You used to wanna turn me on, wanna turn me on
Just like my Hitachi does

Listening to Adéla's Hitachi, after laughing that the gut wrenching ballad compares lost passion in a relationship to a vibrator. It dawned on me that I don't even have a Hitachi, never mind someone trying to turn me on like it does...

I'm in my self discovery and freedom era, where I set myself free from the shackles of my own self-repression. Months ago in my 'Thoughts' note I wrote:

Given this era of acting upon my whims and embracing the sybaritic, I thought today might be the day! Don't get me wrong, I have perused the vibrator world and I've seen my fair share of Bellesa and Adam and Eve YouTube sponsorships to have a vague idea on the whole ordeal. Yet, owning a sex toy for the entire purpose of pleasuring me? It felt just a bit too far!

In my poem 'Deliver me' I briefly went into the fact that when it comes to my sexuality, it's always felt like a performance. Sex felt transactional or owed. Very rarely, if ever, has it felt like something I do with someone, but for someone. This became internalised to the point self pleasure felt almost redundant since there's no one to do this for. That mixed with the ever expanding conflict that is the ebb and flow of my Christianity, created a really confusing cocktail where sex, relationships and masturbation were concerned.

As a person, I struggle to allow myself to just be. To be. Quickly, buying a vibrator became symbolic of reclaiming my womanhood and revelling in the erotic. Joining a higher echelon of women who own their bodies. No inhibitions, full freedom. Looking at my notes it's clear that buying a vibrator held more significance than just exploration, I was now giving myself permission to exist as a woman with desires and a libido. Understanding that I am not a vessel or tool to provide pleasure to someone else, but a person capable of creating enough pleasure and fulfilment on my own. Not just capable, but willing too.

There I sat in my fluffy dressing gown on the stairs awaiting my prize. Deliveroo'd it so I didn't have to brave a shop counter (one step at a time you get me?). I added a bunch of random items to the basket to make up the £25 minimum spend: a comb, some baby wipes, a vibrator, some batteries and a cheese sandwich.

*knock knock*

I gave the code and floated up the stairs, ready to fly off into the clouds of self reclamation heaven.

In Audre Lorde's essay " Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power" she argues that the erotic is the opposite of the pornographic and sheer performance: it is a conversation, it is connection, satisfaction and deep fulfilment. Lorde argues that women who are tapped in with their own sexuality and prioritise their own pleasure have access to a power that can't be controlled or manipulated.

As a self proclaimed performer, I have no connection to the erotic, only the pornographic. I relate too much to Maddy (in Euphoria) practicing positioning and performing sexuality based off of pornography. Getting older, the cavern between the pornographic and the erotic is clear. However, I had them completely conflated.

'the erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticised sensation... confusing it with its opposite, the pornographic' - Lorde

Once my vibrator arrived, I sat looking at my new partner. Making pledges to one another to be truthful. No exaggeration. Whatever I feel, I will express (gone are the faked orgasms, it's just me myself and I up in here)

So why was it shit?

Sullen, I fell into dismay. I wanted this to be my moment! I wanted things to click, enjoyment to settle in, passion to invade! My heart to unlock to the mystical and deeply feminine power of the erotic. I lit my Diptyque candle and put my 417Hz playlist (for intimacy and sexual release)... for this? Reality crept in and it all felt ordinary. I washed up and took a bite of my sandwich, contemplating in confusion as to why I'd not become a goddess, flowing with milk, honey and adorned with a gypsophila flower crown. Just crumbs on my face.

I hoped that understanding my internalisations regarding sex and intimacy, that I could cast them out simply by knowing they were there. I fear it may be a tad harder than that but it doesn't lessen my resolve to try.

Perhaps I had made the same mistake again. I had turned the erotic into a performance. There I was, candles lit, playlist on, waiting for my great awakening. A great exhale, a goddess emerging from somewhere deep within me. Yet, the pornographic still remained (yes, a more female-focused porno, I concede, but a porno nonetheless). The performance still played out, this time not for a man in the flesh. Maybe it was for the man in my mind: the one who makes me hold in my stomach when I am alone, position myself to be sexy at all times, light candles to masturbate. Self-inflicted surveillance. Regardless of who it was for, there is no doubt I was still performing.

The dissatisfaction I felt, if anything, emphasises Lorde's point that the erotic isn't a performance. It is not trivial or plasticised, which, in my own attempt to reject those things, I had somehow managed to make it. The liberation I'm seeking cannot be bought, planned or conjured through setting the mood, but though accepting the vibrator is just that. A vibrator. recognising the ordinary alongside the mystical and learning to exist comfortably between the two.