That Time I Called 911 On My Vibrator

I think the reason I love writing erotica is that the sex is always just so seamless. No one loses an erection or queefs or suddenly realizes the day of the Big Moment that they’re getting their period. Everything is just Porn Picture Perfect. As it should be.

In real life it’s so different. We aren’t perfect. Our bodies aren’t perfect. Of course, it doesn’t stop us from having sex, or enjoying it. But let’s face it. There’s not one of us who doesn’t have some embarrassing sex story tucked away – the kind of story that can only be pried from our lips by too much wine poured from a screw-top bottle.

I told my story over dinner the other night – my embarrassing sex story which, oddly enough, doesn’t actually feature sex. But it does feature a sex toy, so close enough.

It happened not long after I was married to my first husband. I’d just purchased my first vibrator. This was back in the day when ladies politely referred to the things as “back massagers.” It was a simple tool with a cylindrical shape, and about six inches long. There were bigger ones, but I’d chosen the smaller one so as not to shame my husband who was a nice man, if not a large one. We’re divorced now.

Here’s how the vibrator worked: Twist the base to the right and it turned on. Twist to the left and it turned off. And for a basic model, it was powerful, and kind of loud. It was also sensitive. The slightest touch activated it.

Fast forward to one spring afternoon when I’m in a cleaning frenzy. Husband the First is at work and I’m determined to have the house tidy before he comes home. I was a good little wife that way. I had finished cleaning the bedroom, having just tossed a few things in the middle drawer of my small bedside dresser.  I was in the hallway bathroom a few moments later when I heard a sound.

WRRRRRRRR…..

What the hell? I looked outside. It sounded for all the world like a drill. What’s worse, it sounded like it was coming from under the house. There had been a few break-ins in our neighborhood the week before and I was already nervous. As I walked into the bedroom, the noise got louder. I lowered myself to the floor and put my ear to the carpet. Oh yes, whatever it was definitely sounded like it was coming from under the house.

Images ran through my mind of burly rapists in my crawl space cutting the phone lines. I’d seen it in movies. That’s what burly rapists did. They cut your phone lines. And then they they raped you. Burlily.

I was terrified. Should I go outside? No. What if there were lookout? There often were, in movies.

So I called 911.

911, what is your emergency?

There’s someone under my house! 

Are you sure?

Yes, ma’am. I’m positive. They’re drilling.

Drilling?

Yes, ma’am.

What are they drilling?

“How the hell should I know? There’s been break-ins out here and I’m home alone and scared! Can you send someone? I gave my address.

The dispatcher said she’d send a car.

Five minutes later a black-and-white pulled up. The cops got out and immediately looked under the house. When they came out of the crawl space and informed me that there wasn’t anyone there, I didn’t know what to think. I could still hear the drilling noise. And so could the cops, who’d come inside at that point. One of them looked puzzled as he began to investigate the house as I stayed in the living room with his partner.

After a few moments later, the other cop called from the back of the house, “Hey, Frank. Come here. I found the problem. You gotta see this.”

We walked back to the bedroom. The one cop was kneeling by my bedside dresser. The bottom drawer was open. And I knew.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Sweet, fluffy Jesus NO.”

He lifted up my vibrator, which was still whirring away. “It looks like it started without you, ma’am.”

I wanted to die. How could I have been so stupid? The vibrator stayed in the bottom drawer, on top of my panty collection. When I’d slammed the drawer above, it had apparently set the thing off. The vibrations worked it through the satiny underthings and down to the base of the wooden drawer which was right above the floor. That’s why it had sounded like the noise was coming from under the house.

The cop holding the vibrator was laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face.

“Would you like to press charges, ma’am?” he asked.

I walked over and snatched the sex toy out of his hand. “No,”I hissed. “That won’t be necessary.” He stood and walked to stand by his partner, who was leaning against the door jamb of my bedroom, laughing.

“Can we at least file a report?” he asked.

“You can both go,” I said, pointing to the door. With the vibrator. That just made them laugh harder.

The whole thing put me off of vibrators for about a week. It put me off of cops for much longer. I made up with the vibrator, which ended up outlasting my first marriage. I eventually forgave the cops, too. I’m sure when they pulled up to the house they didn’t expect their pursuit to end in a drawer full of panties.

The characters in my books will never have to worry about things like this. Theirs is a world of hard cocks and instant arousal and well-behaved vibrators that turn on and off only when they’re supposed to. That’s why I like erotica. It’s a lot simpler, even if it’s not nearly so funny as real life.

Ava Sinclair is the author of the best selling erotic Western “The Marshal’s Little Girl” published by Stormy Night Publications. She also writes erotica under the pen name Elsa Black.