When I was in college, the gay guy whom I was dating broke my bowl and never repaid me so I constructed this really ghetto bowl out of a water bottle. It was filled with water to make the chamber smaller. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to buy a real bowl, but it was a matter of principle. And, besides, I assumed that if I made him smoke out of my elementary school art project, he would buy a new bowl out of protest (obviously not niceness or a sense of obligation.) I’m not sure if you guys remember that scene in Chasing Amy where they talk about permanent injury, i.e., sexually incurred injuries. One of the characters gives this play-by-play about how he went down on this girl regularly and nothing happened, then all of the sudden one time it was good. He couldn’t even figure out what he was doing differently, but she flailed around wildly, constricting him with her legs. I can’t remember exactly what the resulting injury was; I think she deafened him in one ear by wrapping her legs around his head so tightly. Something like that. And so my story goes, one time I was hooking up with my gay boyfriend and it was good for the first time ever. I flailed and knocked over the water bottle contraption, which was sitting on my bedside table. I thought I cleaned up all the water, but I didn’t notice that some had spilled into my sex toy drawer.
Days later I decided to get off and when I opened my drawer, it was filled with water. Apparently one of my dildos absorbs water and it looked like one of those grow dinosaurs. I decided that it was probably a bad idea to use–who knows what else it had sucked up?–but that it was probably okay to use my vibrator, which I picked out especially because of its water resistance. The problem was that the batteries were sort of dead and I had to get off soon. I had this one hour battery recharger–which I got exclusively for that purpose–and it was wet, but not that wet, so I figured if I charged the batteries for only 15 minutes it would be fine. Right. This is my logic when I need to get off.
After like 10-15 minutes, I took the batteries out and one was fine, but the other was really hot and bubbling. I figured the water must have been boiling, but when I wiped the battery off, it continued to bubble like something was oozing out. I kind of freaked out and didn’t know what to do, because what if it explodes!?! I did what any logical and conscientious person would do: I threw it out of my window.
I proceeded to get off, because that seemed like the most important thing at the time. When I regained like half of my brain, I realized that throwing a potentially explosive battery in front of my dorm–the exterior of which was primarily glass–might not have been the best thing to do. I went outside to check on the battery (see, I am responsible!) and it was still hot and bubbling. I ran back into the dorm, as if the battery hadn’t been a disaster waiting to happen for ten minutes already, and I knocked on my RA’s door frantically. Let’s review my relationship with my RA: I lived in between my RA and the bathroom. I could hear people flushing toilets, talking, etc. in the bathroom, so I assumed they could hear me masturbate. I assumed the same of my RA. Vibrators are so loud. It’s not like you can even pay to get a more expensive, discreet vibrator. They are one volume only; it’s part of the package. And so, being the proprietous person that I am or, at least, the self-conscious person, I legitimately sometimes waited to masturbate until I thought people weren’t around. It’s not like they didn’t know it was happening at some point in time, I just thought they didn’t need to be made acutely aware of when it was happening. It was bad enough that when one of my neighbors knocked on my door and I said something to the effect of “Come back later,” she would take that as a cue to loudly announce, “Are you masturbating?” Yes, yes I am.
I knocked on my RA’s door, rashly and inarticulately blurting out the battery situation, omitting why I found it urgent to recharge batteries in a soaking recharger, or why I needed to recharge batteries at all. Except, I did it so non-sequentially that before I mustered up anything about batteries or potential explosions, all I managed was: “Justin, I just did something and i’m not sure if it’s okay.” He must have thought I killed someone.
I’m not sure if he was the voice of reason because it was part of his RA training or whether he was merely a punk–who was part of this campus-funded club where they build shit and then lit it on fire–and could hardly conceal his anticipation for a scene straight out of Heather’s. His advice to me was that if it had already been ten minutes and nothing had happened, the shit probably wouldn’t explode. This is the guy who, during orientation, told us not to swing on the pipes because “that shit is nastier than Bob Marley’s bong water.” He also advised us, before winter break, not to loiter in the dorm past the time we were supposed to leave because we would be “billed like hookers in a fancy hotel.” I trusted him. I just needed a little reassurance, that’s all.
It never exploded.
In retrospect, it woulda been kinda rad if I had put the battery in a dildo and the dildo exploded inside of me! I’m pretty sure that would have been a superior way to die. And so predictable.