Athena Bradford's Open Salon Blog

British Vibrators: What's in a Name?

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 09:09:27 -0400

I consider myself a vibrator connoisseur and, as such, I’m always interested in new products. When I read that Good Housekeeping U.K. would be publishing it’s first-ever review of vibes, my heart skipped a beat. They invited 100 women to test a variety of products and rate them according to a satisfaction scale. Now the Good Housekeeping seal of approval for the gift that keeps on giving is huge—the next logical step would be a Consumers Report dedicated to best buys in buzzers.

So it was with great anticipation that I clicked on THE LIST. The rabbit, check, warming bullet, check, but then my eyes moved down to number 5. The rolling pin? WTF? I googled hard but could not find it. That’s when my imagination took over. First of all is the size altered so that an Easy Bake chef could you use it? Does it require two hands to roll out the relief? And if you‘re going to name a vibe after a kitchen tool, surely there are other names that come to mind. Melon baller, sizzling spatula, OXO good grips g-spotter all have more appeal that than a gadget designed to pummel dough into submission. But wait, it gets worse. Number 6 is the Tongs vibrator. Why not just invent a Tweezerman twister that can give you the big O and a Brazilian at the same time? I understand that British slang differs from the US variety, but do tongs really conjure up randy shandy, rumpy pumpy sex? We might as well rename the rabbit the toad in the hole and label remote vibrators as the ultimate call-box. But I saved the all-time worst name for last: Leftovers. Why beat around the bush (as it were)? Just call it sloppy seconds and be done with it.

I’m not an expert on British slang but I do know my arse from my shag carpet, and frankly these names seem like marketing nightmares. How could you sell some of these vibrators? “Leftover orgasms are special because they’re even better the next day.” Perhaps a diddle riddle could work? “What bashes your dish and the bish?” It’s a cheeky challenge—no doubt about it. For me, I’ll stick with my favorites and leave the tongs across the pond.

Words Become You

Fri, 4 Sep 2009 18:09:30 -0400

Your words set in motion

six months of savory days and

liquid nights that poured over me like icing

On a gingerbread house.

Stories rolled off your tongue

like Maypole ribbons, and I tethered

myself to your mast and grew

tangled in the strands.

You wove spells as you wrestled with

Donne, elegies full of satire

And sparks, striking

flint upon my pavement

And I fell in love

Beguiled by your whispers

And your lines, which pierced

My heart like inky tattoos.

I exclaimed Hurrah!

And tried to build rafters

Around your prose, but they

Could not hold me.

Our parting was swift and silent

After all those words, no explanation was forthcoming

future perfect dissolved into imperfect tense

I was left with remembered conversations and

A dowry of dreams

Diving for Sex

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 11:08:11 -0400

First of all, I hate novelty gifts. They seem pointless to me. I mean, really, how many times can a pooping pig induce true belly laughs. I look at Whoopee cushions, toilet seat outhouse decals, and racing grannies with disbelief—who are these people who shell out $15 for a nose shaped shower gel dispenser? Yet, my scale of stupidity had to be adjusted when I discovered the Sex Snorkel.

Can you imagine strapping this contraption on the next time you decide to take a dip at the Y? Not only is it ridiculous, it’s completely unnecessary, and counterproductive. Oral sex is all about finesse, not face plants in the crotch, and we all know that the clitoris hates to be bullied. If you can’t figure out how to breath through your nose, then you totally deserve looking like John Belushi in his bee costume. What’s next? Sending a canary up the vagina to see if survives?

If you really find oral sex so difficult to master, you can always add the ear mounted light specifically designed to illuminate the crotch during oral sex.

Perfect also for grilling the labia “And Majora where were you and MInora exactly on the night of July 3^rd? Nerd spoiler: the device is not Bluetooth compatible.

There’s something inherently unsettling in these “jokes”. There is the implication that a woman’s body is so unknowable that we have to engineer new ways to master the foreign terrain. I’ve said this before, but it obviously needs repeating. Great oral sex requires emotional intelligence. You both need to communicate and respond to each other’s sexual expectations and desires, with patience, knowledge and a willingness to listen. A high erotic quotient implies confidence, respect, imagination and the ability to laugh like a gibbon at these ultimate gag gifts. So put down the toys of these sexual saboteurs and say a toast to the female form, which is both path and journey and just waiting to be explored.

Stirrings

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 17:08:09 -0400

The steel gray drape of my depression parts and

I catch a brief glimpse of

clouds holding fuchsia among the azure hills.

On the horizon, my hopes are piled like coats on a feather down bed

It is my mind that damns me. Will it save me in the end?

The staccato beat of anticipation demands that

I let go of the reins of sorrow for a moment

The tremor is faint, irregular and uncharted,

but it darts and weaves in all directions

interrupting the soul-searing rhythm of sadness.

I release my trembling curtain of fear and

catch a bouquet of fireflies.

Their light is short-lived but the memory bubbles up

as a wellspring of wonder. I thought my sun eclipsed

in this storied game of hide and seek.

For I know the ceremonies of despair by heart;

shadows dense as star-spangled nights.

Can I ride the rapids of life and begin again

with a to-do list that caresses life

under the canopy of an open heart?

The sight of a cardinal flickers like confetti

startling me with its lush hennaed hue.

The color of much-kissed lips, twisted loose from a long embrace.

With a sip of the tongue, I breathe, moving a little farther

from the deep interior of melancholy’s oblique hush.

Who's Teaching My Daughter about Sex?

Thu, 13 Aug 2009 09:08:11 -0400

If you posed that question six months ago, the bells would have rung, and I’d go home with all the prizes because the answer would have been me. We have every age-appropriate book ever written on the subjects of sex and the human body, and I’ve always answered my 12-year-old daughter’s question with great candor and ease. Years ago, when she came to me requesting more information about her “Virginia,” I was all over it. Two days later she was explaining body parts to her bears. “Repeat after me. This is the vagina.”

Now, I have a rival, and she has an unfair advantage: she’s got street cred. Her name is Jenny, and everyday she holds court at the back of the bus. This where she practices her art of dispensing fallacious and salacious information while her acolytes whisper urgently and nod their head in agreement.

Picture a mini-Betty Davis with pink and black hair, peering through her cigarette smoke” and proclaiming in a world-weary voice, “Put out, honey, or be shut out.” Her puberty came early (of course) so she’s got plenty of curve appeal. To the sports bra set, this is all the qualification they need, but Jenny offers so much more. “Who’s doing it?” “Who wants to do it?“ “And who better do it soon?” Jenny sees and tells all. A mobile maven who is part sex therapist, part relationship coach—it’s so new millennium.

I first became aware of my nemesis when I took my daughter to see Juno. Great movie with lots of teaching moments, or so I thought until she uttered these words: “Jenny-from-the-bus said you can’t get pregnant the first time you have sex, so I think this movie was stupid.” I turned purple and through clenched teeth asked, “What else does Jenny-from-the-bus have to say.” This opened the floodgates. Everything from “you can’t get pregnant standing up because the sperm can’t swim that fast” to “ the only way to know for sure you’re pregnant is if McDonald’s fries make you puke” to “word to the wise—don’t chew gum if you’re doing your guy. It can get caught in his pubes and make a real mess.” Gee, thanks Jenny for those tips. I so totally get your point-- Love/sex isn’t for sissies and it requires some help to make it happen.

I managed to keep my cool as I calmly explained that Jenny was a stupid little so-and-so who should mind her own damn business. Since then I’ve tried to right my enemy’s wrongs. Now, like a soldier on the eve of battle, I’m stockpiling ammunition. I completely reorganized my Tivo line-up so that The Secret Life of an American Teenager and I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant are feature presentations. We’re starting with the basics. but this time I’m injecting them with extra awesomeness!

I’m not sure who’s winning, but at least I’m in the game. Yesterday, my daughter came home with news from her source. The headline was that Mark broke up with Serena because she wouldn’t give him a blow-dryer for his birthday. I asked if those were Jenny’s exact words. “I’m not sure. I mean why would Mark get so upset? He doesn’t even comb his hair?” So we sat down for a delightful conversation on oral sex, and I felt so much better. As long as she keeps asking, I’ll be there with the answers.