Page 1 of Let's Kiss and Tell

1

Lucy

Propped on my kitchen table like little dolls are eight silicone vibrators. All different shapes, sizes, and colors. I place a pale pink tool that looks like either a pop star’s microphone or a generous scoop of strawberry ice cream back with the rest and mark in my notepad:

LAYLA WAND: 7 min 45 sec

Picking up a muted beige, teardrop-shaped instrument next, I analyze the weight and feeling of the “Cleo.” It fits perfectly in my palm and it’s surprisingly one of the softest things I’ve ever touched. I make another note:

THE CLEO: feels like skin.

I scan the bullet-point features printed on the side of the box:11 different intensity settings, waterproof, quiet motor,andbody-safe silicone in colors like clay, sand, onyx, and espresso.I didn’t think I needed those things, but I guess I do. Marketing is witchcraft.

“Clitoris lickingandsucking?” I say out loud. That one’s new.

I’m no stranger to self-pleasuring accoutrements, but I’ll admit, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of my dominant hand. It’s not that I’mopposedto having the help, there’s just nothing—or nobody—from my experience that can bring a level of satisfaction the way I can. I know exactly how and when I like to orgasm.

I like doing things on my own.

Unfortunately, whatIwant is beside the point right now. What matters is what the 4.4 million weekly readers ofThe Ruewant. Well, at least those who care enough to read the sex column of the online magazine.

My job is to put myself in the average woman’s shoes…or underwear, all while comfortably sprinkling references to my personal life for entertainment. I’m not paid to write about all the ways you can get yourself offwithouta vibrator. I’m paid to slip into 1970s magazine jargon and help women “spice things up” with articles titled “5 Vibrators to Make You Orgasm in Under 5 Minutes.”

My eyes cut back to the display of sex toys in front of me. If I didn’t know any better, I would think the Cleo is probably some kind of mini–Bluetooth speaker, or maybe a minimalist contraption for your moisturizer.

Subtlety,I quickly jot down.

On most days, work feels exactly like what it is. Work. But when I have eight adult toys next to my plate of cold, unfinished Eggo waffles, I can only laugh that this is how I make a living. This is the territory that comes with writing about sex. Days mostly consist of writing about the LA dating scene and researching different kinds of yeast infections or reasons why you’re attracted to your stepbrother.

I think back to how this became my life.

My first kiss was in sixth grade. Ryan Young kissed me behind a tree on the last day of school, and it was over before I knew what was happening. I immediately ran home and wrote about it in my diary.

I wish I could say I lost my virginity to my teenage crush by candlelight while his parents were away for the weekend. Instead, I lost it to a guy I barely knew in the bathroom of a high school party. That weekend I wrote a short story called “Girls Are Faster Than Boys, in Everything but Sex.” I got an A.

By senior year, I had never been in love and realized I never want to be. When I was fifteen, I found out my dad was having an affair with another woman. It gutted me. What’s worse is that even though my mom knew, she still chose to stay with my dad. She chose to stay with the man who lied to her, all to protect our “family.” Meanwhile, my father’s actions proved the two of us never mattered to begin with. I was far too embarrassed to tell anyone, so the only person who knew was whoever read my admissions essay for journalism school.

I could blame my labeled “misconstrued views on love and sex” on the fact that I simply haven’t had the chance to romanticize love and sex. At a young age, I was quickly exposed to the realities of relationships. I never cried over a tub of ice cream because John Doe broke my heart. I never sulked about how the dating scene is rotten and it’s impossible to find a decent partner.

Instead, I choose to write about an alternate take on relationships. I empower people to celebrate how wonderful it is to be single, how important it is to explore their sexuality, and why youdon’tneed to be in love to be happy. Hence, the many vibrators.

My phone buzzes across the table, interrupting my thoughts. I reach over, seeing a new text from Chris.

Chris:

My buddy’s playing a pool party in Inglewood tonight. Come.

My face inadvertently scrunches. I think I’d rather do anything else than spend an evening outside with people drinking and dancing to EDM. Especially in the middle of this August heatwave we’ve been having.

I’ve known Chris for almost a year. For people who have been sporadically sleeping together, we barely know anything about each other. I think the most romantic thing he’s ever done was offer me his personal toothbrush the first time I stayed the night…afterhe used it.

I know somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, I should delete his number. But Chris is someone who has no expectations. He never has and never will. To me, that’s a good thing.

I tap another unread message.

Dylan:

Made a reservation at Uchi for 7