When I was thirteen, my mother sat me down and taught me a very important lesson. “Men,” she said, “are only good for two things. Money and sex.”
And she should know—she’d been married and divorced three times by that point. She’s since doubled the number.
“What about love?” I’d asked, still pimply-faced and doe-eyed.
“Love yourself, darling,” she told me as she refilled her goldfish-bowl-size glass of merlot. “Only you can do that.”
I take her advice to heart. As I grew up, loving myself took on a very physical meaning.
With the stress of my job as a publicist for a pop rock band and no viable men on the horizon, I found only one thing helped me get through the hard times.
Reliable, trustworthy Burtie.
Burtie—named after my first crush, Burt Reynolds—is a pink, long vibrator. He twists. He has ridges. He makes my toes curl in a way no man ever can.
He’s also the reason why I’m late to my gate at Heathrow Airport.
The security guard taps my bag. “Is this yours, miss?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m going to have to take a look inside.”
I fidget. I’m bundled up, sweating uncomfortably under two sweaters, a jacket, and a huge backpack. I wish I’d thought to bring a hair tie, because long, static strands of black hair keep getting stuck to my mouth and covering my eyes.
“Okay…I mean, I think I know what the issue is if you just want me to take it out…”
When I reach for my bag, however, he pulls it closer to him and gives me a glare. “Miss, please step back,” he says. The security guard has a crew cut and a bulldog’s frown, so I take him seriously.
“Okay,” I try, “but…”
He unzips my backpack and pushes his gloved hand inside of it. He nudges around a moment, and the bag starts humming.
Oh boy. Here we go…
His eyebrow arches. He pulls out Burtie, who vibrates helplessly in the guard’s hand.
“I can explain this,” I start, when I feel a small human nudge against my legs.
“Mum! We’ve gotta go!”
Otto, my twelve-year-old, is a bundle of nerves and anxiety on a normal day, but today, his type A personality is really bursting out of its skin. He wears a bulky helmet, and he takes a break from adjusting the strap under his chin to tug on my pants.
Quickly, I cover his eyes with my hand. “Look,” I reason with the security guard, “it’s not like I was going to use it on the plane, but little man here likes to go through the luggage, so—”
“Just take out the batteries,” he says, clearly eager to move on to any non-sex-obsessed single mom.
And, really, I’m not addicted to sex. I can count the number of times I’ve gotten laid in the past decade on one hand.
So is it a crime to need a little…help…every now and then?
I shove Burtie deep in my bag, pop out the batteries, and zip up my bag so we can book it to the gate.
