My Satisfyer Pro (2) Situationship

As August appears every year, so does a discrete package at the footstep of my family home.

Every good rhythm is destined for an inevitable end. Whether it be in song, dance, suction, or situationship. Alas, it is always too soon, too late, and almost always in the wrong place at the right time. An unsatisfactory story for an unsatisfactory ending. Satisfaction: a state of contentment or an act of fulfilment. I am unsure as to whether I have ever entirely experienced such a sensation. I’ve come close. Everyone has once edged themselves toward the anticipation of contentment. I’d argue it occurs every evening for most. It is not uncommon, nor taboo. It’s rather the tools and vices we use to get us there that unveil the underlying urge within us.

As August appears every year, so does a discrete package at the footstep of my family home. Like a toy drive for the desperate, my best friend alms new toys annually for my birthday. This year brought me revolutionary air pulse technology equipped with waterproof fittings and the gentle reminder of yet another year alone.

So began my situationship with my Satisfyer Pro, the second.

They treat me well, and I like their physical features (though I definitely like them more than they like me). And we aren’t exclusive — I’m actually eskimo sisters with most of my best friends, and a good percentage of the clitoris-owning population too.

These days there’s nothing sexier than sexual liberation. In fact, it’s all the rage. Sex-positive podcasts, Bellesa, vibrator earrings, and the likes of Abbie Chatfield. Of course I want in, we all do, I can’t help but feel like I’m running in a race without a head start.

The act of feminine self-pleasure was always sheltered in adolescence. Hidden under the bed and stuffed in the sock drawer of the education system. While my brothers learned the innards of their ejaculatory ducts, I was matching the foetus to the fruit size. After hours, when the men opened private tabs and saved their session in Grand Theft Auto, I was opening another love-sick story and saving myself for something I wasn’t even sure was.

This decade's exponential incline toward celebrating female self-pleasure has shed the belief system that once lined my mind. I want to embrace it, I want to run through the ribbon of contentment. It’s just that every finish leaves only a bittersweet reminder of the race not won, and the sheets to be cleaned. I cannot blame my Satisfyer Pro. They never wanted anything serious, this was always meant to be casual. Love is an inability to accept casualties. So, whilst I wait for the recharge and the delivery of another brown box on my birthday, I will keep looking.

All in the effort to become my own, certified, satisfyer.