Monday, September 23, 2019
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Susanna Brisk

I Wore Out My Vibrator!

One Valentine’s Day one year, I spent a week reviewing sex toys on my site, because I love my readers. I wanted to see what was out there, by putting it in here. Since that time I have gotten plenty of use out of the array of toys I was furnished with by the charming folks at The Stockroom, but one emerged as the clear favorite. It was the one I titled the “Get You In The Mood Vibe” because even if you weren’t in the mood for sex (not me, but someone else maybe) this vibrator would get you there. And then, it started to let me down.

This baby is called the G-Vibe, but I just call it “The Closest Thing I Had To A Boyfriend That Year.” Actually I don’t have to call it anything, that’s the good part about electronic equipment that gets you off, you don’t have to talk to it, or ask it about its day, or hear its boring work details. As long as it’s charged, it will be there for you, and you can be as rough with it as you want without thinking it might judge you or tell its friends that you’re a slut or complain that you’re “emasculating.”

I had been noticing for the past weeks that the action on the vibrator had become a little erratic and I liked it. The vibrating pattern became more and more unpredictable, and because I wasn’t paying attention to anything other than my own orgasm, I just thought I had found a different setting called “random.” I loved it because it is even more like being with a real person—you never know how and when they will touch you next, which is totally hot, unless they don’t know either. That is not hot, it’s just “tentative” which is about as arousing as a thousand spiders crawling around on your body scouting locations to lay eggs.

In the last week one of the prongs on the G-Vibe would cut out without warning, until I moved positions somewhat, then it would resume its arrhythmic thumping. This started out fun but quickly became very frustrating. I would be right on the verge of an orgasm and… just … a little… more… WHAT THE FUCK? I’ve been with certain people who would change positions with their mouths or hands or bodies, right when you were about to come, and I don’t know how someone picks up this lousy habit, but it seemed that my vibrator somehow had. Not. Happy.

So I don’t know what to do now. What is the procedure for returning a vibrator? What’s the warranty on this thing? Do I have to bring it back with a receipt like you do at Target? And more importantly, should I be worried that I am so sexually demanding I wear out inanimate, mechanical objects? How is any mere human being ever going to compete? Maybe the G-Vibe is just emotionally exhausted from my endless demands, all the crying when I have a really good orgasm, or to release the memories of old lovers, or the hours of repetitive strain. And after all this time with the same trusty companion, can you really blame me for anthropomorphizing?


I sent the G-Vibe to the manufacturer (I cleaned it first, you brutes) and after a prompt stress test (a horny masturbating MILF at the factory?) they agreed to replace it and sent one out tout de suite. The new G-Vibe was somewhat like a second husband, missing the glow of naively going into a relationship not knowing what could go wrong, but still willing to take the chance to be hurt again. The zest and courage my new G has displayed in the many months since then has meant I hardly even think about the O.G. at all…

Diary Of A Unicorn – My Trip To A Sex Club Alone – Part 2

Read Part One here.

The Guy I Knew But Wasn’t Supposed To Know started to pound Miss Romania from behind and she commenced singing the Romanian national anthem. She had proclaimed that she didn’t like eating pussy, but was touching mine and I would occasionally fondle a boob, or Guy I Wasn’t Supposed To Know would fondle me and then there came a point where I was lying there like “Could I get some dick please?” because I certainly felt I’d earned it.

“You can fuck her,” she said in her Hungarian lilt, “Go on, fuck her…”

“No I just want to fuck you,” he said dutifully and while that was happening he leaned into my ear and murmured, “She’s testing me.”

So after a while, when it was clear that he wasn’t willing to risk her ire, I said “I’m going to have a cigarette” and left them there still doing their Slovakian folk dancing.

After sitting in the smoking area and chatting to some people (swingers are very friendly) I went back in the club and spotted a guy whom I would call the same type as my ex. Tall, skinny, dark hair, blue eyes, yes please. He was with a chippy* with terrible posture (she was cute but looked uncomfortable) and when I looked down and realized that she was wearing flat ballet slippers, like the kind you find at the drugstore for $6.99 that you can carry in your purse in case your heels are hurting you. That was my entrance…

“I see you also have comfortable shoes,” I ventured pointing to my Uggs, “I broke my toe, so…”

She giggled and I wondered what they were doing there. He was around my age, but she was a baby…

“Are you into girls?” I asked.

“Um…” she hedged.


“I’d really like to fuck your boyfriend, would that be okay with you?” I asked, in my trademark subtle style.

She giggled again, “We’re not really there yet…”

The guy gave me a pained look. He wanted to fuck. It was pitiful. Why not just put him on a leash with a collar and be done with it? For the rest of the night I would spot them; playing pool, getting drinks, dancing, and he would give me the same baleful look.


I decided that since there was no one else there I was really interested in, I would go home, right after I stopped by the smoking area one more time, and then… I saw them.

The couple was stunning. Not just hot, model hot. He had a rakish European vibe, and she was the epitome of the kind of girl I’m attracted to – strawberry blonde, young and gorgeous. I hadn’t slept with a girl like that since I was one.

We started chatting and the vibe was great. They weren’t models, but were “in fashion,” and it was only their second time at the club. She was into girls BUT HAD NEVER BEEN WITH ONE. Guess who was going to be her first?

In a stunning coincidence, it turned out that she was also of Eastern European heritage, and as a Serb could almost understand my Russian. What was it with these women and their kinks and their cheekbones? (I guess I should include myself in that.)

I gave them a tour of the club, and he kept getting more and more drinks. I was quite happy sober. We came into the playroom I had been in with the other couple, and the girl and I quickly undressed. Holy. Shit. Her body was RIDICULOUS. Small natural boobs, tiny waist, bubble butt… and before I knew it she was fully going down on me.

She had clearly given this a lot of thought. I couldn’t believe it was her first time, and I leaned back and tried to relax. For some reason I have a hard time relaxing when a girl is going down on me, with girls I prefer to be the “giver.” No trouble relaxing with a guy, but like the other couple, he wasn’t going anywhere near my pussy…

Not only that, but in order to make his girlfriend feel comfortable he was saying a lot of things like “Look at those tits. I love her tits,” or I’d give him head and he would say “Watch how she gives head, she’s the fucking best.” “Look at her pussy, it’s so perfect.” I was starting to feel like the ugly step-aunt, but I also understood that, like the other couple, this was a testing ground for them, and he was making sure that she was comfortable. So I put away my ego and wow…

I did all kinds of things to her while he fucked her, to follow the smorgasbord analogy, they more often than not involved her pu pu platter… she was WILD and I was having a great time. I also got to kiss his beautiful, Roman face (those lips, mama mia) and we did stuff to her together that was… inventive.

The last time she stuck her tongue in my open peach while I played with the pit, I had no trouble relaxing and had a huge orgasm. The club was closing in fifteen minutes, and it was once again clear I was not going to be penetrated by anything resembling a penis.

Oh. Well. I had gone there open to “whatever” and it was “whatever” I had gotten, and it had been wonderful. I completed my hedonistic streak by getting McDonalds on the way home. It was light when I finally got into bed with my toys, and let a combination of the Get You In The Mood Vibe, My Girlfriend and The Trucker do what the guys at the club wouldn’t…

Even with little sleep, I sailed through the next day with the kids on little more than caffeine and memories. I debriefed with Guy I Wasn’t Supposed To Know, and texted with Wild Serbian Goddess, and that was good, because I always like a check-in the day after sex. I may be a slut, but no one wants to feel like a whore…

Originally published on

Diary Of A Unicorn – My Trip To A Sex Club Alone

They call us unicorns, because we are so rare. Women who go to sex clubs without a partner, looking to play.

MILFs who go to sex clubs without a partner? I might have been a unicorn with wings. Lest you think I’m becoming a 7 on my Sex NumberTM scale, don’t worry; this urge was not compulsive, but medicinal. The truth is that many guys go on a sexual rampage after the breakup of a relationship (let alone two) and opt for a little sexual healing, and no one thinks twice. Either that or join the Marines, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t pass the Physical.

I’d been to this club before with my ex-boyfriend, so I felt safe going back by myself. It’s a fairly small club with a large variety of people, all races, ages, shapes and sizes, with good security and a screening process, so I was not worried about getting into trouble (except the kind I was there to get into.) I’d had a wonderful night there with my ex where we hadn’t played with anyone, but were really close (or so I thought.) I felt justified in returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak, for a bit of revenge fucking. Single women get in free at sex clubs for the same reason that if a unicorn showed up at a restaurant, they’d probably comp its dinner.

Keep in mind that I still have a broken big toe… oh maybe I didn’t mention that. Get ready: I broke my toe in the most Malibu way possible; I fell into my spa. In pitch dark, fully clothed, submerged under the cold water like someone with white people’s problems. The reason I was outside was to smoke, so I was trying to find a spot where the kids wouldn’t see me, they were inside. As I was looking back, distracted by the dogs and which kid was where, I stepped right into the water. (I consider the fact that I didn’t crack my head open and die to be both the good news and the bad news…)

It’s been a week and I’m no longer on crutches, and it doesn’t hurt to put on shoes… unless I want towalk. So there I was, showing up at the sexy sex club in my Ugg boots. The last time I was at this club, I was wearing 6-inch heels and towering over everybody except my boyfriend and the Trans ladies, who by the way were rocking that shit. So I was quite happy in my flats, not to mention comfortable, even before I glanced into the first playroom after the entrance and SAW SOMEONE I HAD ALREADY SLEPT WITH.

Here was the rub-we had had sex when he and his girlfriend had been on quite a long break, and now here he was inviting me in to their party while at the same time muttering, “We don’t know each other.” Anyone who knows me knows that I do not tangle with anyone who is involved in a relationship, unless their partner is right there telling me it’s okay. When I was with him before, he was most definitely single. I hated the mendacity, but his girlfriend was SO FUCKING HOT, that I was like, “Meh. It’s not exactly a lie, more like an omission.”

She was from an indeterminate Eastern European country with a really hot accent, but I didn’t even get a chance to ask her where, before I was taking off my clothes and sucking on her nipples. I really should do something about my shyness. Of course I felt a little more comfortable because I already knew the guy, but I also just felt comfortable because I really like pussy and there she was presenting her body like a smorgasbord. So much was on offer; the boobs, the neck, the mouth, the hair, and below the smooth oak cutting-board of her stomach, a perfectly groomed Eastern Bloc buffet.

I worked my way through all the courses and then down I dived (dove?)… and made her come. Twice. (I don’t use “cum,” prefer the regular spelling.) After she had finished moaning in Czech (or whatever it was) I raised my arms in victory, not only because I’m a goofball even when I’m having a threesome, but also because I understood yet again why men love licking pussy so much- when you make a girl come with your mouth you feel like a G-ddamn champ! And then…

To be continued…

*This post was originally published at MalibuMom

Can A Woman Be A Slut & A Mom?

I remember the first time I was called a slut. I had been sleeping around a group of friends at our “brother” high school, including the boy with whom I lost my virginity, and the “body count” was piling up faster than a John Wayne Gacy biopic. I was fifteen, horny and thrilled to finally be getting male attention. They liked me they really liked me. Once they slept with me, they didn’t seem to like me as much, but I was remarkably unfazed by this. Ah teenage love… One fine day another kid from the aforementioned boys’ high school came up to me at the train station. He had light red hair and I thought he liked me so I talked to him, although he had kind of a weird vibe. Apropos of nothing, he said, “Why are you such a slut?”

I walked away, my heart pounding in humiliation, but resolute I wasn’t going to let him see me sweat. Even then I wondered why there wasn’t a word for a promiscuous boy? Calling a boy “Casanova,” “Don Juan,” or even “man whore” just didn’t seem insulting enough. The Sluts at my school and I were having a competition to add notches to the bedpost, even collecting ties from boys from the other school, and yet other girls would label them disparagingly. Where was the female James Bond, with a dude ready to roll around the sheets with in every port?

My career as a Slut progressed impressively, mildly impeded by being married for twelve years, in a relationship for fourteen. I was in the middle of bedding the strange and wonderful world of New York City men in my early twenties, when I met my ex-husband, and instantly knew we would get married, have kids; the whole works as we would say if we were ordering our relationship on a sandwich.

Throughout the fourteen years of my relationship with my husband I was 99.9% monogamous (except that one time at a yoga retreat in Oregon, but I confessed right afterwards.) The least I felt I owed my husband was to report my occasional platonic crushes on other people, male and female, the mere act of communicating them negating the dramatic experience of having a secret crush. As our marriage became more strained however, these crushes became much more like what the Internet would call “emotional affairs” but still not consummated (except that one guy who kissed me in a parking lot and I kissed him back, not in Oregon. But that’s it I swear.)

During the marriage, and as a mother of two small children, I saw myself as an ex-slut: someone who still loved sex, but had systematically negated its importance in my life. By the time I emerged from the marital cocoon, I was ready to take back the term and be the slutty butterfly I was always supposed to become. As a woman in my late thirties, I found that true to the old homily I was indeed at my sexual peak, with no shortage of suitors, in an age range I had not even considered when married. Apparently that whole MILF thing is really a thing, and there are plenty of guys who are excited by women who are confident in our own bodies, in a way we hadn’t been in our twenties when all the bits still had their media-approved perkiness.

I am a mother first. Also I am an artist- writer, actor, film-maker, comedian etc. I’m a friend, a daughter, and a person with many interests and personality “quirks.” I am also having the best sex of my life with other single people who want to have the best sex of their lives, but I’m not going to pretend that sometimes it doesn’t get emotionally messy.

As my views on sex have become more liberated, I have also found that the chemicals released when you sleep with someone (Oxytocin, Dopamine, Adrenaline) and their subsequent withdrawal, have been a great vehicle to understand more about myself and my expectations. What am I looking for exactly? Am I trying to fill my emptiness through another person? In order to be a truly self-actualized,ethical slut it is necessary to come from a place of wholeness—nothing is missing from my life—I simply want this sexual experience because I was lucky enough to be given a life to live and a body that functions perfectly. I am hereby taking back the word “slut,” just as female rappers have taken back the word “bitch.” I am a Slut. And loving it.

So the answer to the question: “Can a woman be a slut and a mom?” is “Yes. But not at the same time.”

*originally published at MalibuMom