The continuing saga of the battery-operated gizmo…


My best friend James, who happens to be a straight male, called me yesterday and said “I bought you a vibrator.”

I supplied him with a very long pause and then responded, “You mean like a special massager for my wrists?” (I’m still battling the RSS).

“No, it’s a vibrator,” James continued very seriously. “Like a lady’s vibrator for your lady’s parts.”


Yes, my straight male friend bought me a masturbating device for my lady’s parts. No, people, this isn’t the start of my new romantic comedy. This is my life.

James went on to explain that he’d just had an appointment with a specialist for his own RSS and she prescribed the use of a vibrator to massage the stressed tendons in his hands and wrists. Yes, a vibrator—a small one, the type that could be carried in a purse, the very same kind that could be used to stimulate one’s clitoris. Or I suppose one’s achy wrists.


The idea of my dear friend James purchasing this device from the drugstore was enough to send me into stitches, but when he showed up at my door with the blue sex toy, I almost burst my braces.  “The Water Dancer” would fix everything James claimed. But he warned me I needed to use a special lubricant for glide. He even stocked me up on double AA batteries. He earnestly demonstrated, circling his wrists with the pulsating head of the pleasure appliance.

I have been dancing on water ever since, making sure to use the Vitamin E cream James provided so as not to chafe. 

Yes, this is my life. And no, it’s not a romantic comedy. But my friend James is truly a prince—and a real live one, not one I made up. This is a man who carries a box of tampons in his car just in case I ever have need of them. He should probably star in my next romance novel. The truth is there may be a bit of him in one of my male leads, but I’ll never tell you which one. And I’ll certainly never tell him. I think he’s been embarrassed enough for one lifetime.




Tessa Bowen