Born to Fuck

• Non-Fiction Essays by Katie Schwartz
• 6 Comments on Born to Fuck
• Posted on 25 March, 20111 July, 2011
• by Katie Schwartz

There I was just sitting in Urth Cafe in Los Angeles finishing up an essay called, “Forgive Me Father for I have Sinned—Oy”, chronicling yet another humiliating sexcapade in my life, and drinking a non-fat cappuccino, feeling smartish, funnyish, and not as hard on the eyesish as I usually doish, when I looked up and saw the archetypal plastic-surgery-honey-blonde-diva, broadcasting a contagious amount of silicon. Imagine my fear, faced with the reality that one day my God-given triple-D breasts will become anklets. I digress… Her entrance caused a shockwave of erections throughout the room. As she sashayed through the coffee shop in her pink sequin tank top blaring entitlement, the wood began to throb until she leaned over in her excessively priced jeans, revealing her fire engine red V-string annunciating volumes about her intentions, “Got Platinum? For unlimited usage, you get the perfect LA-specimen that is me, on your arm whenever and wherever you want it,” because the wood got wind and exploded.

That afternoon, no longer blooming in positiveish delicacies, I thought that there are some men and women who exude I-was-put-on-this-earth-to-fuck-and-do-fuck-like-things-until-my-head-explodes. I’m not meant to read, to talk, to work, to do anything, but fuck, period, the end. They fuck as if they don’t need fetishes or the perfect him-her lingerie, or overpriced lubes to sustain an erection to fuck or get someone off. Breezing through life’s general population, their perfection wafts from person to person like smoke signals, comparable to the close-ups of Bella Lugosi in the original Count Dracula films. So perceivable, I am besotted, itching for their sexual infallibility to magically attach itself to my loins.

These people don’t sweat, they glow. Even when they masturbate, they don’t need slow jam or R&B in the background. There’s enough Barry White ejaculating from their pores to make him rise from the dead. And when she, whoever what’s-her-tits may be, orgasms, little cherubs frolic like a halo around her head.

Then there’s me… It’s not a weight thing, or a confidence thing, it’s a reality thing.

When I was in college, I was living in a flat in San Francisco that had an old radiator next to my bed, like most old flats in SF. One day I came home and heard this earsplitting rat-tat-tat. As I followed the sound back to my room it got louder. Once beside the radiator, the noise was so deafening, I called my apartment manager in a state, “Al, ya gotta hear what’s coming from the radiator!” A proud, self proclaimed mellowest afflicted by “tranquility” bordering catatonic, shockingly reacted normally, screeching, “Oh my God, it’s gonna blow. Get out of the house. I’ll evacuate the other tenants and call the fire department.”

I didn’t know what to grab first. I heard the fire trucks racing down my block as frenzied neighbors scurried through the halls. I took my: Cuisinart, spatulas, rock collection, an egg timer, and a dozen pair of underwear, eyeliner, lipstick and a fan. An egg timer?! I dove underneath my bed for my suitcase to throw everything in and flee and found my vibrator doing the jig underneath the radiator.

Oh shit.

I grabbed it. Of course, this action made the radiator rat-tat-tat stop. Seconds later, I heard my name echoing through a megaphone on the street, “KATIE SCHWARTZ in Apartment 11, LEAVE THE BUILDING NOW. I REPEAT, KATIE SCHWARTZ, EVACUATE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY.”

There I was, in my room, with a now dulcet radiator, a throbbing vibrator in my hand, suddenly confronted by a breathless fireman who busted through my front door, eager to save me and my Cuisinart.

Instead of asking him for his address to mail him a Thank You for Saving My Vibrator’s Life, no, Sorry I Wasted Your Time, no, Fireman Appreciation card, I fucked him.

I thought it was a more environmentally conscientious choice, plus it was a bit more personal than a Hallmark.

That was my first vibrator and introduction to the reality that I wasn’t born to fuck or do fuck-like things with the grace and primitiveness that others were. Sure, masturbating with my hand was never a problem. But, all my girlfriends had upgraded to vibrators, and I wanted an appendage extension, too.

One sunny premenstrual Saturday afternoon, my puppy was taking a nap on the floor, so I decided to get into bed and get my swirl on with Juan, a new swashbuckling, vibrating number I picked up earlier that week. All was going famously. I had my fantasy down. The speed was just right. Everything was pointing in an orgasmic direction, until, like a schmuck, I inadvertently twisted the base and it popped off and woke my puppy up. All he saw was a shiny, bright round thing coming at him and eager to play catch, he caught, and almost choked. I flailed braless to his rescue. Terrified that I emotionally and physically scarred him, I took him to the vet.

“What happened?”, the vet asked.

I said, “He almost choked.”

He asked how.. I fumbled, but managed to say, “You know, on a thing.”

Vetboy stood there agitated, tapping his soft-shoe-leather-man-flat. He folded his arms in his starched white, over-degreed, couldn’t-make-the-MD-cut coat, and in his most voracious bitter bottom tone wailed, “Listen missy, if I’m gonna help your dog, I need some hard and fast answers.”

I said, “Listen, Sissy, the only hard and fast you’re getting out of me is my neighbor Oliver’s number. The dog almost choked on a thing with a spring. Now just tell me if the God Damned canine is damaged or not.”

Luckily my dog suffered no injuries and I made a friend.

Feeling hopeless, but still committed to becoming a successful fuck and fuck-like thing, I thought maybe it was the types of vibrators I was choosing. As a last stitch effort to try something new, I went into a sex store determined to find a vibrator that would achieve my objectives without causing bodily injury to others and chaos in my apartment building. I approached a quirky, pierced, tattooed employee, percolating fuck-centric confidence with her spiky blonde do and leather ensemble, and said, “I’m looking for a vibrator. It has to be safe, stylish, somewhat butch and capable of staying off when I leave it alone.” She whipped out the Cadillac of vibrators, a five-speed, remote-controlled, ribbed, veiny, olive skinned, suction cup cock with a bountiful mushroom head, like I’d never seen in my life. The fuckdiva positioned him on the table, steadily cradling his sack. With a devilish smile, she delicately hushed, “Watch”. Fuckdiva flicked the switch to speed-one, observing peenyboy’s semi-firm shaft do the Polka reminded me of my grandparents on Saturday nights at the Clubhouse, scarcely an erotic visual aid. Gifted with extreme facial responses, she knew I wasn’t impressed and clicked speed-two. I gawked at Henry (interim vibrator nickname), lightly flutter and spin enough to illicit a reaction, “Hmm, seems doable, can we shift gears”? She licked her lips and rolled her tongue, judiciously aware that speed-three was the inimitable closing tool. Henry’s flexibility was resourceful, to be sure, preening like a famous Swing dance instructor, breaking out in front-to-back Charleston Steps, looping into The Shag and finishing off with the Jitterbug Stroll, demanding fuckdiva clutch his balls tighter. I wasn’t about to become a cliché like my predecessors, no way, no how. I wanted to see speed-four in all its strapping, jockstrap glory. Oh. My. God. Henry looked like a1950’s twenty-something performing a steroid induced Hand Jive on American Bandstand. I didn’t need to see speed-five, this baby was on fire and for fifty-bucks he was mine.

I took my eager beaver home and felt like a Botox junky at a plastics seminar offering unlimited free shots. I didn’t know where to slam that thing first. I tried every wall in each room of my house. It didn’t stick, duh. I even tried the refrigerator. It stuck, but fucking a Sears and Roebuck appliance just isn’t hot. Then it occurred to me, the shower door! I ripped my clothes off, locked my dog outside of the bathroom, made sure all my windows were locked and shrouded in sheets with extra strength electrical tape and flew Charlie (has a more macho ring to it than Henry) onto the door. I double checked to make sure it was secure and then I prayed. Honestly. “God, how are you? I’m doing okay. Sorry to bother you. This won’t take but a minute. Here’s the deal, this is my third vibrator. I gotta make this work. I have to be able to achieve an orgasm with one of these things. Other people do it. You probably do it… right? That’s gotta be a perk when you’re God, no? For once in my life, I really want to be a fuck-like thing without damaging anyone, or thing. Is that so much to ask?”

After I prayed, I wantonly fucked that vibrator, grunting, groaning and moaning, twisting my neck from side-to-side as wet strands of long hair pelted my face—I even slapped my own ass and pinched a nipple along the way. And as I lost myself in orgasmic bliss, I also lost the shower door and the cock attached to it. I whipped around and found that my new, macho, fifty-dollar vibrator’s head had been decapitated by shards of shower door glass. Charlie, previously a domineering force of the vibrating world was now dead.

It was devastating. But, I came, wondering what the vibrating world had in store for a short-bus masturbator like me. Unflinching in my commitment to continue enhancing my methods of reaching orgasm, I kept doing it, you know, masturbating.

A few years later I decided to try another tool and picked a lean, seven-inch Hawaiian themed Starter Vibrator. After each use, I cleaned him and replaced his batteries (every few months). It was a lovely, low maintenance relationship.

Early on a Saturday morning, a new neighbor I’d spoken with in passing dropped by for a chat. She was my age, a single dame, too, and had a sister, enough similarities that encouraged me to give her the grand tour of my 700 square foot apartment. Passing my vintage furniture in the living room, jadeite and bread-sugar-coffee tin collection in the kitchen, she suggested we go antiquing together, emphasizing that I simply had to stop by her apartment because we shared the same taste in antique tchoch. When we got to the bedroom, my gold plated baroque end-table, home to an Eames era fiberglass lamp, also sat “Hawaii” minding his own business waiting for me to put him away. So disgusted, she pointed to it and guffawed, stuttering “b-b-b-b-bye” before hastily leaving my apartment and slamming the door behind her. I sat on my bed and picked Hawaii up. I turned his bottom on, listening to him quietly hum, aware of his pleasant disposition and thinking he was just a vibrator. Who cares if I had a clumsy, rumbling past with these accessories?! Instead of focusing on how they’ve shamed me, I should appreciate the many orgasms they’ve bestowed me, albeit tenuous, sure, but they’ve become characters in my masturbating life, as has everything else. I turned him off and tucked him away carefully in my drawer hoping that one day soon we’d reach another orgasm together regardless of the consequences.

 

— Performed at Sit-n-Spin

 

*Image courtesy of Monday Meanderings