Pammy chronicles

Buzz in the New Year with Style: Best Vibrator Review

Don’t settle for just any sex toy. I review the best vibrators so you can buzz in the New Year with style and make new friends too!

It’s not too often you meet three new girlfriends with whom you instantly click and know you’ll be friends for life. Amazingly, that’s what happened for me over the holidays. Oh sure, they’re not quite what you’d expect. Okay, I’ll put it out there—they’re vibrators. What’s the big deal? At least they’re not just any vibrators. They’re from LELO, the Swedish company that is to sex toys what Apple is to computers. Through modern design and some seriously elegant engineering, LELO has managed to elevate the embarrassingly ugly sex toy (see Exhibit A) into the “pleasure object,” an icon of “simplicity, sensuality, and sophistication.” (see pictures of my friends, Ina, Mona, and Lily).

[Note to reader: the following is a rare look into the secret sex life of sex toys. For mature audiences only. For a tamer peek into sex toys, please try this though it's not nearly as entertaining...]

I looked up from the white glossy LELO booklet from which I was reading aloud. “Is that really true, Lily?” I asked my tiny new friend.

Lily peeked her head over the edge of her black silk cloak. “Why, yes, it is, especially for me,” she said with authority. “As for Mona and Ina over there,” she nodded towards them, “Well, they can be real dicks. Especially that Ina, who, with all due respect, is a dick and then some.”

“Geesh,” I said surprised by her strong feelings. Maybe professional jealously, I thought to myself, as I reached for Ina and examined her sleek, elongated hour glass figure. Okay, yes, she’s a little phallic looking but she can’t help that. I fiddled with the chubby green thumb-like projection sprouting from her tapered waist; it turned Ina into a modern, hipper version of the old Rabbit vibrator. “Lily,” I said flicking it, “is this thumby thing you mean?”

“Precisely,” said Lily rocking back and forth in agreement. “That thumby thing, as you put it, has simply gone to her head. If I have listen to her go on again about how she’ll be a thousand times more famous than the Rabbit, well, I think I’ll just explode.” Lily went to cross her arms and then remembered she didn’t have any.

Mona suddenly erupted with a lusty, throaty bellow of a laugh that sounded like it came from the depths of her rechargeable battery. “You know,” she said with a voice sounding remarkably like Mae West, “sometimes a good dick is all a girl really needs, and a little thumby thing ain’t gonna hurt either.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mona!” I said relieved to be changing the topic. “And bye the way,” I said with admiration, “who styles you? That purple outfit is a—door—a—bull!” Mona blinked coquettishly, which is when I noticed something else. Other than color, the only difference between Mona and Ina was the thumby thing on Ina.

“Hey, are you guys twins or something?” I asked, my finger waving back and forth between them.

“Fraternal,” said Ina speaking up at last. “And since I’ve finally got the floor,” she continued with gravitas, “I’d like to clear something up. We’re actually a very tight team. You need to know that. Okay, so I got this competitive thing with the Rabbit and it gets on Lily’s nerves. Big deal. Lily’s still the best. She’s a good egg and I love her.”

“And she travels well,” piped up Mona.

I picked up little pink Lily and stroked her. She was so soft to the touch, and yet so hard—a perfect package of ‘tough love.’

“Aw, heck,” Lily said, looking from Ina to Mona and then up at me. “Just giving customers what they want, right where they want it.”

“Amen, sister,” said Mona.

Ina crossed her thumby thing (sort of) and nodded approvingly. I sat back and surveyed my new friends. Gawd, they were a sexy looking bunch. Toned, colorful, and focused. You don’t get that too often in girlfriends. That’s when it dawned on me, I’d never thought about my girlfriends in quite this way before.

“Hey girls, I don’t mean to be getting all weird on you or anything, but,” I stumbled on my words and felt my face redden. “I, err, ah, hmmm, wonder what you think about group sex. Be frank with me now.”

“We thought you’d never ask!” they buzzed in unison. And with that the girls jumped out of their matte black boxes and between my leopard print sheets.

Five Minutes Later…

I stretched languidly on my bed, wrapped in the dome of a pleasure-sated moment. Everything had happened so quickly. One minute there was this barely audible symphony of buzzing—no, it was more like a faint purring (ant sex is louder)—followed my some moaning (mine), a few oh my gods (also mine), some eyes-rolling-into-the-back-of-the-head (mine too), high-pitched gaspy breathing (like I was about to die or something), and finally an explosion of a million little firecrackers in my groin and beyond. I raised my head half off the pillow and looked around for the girls who were strewn wildly around the bed.

“Wow, everything is tingling,” I said with a boozy drawl. Ina gave me a high thumby, while Mona and Lily stared at the ceiling, stupid little grins on their face. “I had no idea girlfriends could be so much fun,” I said trying to uncurl my toes. “You guys are amazing—and you have a speed for every need. Whaddya say we make this a regular thing?” I tried nudging them in the ribs but it’s tricky when your friends are three and seven inches high, respectively. “Nappy time?” I asked yawning.

“Actually,” said Mona all-breathy, “We were thinking more along the lines of drinky-poos, right, girls?”

“Right you are, Mona,” said Lily.

I sat up in a cross-legged position. “I can do drinks, no problem. Cosmos okay?” A hush dropped over the girls like a heavy black blanket. My hand flew to my mouth. “What did I say?” I asked, horrified at the possibility that I might have offended the sweetest little friends a girl ever could have.

Lily bounced over and almost jumped down my ear. “Cosmos…Sex and the City…The Rabbit…you follow?” Her eyes darted in the direction of Ina who looked about to burst into tears. Oh my goodness! I had inadvertently brought up the antiquated Rabbit. How could I be so insensitive? I clapped my hands trying to change the mood.

“Hey!” I said brightly. “I’ve great idea. Let’s do shots of Aqua Vit! The drink of Sweden! A tribute to LELO, who made our love possible!”

“Now you’re talking,” said Mona hopping up and down.

I reached out and held them tightly. “We all good then?” I asked tentatively. Ina, Lily, and Mona purred in happy agreement. “I love you guys,” I said, a tear sliding down my cheek. “My sex life was so empty before. So hit and mostly miss, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” said Ina sympathetically. “We hear that all the time.”

I got up off the bed and put my clothes back on. As I headed for the kitchen, I suddenly stopped myself at the bedroom door. Another weird, unsettling thought had just hit my brain.
“Hey, guys,” I said turning around. “I gotta ask. I’ve just slept with three girls. Does this make me, well, er, a lesbian?”

Well if vibrators could scream with laughter, they would have. “Are you nuts?” said Mona almost shouting. “It just makes you bisexual!” More hilarious buzzing ensued.

“Oh, phew,” I said wiping my anxious brow. “I mean, what would I have told my boyfriend—Hi honey, I won’t be home for dinner. I’ve left you for three girls…who are also vibrators?”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Lily snickering like a smarty pants. “Ridiculous!”

I shooed them into the shower and went to get our drinks. As I poured shots of Aqua Vit, I couldn’t help but remember something I read recently: 31,406,497 Americans live alone according to the 2008 American Community Survey from the US Census. And then I thought, why, oh why, when there are friends like Ina, Lily, and Mona in the world?

I downed a shot. Here’s to making 2010 the best year ever! May you always get your buzz on and make new friends while you’re at it!

PS: LELO Discount to SeasonedSex readers: Get 20% off your LELO purchase until Jan 5, 2010! Just enter the code: u2M4eZ at LELO.com.

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Can CrossFit Make You Sexy?

Confidence, no matter how it’s “packaged,” is sexy. But how do you increase confidence? For a lot of women, it gets down to how we feel about our bodies. For me, an amazing confidence booster is knowing my body is powerful enough to do whatever I need it to do, so I’ve always worked out.

Lately though I’ve noticed a change. Call me crazy but it might have something to do with this trippy thing called aging. These days, no matter how much I work out, I can’t seem to get strong. I mean really strong–the kind of strong where you can open a vacuum-packed pickle jar in seconds, chase a guy for days, lift 20 gallons of water, or change the tires on your car while also holding your car up. (Okay, maybe not that strong but you get the point.)

My point here is that I can’t even do a single push up, and it’s seriously messing with my head, to say nothing of my sexy. In fact, I can’t get through a yoga class without collapsing face first on the mat, arms and legs splayed open like a bug on a fly swatter.

I found help recently in the form of CrossFit Bootcamp (AKA Grunt School) at Arrowhead Crossfit. ArrowheadCrossFit is owned and operated by Cash Reynolds and his wife, Dr. Natalia Reynolds. (Full disclosure here: Cash agreed to put me through the CrossFit 12-session Grunt School in exchange for my reviewing the experience here, but as always, I write whatever I want.)

I’m more than half way through Grunt School as of this writing. Already, my entire body has toned (especially my arms and upper back), my posture has improved, and my jeans are looser. Friends tell me a certain cockiness has slipped into my stride. Also, I was in the supermarket the other day and opened a whole shelf of baby food jars just because I can.  And I’m not even finished boot camp yet.

So what is it about CrossFit that makes it unlike any other exercise program? One unique aspect is the focus on high intensity, super-efficient routines that exercise your body in the way it was designed to move (known as functional exercise). Each CrossFit session is different for a boredom factor of zero and a challenge factor of, well, infinite. The workouts are done at a gym—in my case, Cash’s gym, ArrowheadCrossFit, an inviting, fun space filled with pull up bars, barbells, kettlebells, hanging rings, and other equipment.

CrossFit was started in the 80’s by a former gymnast, Greg Glassman. It’s taken off recently probably because it took that long for people to burn out and give up on all stuff that doesn’t work.  In addition to its emphasis on intensity and variety (muscles can’t adapt to exercise that keeps changing and that maximizes fitness), CrossFit is very social. You’re never isolated on a machine or mindlessly following some instructor. You’re training with highly motivated, committed people who track their progress along with yours. Yes, it’s demanding but it’s also a lot of fun—especially if you’re training with your significant other.

Cash was also trained as a gymnast. He arrived at CrossFit after spending years training, studying, and writing about fitness. He doesn’t sell any supplements, believing good food and the right exercise are the best medicines. He’s living proof the approach works. By using a combination of a low glycemic diet and CrossFit training, Cash has been able to keep his Type 1 diabetes under remarkable control while achieving uber-strength. (Some examples: Cash deadlifts 500 lbs, back squats 455 lbs, and runs a mile in 5:50 and a marathon in 3:15.)

I confess, when I first started Grunt School, I was intimidated. I mean, Cash looks like he eats apartment complexes for breakfast, how the hell would I keep up with such elite training? I sought out his wife, Natasha, for reassurance. She’s been doing CrossFit for two years and is model slim. I kidded with her that she looked like she couldn’t lift a chocolate bar. She gave me a sly smile and bounded over to the high bars to do a few pull ups, an exercise a lot of guys can’t do. After I picked my jaw up off the ground, I gulped hard. I wouldn’t have believed it without seeing it. Natasha later explained she couldn’t do a single push up when she started.

Suitably inspired, I got to work.

Skill and technique are critical to success and Cash guided me through each step, ensuring I was moving properly and not risking damage. Each workout involves two activities chosen for their complementary effects fitness-wise and done at a level of intensity and efficiency guaranteed to bring the toughest to their knees.

It turned me into a whimpering mewling baby crawling across the floor begging for a hot bath filled with epsom salts and a Swedish massage. But then, after a day of recovery, I’d notice a shift. It was as though, after each session, my metabolic machinery were fine tuning itself as the sinews and muscles of my body incrementally strengthened and my energy and endurance ratcheted up.

It’s a very cool feeling. I asked Cash if most people experience this kind of thing.

“Every person I’ve trained has reported increased strength, mobility, energy, motivation, stamina and endurance,” he said. “I’ve trained two Navy SEAL teams, a division of navy seamen, two basketball camps, a wrestling team, and about 60 individuals,” Cash added.

Most of the effect is obviously from CrossFit, but I’ve got to believe some of it is Cash–he’s no ordinary teacher. He puts his all into training people—attention to detail, thorough explanations, patience and enthusiastic support, and a nuanced understanding of body function and form so you come to understand your own body better than ever. I had to wonder what kept him going.

“It’s purely passion,” Cash said. “Passion for teaching people how to increase their self-esteem and improve their physical being, which I believe is the foundation for everything else. People stand taller, walk confidently, feel better, and are proud of what they’ve accomplished. That is the greatest payment I could ever hope for, and I freaking love my work.”

I can’t say I freaking love CrossFit yet—it’s more like CrossFit is the challenge I love to hate. I do love the results so far though.  The big test will come on the last day when I’ll see how I do with the dreaded push up. I’ll report back then and let you know. Wish me luck!

PS: If you’re looking for a great gift idea for Christmas (it’s a blast doing it with your partner or a friend) or you’re determined to keep your New Year’s resolution at last, Cash is offering $100 off the introductory training (Grunt School, which is 12-sessions) until the end of January, 2010. Here’s the contact info:

Tel: (480) 444-2310
Email: cash@arrowheadcrossfit.com
Arrowhead CrossFit
15525 N. 83rd Ave
Peoria, AZ 85382
http://arrowheadcrossfit.com

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How I Learned to Love Being Single For the Christmas Holiday

Somewhere, at the back of my mind, there’s a huge “HUMBUG” sign flashing red, green, and white. It’s not a figment of my imagination. When I was a kid, my Dad, horrified by twinkling Christmas lights everywhere, erected a Marquis-sized “HUMBUG” sign over the front doorway of our house.  I pulled on my mother’s hand, cocked my head upward and pointed to the sign, “What’s that say, Ma?” I had just emerged from toddler stage and was still stumbling through Green Eggs and Ham, so the sign was a mystery to me.

“Hmmmughhh,” said my Mother, her lips clenched so tightly the sounds got trapped behind her teeth. She was glaring at my Father as he charged through the crowd of perfectly respectable, Christmas-loving neighbors who had gathered to tsk-tsk and oh-my.

I tugged on her hand again. “What?”

“It means Daddy’s off his rocker and we’re getting a divorce.”  She crossed her arms with a harrumph.

Well, she didn’t actually say that but she must have been thinking it as she looked over to see ol’ Scrooge waving to a reporter he recognized from a local newspaper. Seconds later, blinding white camera lights flashed. The next day, there we were on the front cover of the paper’s lifestyle section— “The Family That Hated Christmas.”

Ever since then, it’s been downhill when it comes to me and Christmas. It’s not like I haven’t tried. After my parents divorced (who saw that coming?), my Mother remarried a Jewish guy and they spent the holidays in Florida. That left my sister and me with Dad, and what I would later refer to as his freewheeling bohemian life. The Christmas after I turned eight, for instance, we went sailing in the British Virgin Island—the guilt trip from Dad that said, sorry for wrecking the family, kids. It was my first plane ride and taking off, I discovered, was more thrilling than terrorizing babysitters. It felt like a thousand years of boredom after that, though, made worse by having to listen to my Dad’s James-Bond-with-children routine.

“Come fly away with me on the wings of love,” he crooned to the smiling stewardess with the  short honey blond hair. She had draped herself over the headrest of his seat, a steaming coffee pot dangling from a couple of fingers. Having assigned myself the role of Dad Manager since the so called adult-in-charge had lost control of his senses, I poked him hard with my elbow. “Daaaadddd! Stop this insanity!” He guffawed. The stewardess giggled and they kept making goo-goo eyes at each other. I sucked back the rising vomit.

“I’ll be back in a flash,” the stewardess said blowing him a kiss and spinning around to head back to the galley.

“Okay, Pammy,” Dad said, his eyes glued to the swaying hips in the tight navy skirt, “Go to the bathroom and if she asks, tell her you kids desperately need a mother.” I picked out the party wieners from the gray scrambled eggs going cold from breakfast and  jammed one in each ear. “I would rather die,” I said.

It never got any better, which made me long for—no, obsess over—the perfect Christmas. By the time I was in my late teens, I was addicted to the idea, which after I threw in the love interest, looked like Staying Alive meets Miracle on 34h Street with maybe a little Doctor Zhivago thrown in for atmosphere. By my twenties, it was pretty clear to me that my Christmas Miracle wasn’t about to happen—at least, not in my family. So I started crashing other people’s holiday celebrations. Yup, I had a turkey on my back and nothing was going to stop me.

First, there was a Dutch family who lived on a farm and didn’t believe in central heating or drinking anything stronger than herbal tea. Then the Chinese family who served 89 courses, leaving me to wonder worriedly if my stomach would explode. The Tibetans who drank beer, sang folk songs, and danced all night. The Korean twins who suddenly whipped out a tape to measure me up for a silk dress. The French Canadians who drank beer as strong as vodka and ran outside to piss their names in the snow. The Germans who drank beer the way I drink water and pissed in the right place. The Italians who after drinking too much wine, wanted to find some stop signs to shoot out, only this was Canada and no one had a gun. And finally, the Armenians—the family that made me really question my ways.

I’d met the son of the Armenian family at a shoe store where he was a salesman. After chatting for half an hour, he said, “Come walk away with me on the soles of love,” and I was his.

The Christmas dinner was a simple affair. His mother kept up a steady stream of Farsi, her eyes fixed on the platter of basmati rice as though it were the only thing that could really understand. After dinner, a pound of lamb kebab fermenting away noisily in my gut, we watched television for 300 years. Forced to stifle the gas I so badly wanted to let rip, I caused myself permanent damage, the effects of which still torment me to this day.

After that, I went cold turkey on the Christmas crashing. But then something happened that started the festive itch back up again. I joined a dating service in September and decided right then and there that this would be the Christmas I’d give myself the gift of marriage.

Jeremy was the fourth date the service set me up with. He had kids. They were crazy about Christmas. Oh my gawd, I thought to myself, I have so hit the jackpot. After dating a month, he proposed to me as we stood staring out at the ocean from the edge of a precipice (mere coincidence?). Placing a ring of white gold bands that formed an “X” on my finger, he said, “Come sail away with me and be my first mate on the ship of life.” I think I saluted and said, “Reel me in, Captain.”

That Christmas dinner, I flipped out somewhere between Grandpa’s head making a crash landing in his plate of turkey and gravy soaked potatoes; Jeremy escaping during cleanup to make an emergency call to his therapist; and my trying separate the kids sparring like cage fighters over the TV remote.

We decided a fast split was best.

For the longest time after that, I felt I’d failed. Crazy as it sounds, Christmas had come to symbolize the tip of the iceberg—if the holiday was great, it meant your life was, too. It was one of those beliefs that I’d formed at age two and just couldn’t shake. My rational mind was telling me to give up and become an atheist. My heart said, like one more turkey dinner’s going to kill you? So I went back to Christmas crashing. It was better than facing the holidays alone.

It all came to a crashing halt, though, the day my Dad told me he had cancer. We were sitting on opposite sides of his desk, as though I were one of his advertising clients and he had to break the news that the campaign just wasn’t working. I burst into tears and he got up to hug me as I fell to my knees, holding onto his legs as though that would stop him from leaving. A year later, he was dead with Christmas just two weeks away.

Grief obliterated all thoughts of the holidays that year. On Christmas day, I went for a run in the park. It was  windy cold and snowy dark outside. I ran until I couldn’t feel my toes in my icy wet running shoes. I ran until exhaustion made hazy the memory of Dad’s dying face and that sound of his last breathe—the exhale that never knew another inhale.

At some point, maybe after a couple of hours, I dropped onto a park bench, sharp icicles hanging from its edges. That’s when it happened. All the tears, from all those times—the words spoken and not, things I should of done or did, people I tried to get close to but couldn’t, every hurt I’d felt or caused, all those lonely silent moments, and all that pretending that a Christmas Miracle would fill in the hole like concrete being poured into a chasm. It all came up, sitting on that bench, that cold Christmas day. And then, after a while, it just stopped. I inhaled deeply, breath shocking my lungs to attention, and then it hit me. Hey, I’m breathing. I’m here. And even in those moments when I feel as thin as air, it’s nothing compared the nothingness of death. So long as one breath leads to another, I realized, there’s still a me filling the moment.

Seems so simple, doesn’t it? Finally getting the next breath is the only gift that matters after glimpsing the infinite emptiness that death can make. But it helped. I got up, slapped some feeling back into my frozen thighs, wiped my face, and started on my way back. By the time I got home, I had planned out the details of what has since become an annual tradition, The Feast of Miracles. If you have no where to go and are big on the miracle of breathing, you’re invited. Just be sure to leave your humbug’s at the door.

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My Gray Hair Makeover

It recently became clear to me that I am staking too much on a new haircut. Now that I’ve broken up with my cub, I feel I need a new beginning, a “freshened up look,” as my Mom would say. Can a new haircut really give you a new lease on life? I was about to find out.

I’d been inclining towards a change for a while now. The first stage was to cut my long hair to just above my shoulders. I’d grown it long so I didn’t have to worry about regular cuts. I’d also been dying it a brown because that’s the only color that would cover my abundant gray. Being a home dye job though, my hair wound up looking black and the bathroom walls need repainting because I’d splattered splotches of hair dye everywhere.

My black hair solicited all kinds of comments–everything from “witchy,” to “Goth,” to “makes you look ten years older.” I could live with everything except the “makes you look older.” So, I decided to lighten up the color by letting the gray show. And then I’d get a short haircut, something like Sharon Stone’s messy pixie cut, or whatever they call it in salon-speak.

I figured this out while brushing my teeth. Between the flossing, the bushing, and the rinsing with the blue fluoride stuff (because my dentist says my enamel is thinning–another benefit of aging), there’s a good 10 minutes to hash out the important life issues.

The next day I found myself seated in from of David Fletcher, master stylist, confidante, image consultant, sounding board, and artist. He’d just opened Dylan’s, a hip new barbershop and salon near my favorite wine bar in Phoenix. David approaches hair with the same zen-like mastery as I demonstrate when eating a chocolate bar (though I eat faster than he cuts ñ and that dear reader is the power of practice). He trained under Vidal Sassoon and has colored and cut the hair on the heads of some of the sexiest people on earth.

And now it was time for little ol’ me.

I sat obediently in the giant black chair as he ran his expert hands through my frizzy black hair.

“We’ll be using the crossover strategy today,” explained David with the gravity of a surgeon. I looked up at him in the mirror, awe and wonder sparkling in my eyes. Crossover strategy? Wow.

“My head is in your heads,” I said solemnly. “Do as you wish.”

David started cutting, his hands and the scissors moving faster and faster until they were just a blur. Then came the color. By applying a honey brown, a color midway between the dark brown and my natural gray, he would blend the extremes into a natural balanced look.

“That way the gray looks great as it grows in,” he said. “And we tone down the dark brown so it’s not so harsh.”

He wasn’t kidding. The effect was brilliant. And the short hair? Well, you be the judge…

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