I’d like a pair of those fun vibrating thongs and one of those pillows that’s supposed to help deepen penetration.”

     “Sure thing, follow me.” Brad leads us to a corner of the shop that has an assortment of feathered and fuzzy pillows. While Stacey decides on the color of “Erection Correction” pillow she’d like, I pick up one of the fuzzy pillows that has “Sex Goddess” written on it. It’s pleasingly soft.

      “That’s one of our hidden treasures pillows,” Brad tells me.

      “What treasures are hidden?” I ask.

      “You hide your own treasures. It has pockets so you can store condoms, a small vibrator and even a tube of lubricant so you can have them already on the sofa or bed, wherever you think you’ll want to get your groove on.”

      Now, that’s clever and convenient. If I ever have sex with a man again, it may actually come in handy. “I’ll take one of these as well.”

     “That’s my girl!” Stacey pinches my cheek. “You’re finally warming up to this place.”

     “Must be all the self-warming lubricant,” I quip.

     “Now for the tremoring thongs,” Brad says as he leads us behind the normal lingerie. “You can even stimulate your partner while wearing these.” He hands a box of vibrating thongs to Stacey.

     “And, Salome, you might be interested in this.” He hands me a box that shows a smiling woman in the tub, holding what looks like a hose between her legs. “It’s our top-selling water penis. You can attach it to any faucet and adjust the stream to three different pleasing pulsating streams.”

     Even though I look as if I’m reading the box, I have just hit my sex-toy saturation point. I feel the walls closing in on me. I hand it back to Brad without comment, which doesn’t seem to miff him one bit.

     “I’ll take this pair,” Stacey says, proudly showing off a silver pair of vibrating thongs with “Superstar” written on them.

     “Excellent choice. You get a small bottle of pheromones with that purchase,” Brad informs her. As if that cheerleading nymph needs more sexual stimulation.

     OK, so that’s just being jealous and petty. I need to lie with my head on my “Sex Goddess” pillow and use my Almond Joy. I have to hand  it to this place; it does put one in the mood.