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Lyla, will have you on your knees!
on 29 March 2014
You have my word as an Amazon Reviewer, this review shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Some names may be changed (to protect me, never mind my ex-wife... oops!) but what I am about to relate to you in this review comes as a result of one night spent away in the company of this vibrating egg and its remote control companion. Oh, and a 'Mrs X' (well, a Mrs Ex really. Oops!).
I realise I really ought to wait until I have used it on a number of occasions, so as to write a truly accurate review but, hell, at the rate I accumulate sexual notches on my bedpost, if I do that this gadget will be a genuine museum piece. Trust me, I can give you the lowdown on this quite adequately based on that one night's experiences. I don't even have this in my possession any longer anyway, since Mrs Ex kept it when she dumped me. Ironically, she told me precisely where I could shove all the other things I'd bought her during our most recent torrid time together, but not this. Shame, I daresay I would have enjoyed given that a try with this product (provided I had the remote control of course). Nope, all I have left are my memories. Given the fact that this thing cost me ninety smackers on the High Street, I am presently feeling its loss rather more painfully than that of Mrs Ex. Although, having said that, I should imagine these things are a little bit like engagement rings... in the event of a break-up, they belong to the lady. I'm not even sure what the ethics might be for trying to recycle them for use on future girlfriends. I shudder to think, actually.
The product specifications listed here are mostly on the nose (click on the 'pink' or 'purple' versions to get the full selection of mugshots) and the presentation box is pretty smart; the 2 AAA batteries to the remote ARE included, although mine lasted nowhere near ten hours. But that's probably because they seemed obsessed with powering a little pink light, for no real reason, which I couldn't find a way of turning off. You charge up the actual massager by unscrewing the top and shoving the plug in. That keeps its charge in very impressive fashion. The remote control takes some getting used to, but that's all part of the fun of it. Well, it was for me anyway.
The idea of wearing the little brooch that's included, smart though it is, did leave me a bit baffled. But, having thought about it, it's obviously designed to be some sort of female alternative to the Masonic handshake, so those of you who have already fallen under this product's spell can indicate to one another discreetly why you may very well be smiling more broadly than the average bear.
Now, I must confess, I can't vouch for the full extent of this thing's wireless range. I can simply attest to the fact that it works from at least five metres away. We did begin the evening with me in charge of the remote control but that quickly became highlighted as 'a truly terrible idea'. I was a bit too trigger happy with the my half of the necessary equipment apparently (a common problem while in Mrs Ex's company, believe me). The thing about having a gadget like this is that, as a man, you just can't help fiddling with it.
No? Oh Well, that must just be me then. Mrs Ex equated me being in charge of it to getting three quarters of the way through an episode of her favourite television programme and then suddenly finding herself on another channel, starting all over again. I'm told some of the settings she got three quarters of the way through were very entertaining (on a par with anything ever recorded by Jon Pertwee apparently - high praise for this device indeed, that) although some were more irritating than anything else. Like me she said, which is high praise in itself since she was obviously comparing me to something that can boast a length of three and a quarter inches.
Thanks to my complete lack of self control (also a common problem while in her company), far from experiencing multiple orgasms at my hands (a potential situation so newsworthy I reckon Reuters might have been worth a call), she just draped herself over the bed... making a noise not at all dissimilar to the sound of a Chinook helicopter approaching from somewhere in the far distance. I myself was making a similar sound, thanks to my association with my half of this gadget. I know having both halves of the device vibrating in the same way at the same time is supposed to give the person in charge of the pace of them an insight into just what his or her partner is experiencing, but these things really are noisy. Besides, it simply encouraged me to channel hop in that, somewhat unchivalrous, way.
All thoughts of going for a nice, quiet meal somewhere while I cheated Mrs Ex out of yet more orgasms (yet another common problem while in her company) were shelved, since I was deeply concerned the waiters might think I'd been at the Royal Jelly, what with all that buzzing. Instead, she took possession of the remote herself, found herself the quietest setting possible and then gently placed the remote control deep down within her cleavage. Not only did that make it absolutely safe from me, it also completely muffled that infernal buzzing. You couldn't hear an atom bomb exploding down there, never mind this thing vibrating away.
I heard practically no more from her after that - well, not in any sort of conversational sense - and she was actually rather cheerful company, smiling dreamily at me when I spoke to her and screaming her head off at all my jokes. Her timing was a bit out sometimes and my jokes really weren't all that funny really but, hey, who's moaning? Well, she was... but in a good way. For a change.
Things took a very severe turn for the worse on our walk back to our hotel though. She was a little doddery on her pins by that stage (too much creme de menthe, I reckon). How can I put this, gravity suddenly decided to chance its arm with this vibrating egg. Rather fortuitously, this occurred just outside the public loos on Burford High Street although, not quite so fortunately, the damn things were closed. I don't wish to get TOO graphic here, but I was obliged to shield her from the attentions of passers-by while she retrieved the device from wherever it had got to, then blamed me for not having given her a bigger one (not the first time she's ever said THAT to me either) and wobbled her way back to our room.
Where this device really did come into its own (that's a bad pun that one, sorry) as a team sport was in the field of external stimulation. The vibrating egg has its own independent, non-wireless, control which I did my very best not to fiddle too much with. I leave the rest of that to your own imagination but, in combination with a paddle and a picture of Jon Pertwee, I think I can safely say Mrs Ex and I had a night to remember. Although, speaking to her the next day, it did seem as though she'd pretty much forgotten her own name, never mind how much excitement she had experienced in my company.
Without wishing to sound boastful, the little sachet of 'Personal Moisturizer' was not required at any stage of the proceedings; that's what a colour photograph of Jon Pertwee on the bedside table can do to a woman.
Oh, plus the kind attentions of one of THESE things of course!