Why I Prefer My Vibrator To My Husband

I have a confession: I can’t break up with my BOB.

That’s Battery Operated Boyfriend, for all of you in the dark. No matter how hard I try to pry myself away from my secret habit, I just can’t. There is something so delightfully satisfying about getting my jollies on without the planning of a Date Night, the worry of getting busted by my children, or the feigning interest in my husband at the end of the day when really I am drop-dead tired and still have another load of laundry and some dishes to get done.

Sometimes the best way to reenergize myself is to have a solo romp. There is no fumbling through the etiquette of making sure my husband gets his and I get mine. There are no hurt feelings when the excuses of exhaustion or busyness cut off the flirty suggestion of romantic time. It is just me, a glimmer of a mood, and BOB.

It is quick and dirty. And mostly a perfunctory action that generates an immediate untangling of nerves and stress. And for any harried mom, isn’t that better than chocolate or wine?

My husband gets it. Mostly. He fully expects that as a grown woman, I am not helpless when it comes to making sure that my needs are met even when the demands of parenthood make strains on us that extinguish our desires at the end of the day. I know he has a pile of glossy magazines filled with buxom blondes hidden somewhere in the garage. And he knows that I have BOB hidden in my dresser drawer.

I’m not entirely sure, but sometimes I honestly wonder if my husband calculates how much more action BOB gets than he does. And while I will not likely confess to my husband anytime soon that BOB has seen more of my fun parts in the last six months than he has, at the very least this secretive habit has done wonders for my ability to chill out.

A part of me yearns for the day when parenthood won’t suck the life force from me day in and day out, so that I can enjoy my husband more. But in the meantime, while we live in survival mode at Planet Parenthood, I’m sticking with BOB as my handy tool for delivering that basic necessity of pleasure, because otherwise, I’d just be a robot that doles out clean laundry and packed lunches.

Related post: Darling, We Don’t Play With Our Vulvas at the Table