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This Sex Toy Got Me Off In 30 Seconds (And I Was On Antidepressants)

I was walking through the streets of Chelsea feeling sad and defeated, when I lifted my heavy head up and saw a piece of paper citing “free consultations” gleaming at me from the window of a shady-looking sex shop on 9th Avenue.

I could tell by the leather caps and porno posters that it was a gay boy-oriented sex shop.

While I prefer venturing out to queer, sex-positive stores like “Babeland,” I’m not a snob. I mean, a sex shop is a sex shop is a sex shop.

So I entered and walked up to the counter, feeling very lesbian chic in my black fedora and motorcycle jacket.

A large man with an unkempt beard smiled down at me, visibly bemused. I could feel him thinking, “Ooh, we have a LESBIAN today. What a treat!”

“How can I help you?” he asked, fearlessly looking into my eyes like a lot of people in the sex industry do.

(It’s like they’re trying so hard to let you know THEY ARE SO OPEN about sexuality and YOU CAN BE, TOO. I find it jarring and off-putting sometimes, but that’s probably because I’m British and we’re naturally closed off about taboo subjects.)

Despite my fierce lesbian attire, my inner fierce lesbian was not around. She had been replaced by my inner terrified, sad lesbian.

“I can’t seem to orgasm,” I said flatly.

“Oh, honey.” The bearded bear man’s voice was strangely effeminate for such a butch guy. “What’s going on?”

“I just got off of these anxiety meds, and I think they’re still in my system and I can’t get myself off, sexually.”

“You need the Satisfyer Pro 2. It will do the trick,” he said, looking into my soul as if the person with the orgasm issue was him, and we were one. “In fact, I know people who’ve had big orgasm inability issues and it worked for them.”

sex toy satisfyer pro 2 vibrator experiences with wild crazy background

Satisfyer Pro 2/Kylah Benes-Trapp

Satisfyer Pro 2, $48, Amazon

“I know, but this is medical. I don’t think anything will work. Not even the Hitachi Magic Wand is working.”

“This is different.”

I struggled to believe him.

Exactly one week prior, I had found myself in a dark mental place. I could feel the falling-without-a-cushion sensation of anxiety — something I’ve suffered from, along with depression, my entire life — coming on strong. (And it’s not the cute, poetic kind, either. It’s the debilitating, ugly kind.)

It had been bubbling inside of me for about six months: I was isolating myself socially, my heart was incessantly racing and I kept having dreams about being held underwater. I was about to boil over.

Not feeling particularly in the mood for a nervous breakdown, and knowing that this was a chemical anxiety (that needed other chemicals to balance it out), I decided to schedule an appointment with Dr. Feelgood.

“I don’t want to take antidepressants because I’m not depressed, I’m anxious,” I explained, crossing my legs and staring out of the large bay windows of his uptown office.

The view brilliantly showcased the stunning high rises of Park Avenue South, which made me wonder if I would ever be rich enough to have such an exclusive, elite address. “Oh, drop me off on Park Avenue South,” I imagined myself saying to the taxi driver.

Then, the idea of what I would have to sacrifice to make that kind of money sent me spiraling into sheer panic.

This is how anxiety works, kittens.

“I have something, but there is only a 50 percent chance that it will work,” Dr. Feelgood said.

“It’s called Buspar. It’s subtle and non-addictive,” he said in the flat, doctor-ish tone that deeply comforts me.

“Will it dull down my sex drive?” I asked, feeling even more anxious. The only medication that has ever worked for me is the kind that depletes my sex drive entirely.

“It shouldn’t,” Dr. Feelgood said, starting to feverishly write down notes. He looked up at me, his ice-blue eyes static and cold in a way that warmed my terrified soul. “But it could.”

With that, I knew I was doomed.

It might have been totally psychological, but the moment I started swallowing those tiny yellow pills, I felt sexual numbness. Which, for a sexual creature like me, meant spiritual numbness.

Sexual numbness means spiritual numbness for a sexual creature like me.

I stuck it out for a little less than a month, totally orgasm-less, before I stopped taking them. (I was also having weird, inexplicable crying spells on them, which made me feel like a pregnant woman on the verge.)

Two pill-free days later, as I was walking around Chelsea, I could tell the meds were still swishing through my system; my sex drive was still flat.

And that, my babes, is how I ended up in the sex toy shop with my gay bearded bear friend.

But oddly enough, he wasn’t the first person to introduce me to the Satisfyer Pro 2. I had first seen it a few months prior at the SHE Sexual Health Expo, a sex toy trade show/workshop series in Brooklyn teeming with butt plugs, state-of-the-art vibrators and leather strap-ons galore.

I remember thinking how strange it was that they were selling a skincare brush — a beauty tool my mother swears by —at such a provocative event.

For a visual, here is the Satisfyer Pro 2:

 Satisfyer Pro2 non boxed product shot vibrator

Satisfyer Pro 2

Satisfyer Pro 2, $48, Amazon

And here is the Clarisonic, Sephora’s bestselling skincare brush:

Uncanny resemblance, no?

“It’s really bizarre that they’re selling a skincare brush here,” I said to my friend Leah*, a furrowed-brow, glasses-pushed-to-the-bridge-of-her-button-nose, know-it-all kind of girl creature.

“I mean, you’re not going to get laid unless your skin looks good. Skincare is the foundation of everything, Zara,” she sneered, her thick lips curved upward into a sly smile. She was clearly pleased with herself for coming up with such a sophisticated hypothesis on-the-spot.

Unconvinced, I sailed up to the booth in my prim, black-knit, vintage Valentino sweater dress, batted my lashes at the sweet-looking sales rep, pointed to the skincare brush-looking thing and delicately asked, “What the fuck is this product?”

“Oh, it’s a vibrator that can you make you orgasm really quickly.”

I turned my head and shot Leah a smug glance. She rolled her eyes, feigning a look of boredom. The bitch did not like to be wrong, and the bitch was wrong.

Since the sales rep and I both knew this drill, I stuck my hand out as she stuck the nose of the vibrator on my palm.

The moment the Satisfyer Pro 2 touched my bare skin, I felt largely unimpressed. The suction cup top felt strange. It didn’t make my ribcage vibrate like my beloved, intense Hitachi Magic Wand.

“What a waste of 30 seconds,” I thought to myself, strutting away like the sex goddess I’m not.

Hitachi Magic Wand, $52, Amazon

Satisfyer Pro 2 boxed image shot vibrator sex toy

Satisfyer Pro 2

Satisfyer Pro 2, $48, Amazon

But now, coming face-to-face with the Satisfyer Pro 2 again in the sex shop, I was desperate. Plus, I had a trustworthy gay staring into the crux of my soul willing me to buy it.

“Fine,” I replied, “Can I buy it?”

“That will be $70; it’s cheap.”

“That’s not cheap,” I barked back, breaking out my wallet. (I get sex toys sent to me all the time because of my job, so I’m always reluctant to buy them.)

Back at my apartment, I peeled off my leather lesbian attire and fell into my innocent floral sheets.

I was immediately thrilled this toy didn’t have batteries (It’s 2016, and I’m all about that USB charger, babes), but I already felt defeated.

Not only do I hate the pressure of a new sex toy (it gets me too cerebral and in my head, prohibiting me from dreaming up illicit, glittery sex fantasies), I also wasn’t feeling remotely sexual.

Still… and I don’t know how to put this gently: I had an orgasm in 30 goddamn seconds.

And it wasn’t just any orgasm — it was a cluster of orgasms within one orgasm.

I put the oval head on me and let it rest there (I didn’t even need to manipulate it around me), and it just softly pulsed, like a light tap of the fingertip, on my clitoris.

It was like I began to cum the moment it touched me, but the orgasm escalated over the course of 30 seconds, ending with a dramatic O orchestra.

The strange part was that this toy is not a vibrator that’s so strong, it electrocutes you and leaves your vagina so overwhelmed you have to pull it away the moment you cum and you need recovery time. Instead, it has this light, pulsating, tingly technology that actually made my orgasm build, second by second.

It was strong, but gentle. And it cut through the medicinal withdrawal and made me explode in a way I’ve never exploded (on my own).

Now, I’m no hyper-educated expert on sex toys, per se, but I can say that this skincare brush-looking vibrator was solely responsible for me getting my sexuality back.

It reminded me of the gorgeous rush of an orgasm in a time when I couldn’t even remember what an orgasm felt like. It also reminded me I’m capable of cumming.

It reminded me of the gorgeous rush of an orgasm in a time when I couldn’t remember what they felt like.

In short, it gave me my orgasm confidence back in 30 seconds.

But now that it’s back, I don’t want to depend on such a quick fix for my pleasure — which is almost exactly how I feel about antidepressants.

Antidepressants remind me that I do have the ability to feel good, thus pulling me out of the darkness. However, I don’t want to depend on them. I just need them from time-to-time as a reminder that I am capable of feeling happy.

But the happiness and orgasms I really love the most are the ones I have to work for.


*Name has been changed.

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Zara Barrie

Freelance Contributor

Zara Barrie is a senior writer for Elite Daily. She's consumed by style, sexuality, women, words, fashion and feelings. She identifies as a "mascara lesbian" and lives beyond her means on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
Zara Barrie is a senior writer for Elite Daily. She's consumed by style, sexuality, women, words, fashion and feelings. She identifies as a "mascara lesbian" and lives beyond her means on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

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