Utterpants:
"Good evening, Mr. Vibrator. Thank you for agreeing to this interview."
Mr. Vibrator: "Please, don't be so formal. I've
seen you naked. Call me Fred."
Utterpants: "Okay
Fred. We're sure our readers are keen to know where you're coming from.
Where were you born?"
Fred: "I was made in China by a rubber corporation
with a thousand other vibrators. We must've looked quite funny; an assembly
line of little soldiers wearing helmets, ready to fight the war against
horniness. From there we were shipped to England. Damn lucky for us;
they cut the heads off vibrators in Saudi Arabia, you know. America's
not a lot better; it's no fun spending your life up the bottom of a
300-pound trucker from Texas. And no one ever wants to go to Russia
because it's hard to stay hot in such a cold climate. Once in England
we were divided up and shipped to different places. Most of us went
to sex shops, some to schools and the unlucky buggers went to Catholic
priests.”
Utterpants: "Fascinating,
Fred. Do you like your job?"
Fred: "Love it. Who wouldn't? Sure, some days
are harder than others. We vibrators can have headaches too, you know.
But for the most part I wouldn't trade my job for any other."
Utterpants: "What's
the most difficult part of the job?"
Fred: "Shopping for shoes, I'd say."
Utterpants: "Some have
called you heartless womanisers who travel from woman to woman with
no real commitment. How do you respond to those accusations?"
Fred: "Do womanisers generally make women happy?
Because we always make women happy, and keeping women happy is an uphill
job, let me tell you. Sometimes, it's a real bummer, but what the hell,
somebody has to do the dirty jobs, right?"
Utterpants: "Er, right,
Fred. Is there anything you don't like about being a vibrator?"
Fred: "We've all heard the horror stories, about
how unsuspecting vibrators are lured into bed some nights never to be
heard of or felt from again. And the baby stories — please, don't
leave us lying around if your baby is teething. That happened to my
Uncle Arthur. One day Sharon left him lying on the coffee table. The
next thing you know the baby was using him as a dummy, sucking him off
like he was a lactating breast or something. Art was so mortified he
committed suicide in the toilet. I mean what a humiliation for a bloke
called Art Penis!"
Utterpants: "Is there
anything you're really afraid of?"
Fred: "Being an agnostic — with Buddhist
leanings, I've always feared the church handling me. I had a cousin
that happened to. One minute he was minding his own business hanging
next to a tube of KY Jelly at a posh sex shop in the King's Road, and
the next he was taking turns walking through the Valley of the Shadow
of Death with two very curious and liberated nuns. It wasn't all bad,
though. He got Sundays off."
Utterpants: "Any final
words to our readers?"
Fred: "Don't neglect us. If you leave us in the
bottom of the wardrobe to gather dust, don't complain about your pussy
itching when you finally require our services. Here's another thing
most women don't realise. If our batteries run down, we're not completely
useless. Just talk dirty to us. Hell, we love that!"
Utterpants: "Thank
you for your time, Fred, you nasty little cum guzzler."
Fred: "You're welcome. Now turn that bloody tape
recorder off, drop your knickers and turn me on!"
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Story © 2004 Jennifer Gardner.
Picture, design and construction © 2004 utterpants.co.uk |