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By
Elise
Dead Rebel Of The Week
~ A Vibrator Named Mr. Whiskers ~
A couple nights ago Mr. Piece and I were making out to the sounds of my Beethoven CD (that’s VH1’s Supergroup, not that moldy old dead guy), when I stopped, grabbed his hand, and proceeded to lead him to our bedroom. After pushing all the dirty laundry off the bed, I taunted him lustily whilst pulling out my beloved pink vibrator. He whispered huskily in my ear that he couldn’t wait. I quivered with anticipation and excitedly fumbled while putting the batteries in.
“Ready, my love monkey?”
“Fuck yeah.”
I clicked on the control button with a flourish. To my dismay (and slight embarrassment) nothing happened. Dead. Dead as that moldy old dead guy.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
“Did you put the batteries in wrong again?”
I checked the batteries, took them out and put them back in. Still. Nothing.
“Elise, I think the batteries are burnt out. Did you shut it off after you used it last time?”
“No dear, when I got done with it, I just decided to leave it on, you know, so the magical orgasm fairies could follow the buzzing. I suppose next you are going to ask me if I’ll go turn on the microwave and put nothing in it.”
At that point, still trying to hold on to some semblance of rationality, I grabbed my bag of batteries and put in some more. Again. Nothing. Now panic set in.
“Elise, forget about the vibrator. I’ll take care of…”
“WE ARE NOT DOING THIS WITHOUT MR. WHISKERS!!”
“Honey, just settle down, we can figure this out without you getting…HEY! quit throwing batteries at me!”
“You don’t understand. I NEED this vibrator!”
“Elise, now you are just talking crazy. I am pretty sure that Mr. Whippers…”
“WHISKERS!!”
“…Whiskers would want you to continue having a sex life. C’mon baby! Come give Mr. Fingers a chance!”
He said this whilst displaying a big cheesy grin and flapping his fingers in what I can only describe as a cerebral palsy rendition of “Jazz Hands.”
But Mr. Fingers did not get a chance that night. In fact, Mr. Fingers could have been busy purging the gaping ass of Mr. Piece while he slept on the couch for all I cared. I was much too distraught to be bothered. Mr. Whiskers, a little pink egg attached to a long cord leading to the control device, was my guaranteed ticket to Pleasure Town and the mere thought of having any sort of coitus without him seemed preposterous.
I have had many (many, many, many, many) vibrators in my time, but none ever compared to my Mr. Whiskers. None of the others had weathered as many traumatic incidences as my Mr. Whiskers. He was the most durable, most dependable “friend” I have ever had. This one time in band camp I dropped him on the floor and he cracked so bad I was sure it would never buzz again, but sure enough, when I turned him on, he purred. Then when I “accidentally” threw him right at Mr. Piece’s (brick wall) head, Mr. Whiskers came out completely unscathed. Mr. Piece, however, was most displeased and in an attempt to make my life completely miserable, hid him the next day.
“Umm, honey. Where is Mr. Whiskers?”
Whilst rubbing the (large and bulbous) small bruise on his temple, he said, “He probably ran away so he wouldn’t have to deal with his Angry Snatch Master who can’t stop throwing him at innocent bystanders. That includes the cat whose leg is STILL fucked up after your last hissy fit. God knows who will be next. My mother? My Grandma? The Mailman?”
“I would NEVER throw that at the mailman!”
“If you want him back, you are gonna have to earn him.”
“Fine. I’ll be on top tonight.”
“You being on top is shit. I still end up doing all the work AND you complain the entire time that your back feels like its getting jack hammered.”
“Ok I will be on top AND I won’t complain. I will sit up and think of England if I have to.”
He caved and I got my baby back. My many thanks to the Queen, of course.
Now with all the abuse I put my Mr. Whiskers through, some minor damage to him was to be expected. During one especially charged romp I noticed that every time I would move, I would get a sharp stabbing pain right in the babymaker.
“Jesus Christ, dude, cut your fucking nails! You’re stabbing me with your fucking man claws!”
“Elise, it isn’t me. Look.”
He then showed me his perfectly short nails.
We went back to sailing away to “O-Town” when it happened again.
“GODDAMMIT WHAT THE FUCK!”
“I WASN’T EVEN TOUCHING YOU, HEATHEN WOMAN! All I got here is your stupid…oh shit.”
He brought Mr. Whiskers up to my face and I was in for a shock. Literally. The wire that held Mr. Whiskers to his controller was so frayed that I was getting zapped every time it touched my delicate petunia.
“Honey, you need to throw that thing out.”
“No, you just need to be more careful.”
“I’m not using that Taser on you. You are gonna get yourself…”
“Go get the duct tape.”
“Honey we can just get another vibrator.”
“If I have to go get that duct tape myself, I will do this alone and you won’t get to watch.”
“You are fucking insane.”
He pouted for 5 seconds before, of course, stomping downstairs to fetch the tape. Fifteen minutes later I was in Heaven.
But now my valiant cracked, duct taped, and slightly discolored Mr. Whispers has gone on to his own Vibrator Heaven. In fact, I miss him so much that when I got my new sleek Black Velvet vibe, I took him in my bedroom and mourned. For hours.
All in the name of a Dead Rebel, of course.
