Dear Ladies:

There are a few things that I think every hip, young, independent woman should have in her home. A good bottle of wine. The menu for at least one Chinese take-out restaurant. The phone number of her therapist. Fantastic lighting. And a "sex drawer."

The sex drawer doesn't have to be a literal drawer. A friend of mine uses an old purse. I know several people who keep a shoe box under the bed. But I'm going to call it a drawer because, well, that's what I've got. The contents should be the same, regardless of what you have: condoms, lube, any sort of, err, supplies you like to use during sex, and at least one vibrator.

I just bought my third.

Nothing was wrong with the other two, really (one has been getting increasingly louder, though it hasn't really been a problem yet), but variety, as they say, is the spice of life, and besides, there was a sale at Pleasure Chest, so why not?

Okay, so I find my new toy pretty unsatisfying. You live, you learn, you buy new batteries and see if that does any good. (It didn't.) But that is not what this column is about. Because that could be kind of... gross. As much as I love each and every one of you, female readers, I figure you don't need to know me that explicitly. (You too, male readers. You too.)

You see, the night before this most recent shopping excursion, a friend of mine who was planning on coming along disclosed that not only did she not own a vibrator, but also that she'd never even seen one up close. On more than one occasion, I'd thought of this particular friend as a "Charlotte." This conversation only confirmed my suspicions. Our conversation follows after the jump, with name changed to protect the innocent, and grammar corrected because that's how I am.

Me: Excuse me? You're buying one! EVERY girl needs one... but especially a girl whose boyfriend lives 2000 miles away, like yours does.
Charlotte: I'm sure it has something to do with being sexually repressed due to Catholicism.
Me: I'm sure it has everything to do with that. But you're on birth control and you've had premarital sex… believe me, masturbation is a MINOR sin.
Charlotte: Yeah… seriously considering.
Me: So come with us tomorrow… We’ll help you pick one out, if you're so inclined.
Charlotte: Do they break?
Me: They wear out eventually.
Charlotte: I guess you guys are going to explain to me the different types over brunch.
Me: I promise, it's a pretty non-threatening and innocuous thing. And you can hide it when your boyfriend comes into town, if you’re worried.
Charlotte: So they don't look like super-size penises… Good to know…

The next day, after a delightful brunch at Devil's Alley (and everyone knows how much Phillyist loves Devil's Alley) and a quick jaunt to the grocery store, "Charlotte," the other friend referred to in the conversation above (whom I will call "Miranda"), and I walked into Pleasure Chest. Charlotte was visibly uncomfortable from the moment we walked in and were greeted by a basket full of cock-and-balls water bottles. The assortment of bondage gear in the back didn't help. The vibrator racks, halfway between the two, seemed to be a little overwhelming for her. She'd never seen one before, and suddenly, she was being faced with a few dozen, of various sizes, shapes, intensities, and purposes. (And cavities. At one point, she picked one up and said: "this one looks different." When I told her it was because it was for your bum, she nearly dropped it. And then turned around and nearly got smacked in the face by the three foot strap-on—girth of a football—that was hanging from the ceiling. Ouch.) Eventually, Miranda and I selected the toys we'd be taking home, and set to the task of helping Charlotte pick out her very first vibrator. It felt like taking a three-year-old to get a My First Barbie. If Barbie was an eight-inch long piece of vibrating silicone.

Charlotte, however, looked ready to run out of the store. Might have been that she noticed the large selection of anatomically correct dildos (many complete with testicles) and glass butt plugs proudly displayed behind the counter when Miranda and I were paying. After our two transactions, the woman behind the counter asked Charlotte: "And for you?"

She looked at a pack of feminine wipes. "I guess these are a little more up my alley today." Then she stopped and read the package, which proudly advertised that the wipes would leave you not only fresh, but also tingly. "Nevermindnothingformethankyouverymuch."

I looked at the woman behind the counter as we made our way to the door. "Well... we tried."

"Oh, don't worry, sugar," the woman said. "She'll be back."

I kind of get the feeling she may have been right.

Image by Flickr user SmussyOlay.