Good Vibrations Magazine

Finding a decent apartment in Manhattan is like trying to find an outfit to match a pair of shoes you bought on sale. In other words, next to impossible.

I was fresh out of college at UT-Austin and had my sights set on the publishing world in New York City. My friend Kim, who graduated the semester before me, clued me in about an apartment in her building. It was tiny and old, but in a pretty decent neighborhood with a long, but manageable, walk to my cubicle on 42nd Street. I choked back my shock at the cost of rent and plopped down first, last and security out of the nest egg I’d been saving from four years waiting tables. My parents had offered to help with the rent for the first year or two, but I was determined to do it on my own for as long as I could. And so on a hot day in July I moved my books, my clothes and my cat into the cramped third-floor apartment henceforth known as Home Sweet Home.

Living in a big city was nothing like I’d imagined it. The noise was louder, the bugs were bigger and the people were ruder and freakier. I loved it. I was free to be me, or at least the me I’d always imagined. I was far from small-town life in my hometown of Vicksburg, Texas. I was also far from my college friends who teased that I would be the only girl in all of New York City who had two names and was still a virgin.

First things first. Rebecca-Jane is not really two names because it’s hyphenated. My parents were very forward-thinking for Vicksburg. Secondly, I was a virgin only in the most technical sense. I’d become well acquainted with my mama’s silver-handled hairbrush at the tender age of… well, let’s just say I finally understood why Barbie was smiling all the time. And I had my share of groping, drooling, hormone-driven boyfriends. I had never felt an overwhelming urge to let some guy between my legs. When the time was right, I knew the right guy would come along.

I was hardly home at all my first week in the city. I’d landed a job at a publishing house, sifting through manuscripts and answering correspondence for not much more money than I’d made waiting tables. A far cry from my dreams of being the next Stephen King, but still very exciting for a girl from Vicksburg whose most exciting moment to date was being nominated homecoming princess. When Kim invited me out to go clubbing on Friday night I begged off because I wanted to stay in and watch a week’s worth of soaps. I know what you’re thinking, but dang, it was only my first week in the city. A girl needs a chance to catch her breath!

I went all-out for my first meal in my new place, preparing a feast for one. It was only a cheap steak and baked potato broiled in my tiny oven, but it was the best meal I’d ever had because I was in my own apartment. I was heady with freedom as I sat cross-legged on the sofa with my dinner propped on a pillow. The former tenant had left the sofa. It was a ratty old thing, worn in several spots and faded in others. But I covered it with one of the quilts Mama made me bring and it looked — well, if not new, then at least homey.

I finished my dinner, put Wednesday’s episode of All My Children on pause, and carried my plate to the little alcove that was my kitchen. I considered it quite a coup that I actually had a dishwasher. It was a cumbersome thing that had to be wheeled over to the sink, hoses and cords poking out every which way, but it beat the hell out of washing dishes myself.

I opened the dishwasher door and slid out the rack and nearly choked on my tongue. Apparently, the ratty old sofa wasn’t the only thing the former tenant had bequeathed to me. I was speechless for a moment, then said the first thing that came to my mind.

“Fuck!”

What can I say? A week in the city had already taken its toll on my vocabulary. Pastor Goodwin would be appalled.

Staring up at me, or at least that’s the way it appeared, was the largest, thickest, ugliest-looking dick I’d ever seen. I suppose you think that’s not saying much, given that I’d only seen two for real (Jason Ritchie’s in eleventh grade and Eric Linsey’s sophomore year of college — Jason’s was bigger, but Eric’s was more aesthetically appealing). But I’d spent a summer working at a photo lab off-campus in addition to my waitressing job, and let me tell you, it’s shocking what kinds of pictures people will take. Big dicks, short dicks, long, skinny, pale and dark. I saw an awful lot of dicks that summer and they all imprinted themselves on my brain for future reference. And this, this thing staring up at me from the top rack of my dishwasher was a Texas-sized dick — the biggest, thickest dick I’d ever seen.

Okay, I know it’s called a dildo; I’m not a complete country bumpkin. But at the moment I saw it, all I could think was “dick.” It was long and thick, a fleshy-pink color complete with veins and a heavily-ridged little helmet. It was wedged into one of the squares of the cutlery tray and it stared up at me with its one well-defined eye. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, staring down at the monster in my dishwasher.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered to Miss Marple, my orange and white kitty who was making circles around my legs. “I can’t leave it in there.”

Miss Marple let out a plaintive wail of agreement before stalking off to the bathroom. She knew that’s where the biggest, scariest creatures hung out. After seeing the contents of my dishwasher, I wasn’t so sure.

I took my fork and prodded the thing. It barely quivered when I poked it; the tines of the fork hardly made a dent in its smooth surface. I decided I was too tired to deal with the dildo in my kitchen. I pushed the rack back into the dishwasher and closed the door. I washed my plate in the sink, throwing the occasional furtive glances toward the dishwasher as if I expected its inhabitant to burst out and attack me. When I was finished, I walked quickly past the dishwasher and shut off the light. Maybe my new tenant would mysteriously vanish by morning.

My dreams that night were of previous boyfriends who had pressured me to have sex. Strangely enough, they all looked like large, pink dildos. Where was Freud when I needed him most?

I left the apartment early Saturday to meet Kim for brunch and a day of shopping the second-hand stores. I felt a twinge of guilt for leaving poor little Miss Marple alone with that enormous dildo, but I figured she was safe so long as it was in the dishwasher. When Kim asked me how I enjoyed my first dinner in my new apartment, I blushed and changed the subject.

By the time Kim tossed me out of her apartment, it was 2 am and I was wired on espresso. I was relieved to see the apartment, and Miss Marple, was as I’d left it. What had I expected? Invasion of the Sex Toy Snatcher? Night of the Living Dildo? Well, let’s just say after a restless night’s sleep and four hits of espresso, anything seemed possible. There are a million stories in the naked city, and one of them was living in my dishwasher.

I peeked into the dishwasher and saw my stalwart new roommate, plum-shaped head pointed to the sky (or the top of the dishwasher, rather), silent and stoic. I was starting to gain some respect for this guy. God only knew how long he’d been in there, patiently waiting for someone to take him out and — that’s where my mind went dark. I couldn’t imagine putting that thing inside me. It was huge! Have I mentioned that? Maybe a porn star or Becky Robinson, the cheerleading slut in my senior class, could take that thing, but a normal woman would have a hard time. A little voice inside my head asked me how I would possibly know when the only things that had ever breached my womanhood were tampons and Mama’s hairbrush. I just knew, I told myself.

I shuffled off to bed and my dreams once again filled with disjointed images of giant dicks and smooth silicone. I woke up sweating and panting, still shaking from the image of the dishwasher wobbling across the floor and bursting open in a spray of semen. I was starting to think New York was too much for this Texas girl to handle.

I awoke Sunday morning to sunlight streaming through my dirty window, Miss Marple gnawing on an unidentifiable bug, and the firm conviction that the only way I was going to grow up was to experience life. I took a long, leisurely shower after cleaning the rest of the bug parts out of the shower drain and making a mental note to buy another can of bug spray at the market. The hot water felt good streaming over my body and I toyed with my nipples and ran my hand over my tummy down to the curls on my pussy. It had been a long, long time since I’d had a boyfriend to play with me, and though I usually masturbated almost every day, I’d been too tired all week to indulge myself. I shut off the water and gave myself a quick little orgasm as I leaned up against the shower wall. It felt good, but it left me unsatisfied.

I threw on my robe and strode to the kitchen before I could change my mind. I had a moment of trepidation as I wondered if it would still be there. What if I’d just imagined it? What if, somehow, the previous owner had snuck in to reclaim her property (for surely, it must be a her)? But no, it was still there, smooth and pink and ready to go. I hesitated a moment before adding soap to the compartment in the door and turning the dishwasher on. A girl can’t be too safe these days, you know?

Two hours later, convinced that even the hardiest of bacteria couldn’t have survived three hot washes, I opened the dishwasher and reached for the dildo. He was still warm, which was a bit disconcerting. I hadn’t considered that he might have melted during the dry cycle, but he seemed none the worse for wear. I had to tug him a bit to get him out of the cutlery tray. He came loose and I stumbled back a step, nearly flattening Miss Marple. She darted out of the room as I stared at my prize.

“Hello, big boy,” I said throatily.

Now, it may seem crazy to be talking to a dildo, but this thing had taken on a life of it’s own in the two days I’d known about it. It was no longer molded rubber (or whatever they make them out of); it was alive, breathing, waiting for me to be brave enough to rescue it from the dishwasher.

“It” had become “him” the moment I touched it. I hefted him in my hand before carrying him to my bedroom. His shiny, pink surface was a nice complement to my pink and white floral sheets. Heart hammering in my chest, I stretched out on my bed. It took me a good five minutes to spread my legs. It took a good deal longer to move Mr. Dick anywhere near my timid little pussy.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A good seduction takes time, even if it’s yourself you’re seducing. I thought about how good this big dick was going to feel inside me. All my friends called them cocks, but cock sounded so nasty. Good girls didn’t say cock. Then again, good girls didn’t lay in bed on a Sunday afternoon thinking about fucking themselves with someone else’s dildo.

I bit back a fit of giggles and whispered, “I want this big cock inside me.”

I don’t know if it was the words that did the trick, or the image, but when I reached down to touch myself, my pussy was drenched. I moaned as I thumbed my clit, pushing a finger into my wetness, rubbing that delicious little spot just inside. I stroked harder, silently climbing toward that familiar feeling. I’d done this so many times with other people within earshot, I didn’t know how to verbalize my passion.

Something heavy rolled against my hip and I opened my eyes. I’d forgotten all about Mr. Dick. And that’s what I was here for, right? I picked him up again, studying the realistic shape and design. He really was a piece of art. One that deserved better treatment than to be left behind in the dishwasher.

“Poor thing,” I whispered, kissing his plum-sized knob. The next thing I knew, I was rubbing my clit and sucking Mr. Dick like a prom queen in the back seat of her boyfriend’s car (oh, wait, that was me).

Whimpering around the dildo in my mouth, I knew I was going to come if I didn’t stop. And I didn’t want to come like a virgin. I wanted to come with this cock inside me. Slowly, I moved it down between my legs, nudging it against my pussy lips.

“Easy,” I whispered nervously, as if Mr. Dick had anything to do with it.

The head spread my pussy open and slipped inside with no resistance. I leaned up on my elbows to watch as I pushed a little harder. An inch disappeared inside my pussy, a wet, sucking sound coming from down there as Mr. Dick slid in.

“Oh, yes, mmm…” I moaned, throwing my head back against the pillow and pushing another little bit of him inside me.

Inch by inch, I took as much of that dildo as I could. And let me tell you, it was more than I’d imagined I could take. I winced once or twice, unused to accommodating anything so big, but I wanted to feel all of it. I was stretched open, impaled on something bigger than any of the real cocks I was likely to encounter. I wasn’t interested in those real cocks, though, at the moment. I was just a small town girl who wanted to get fucked.

And fucked I got. Mr. Dick opened up my pussy and bravery opened my mouth. I was moaning as I raised my hips to meet my downward thrusts. My clit was forgotten. This was going to be a earth-shaking orgasm, the kind women whisper about but many don’t believe exist. The Sasquatch of orgasms was about to overtake me and I was not going to go quietly.

“Fuck me!” I screamed, “Fuck me!”

I came so hard, I didn’t think it would ever stop. My pussy clenched almost painfully around the dildo inside me. It was a good pain. The kind of pain I’d remember for a long, long time. As the ripples subsided, I eased Mr. Dick out of my well-fucked pussy and cradled him to my chest. My eyes fluttered closed and, with a satisfied smile on my face, I slept.

At first I expected my experience with Mr. Dick to be the warm-up to an experience with a flesh-and-blood lover. But Mr. Dick managed to change my mind — for the moment. I’m hanging on to my virginity, at least technically, and sticking with Mr. Dick. We both understand our relationship is only based on sex. And I treat him a heck of a lot better than his last owner did. He sleeps in my bedside table, nestled next to my journal, a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre and a bottle of pepper spray. When he needs a bath, I take him in the shower with me.

I don’t have to worry about pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases, but we did have a scare the Monday after our first adventure. I almost thought I’d lost Mr. Dick when I answered my door to see a petite blonde smiling nervously at me. Seems she thought she might have left something in the apartment when she moved out.

I hardly paused before saying I hadn’t found anything of hers. A woman like her doesn’t deserve Mr. Dick. He has a better home with me and I have what every big city girl wants — a sex life satisfying enough to keep me happy.