doubtless did well in the ratings. The therapists expressed their opinions and plugged their books heavily. I had the opportunity to articulate something that is rarely voiced: We have choices, actual choices. We can live according to our inner guidance. We can love fully and completely without limitations imposed on us by others.
The final statement by one of the therapists, paraphrased, was, “If you’re sharing your man, you only have a piece of the pie.” I say this: Our emotional/sexual/romantic selves are not pie graphs. By loving, we are not divided, nor are we diminished. To give to one, to give to more, cannot deplete something eternal.
robin renée ( www.robinrenee.com ) is a poly/ bi/ Wiccan/ Buddhist/ mystic/ singer/ songwriter/ poet/ activist/ writer in the Philadelphia area. From her earliest relationships, she has always loved freely and openly.
Good, Good, Good, Good Vibrations
joani blank
The bell over the door chimes as a woman enters. She’s in her midthirties and dressed in a neat button-up blouse. When she approaches the counter, where I’m busily hand-stamping thewords PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER on a stack of grocery bags, she speaks quietly, so no one else can hear: “I’d like to buy a … a
vibrator,
please.”
My eyes meet hers, then turn to the shelves that line the tiny room I call my store. She follows my gaze and we laugh at the same time. “I guess that’s about all you sell here, isn’t it?” she says in a relieved tone.
“Yup,” I answer, smiling broadly.
I didn’t set out to open the first women-oriented sex-toy store in the country, but in 1977, I wasn’t that surprised to find myself doing it either. I’d worked with the Sex Counseling Program at the University of California at San Francisco for several years. Much of my work was simply teaching women to have orgasms through masturbation, so naturally vibrators were an important part of our conversations. But it was difficult for my clients to make the leap from discussing vibrators to actually
getting hold
of a real live one to try. At that time, women’s only choices were to order sex toys “sight unseen” from a men’s catalogue or to visit an “adult store.”
Usually located in seamy parts of town, these stores were run and patronized by men. The only women appeared in lurid pictures on the covers of porn videos lining the walls. Even when women from my groups braved this sexist atmosphere, their gutsiness was often met with more intimidation. When one of my clients asked a store clerk if she could examine a vibrator under the glass countertop, he leered in response, “Boy, you must need it bad, lady.”
After I heard that story, I complained to a feminist colleague who was known for her innovative and bold actions: “Toni, you should open a vibrator store for women.”
“Too busy,” my friend characteristically replied. “You do it.”
It made sense. I had recently left my job as a sex counselor, and my living expenses were low enough that I could afford to run a store that just broke even for a while. With full knowledge of the fact that most new businesses folded within a year, I scraped together enough to rent a little storefront on the edge ofupscale, family-oriented Noe Valley, and plunged into the risky world of a small business owner. I ordered vibrators from wholesalers and placed a few discreet ads in the local paper, calling my shop
Good Vibrations:
“A vibrator store and museum, especially but not exclusively for women.” I bought brown paper bags without our name on it, so folks could hide their purchases if they wanted (but for fun we stamped PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER on each bag). I even put together a catalogue—a crummy little mimeographed fold-over sheet featuring two plug-in vibrators, two battery-operated ones, and a few books:
Our Bodies, Ourselves; For Yourself
(a masturbation handbook); and the sex workbooks I had written,
A Playbook for Women about Sex,
and a similar one for men, both
The final statement by one of the therapists, paraphrased, was, “If you’re sharing your man, you only have a piece of the pie.” I say this: Our emotional/sexual/romantic selves are not pie graphs. By loving, we are not divided, nor are we diminished. To give to one, to give to more, cannot deplete something eternal.
robin renée ( www.robinrenee.com ) is a poly/ bi/ Wiccan/ Buddhist/ mystic/ singer/ songwriter/ poet/ activist/ writer in the Philadelphia area. From her earliest relationships, she has always loved freely and openly.
Good, Good, Good, Good Vibrations
joani blank
The bell over the door chimes as a woman enters. She’s in her midthirties and dressed in a neat button-up blouse. When she approaches the counter, where I’m busily hand-stamping thewords PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER on a stack of grocery bags, she speaks quietly, so no one else can hear: “I’d like to buy a … a
vibrator,
please.”
My eyes meet hers, then turn to the shelves that line the tiny room I call my store. She follows my gaze and we laugh at the same time. “I guess that’s about all you sell here, isn’t it?” she says in a relieved tone.
“Yup,” I answer, smiling broadly.
I didn’t set out to open the first women-oriented sex-toy store in the country, but in 1977, I wasn’t that surprised to find myself doing it either. I’d worked with the Sex Counseling Program at the University of California at San Francisco for several years. Much of my work was simply teaching women to have orgasms through masturbation, so naturally vibrators were an important part of our conversations. But it was difficult for my clients to make the leap from discussing vibrators to actually
getting hold
of a real live one to try. At that time, women’s only choices were to order sex toys “sight unseen” from a men’s catalogue or to visit an “adult store.”
Usually located in seamy parts of town, these stores were run and patronized by men. The only women appeared in lurid pictures on the covers of porn videos lining the walls. Even when women from my groups braved this sexist atmosphere, their gutsiness was often met with more intimidation. When one of my clients asked a store clerk if she could examine a vibrator under the glass countertop, he leered in response, “Boy, you must need it bad, lady.”
After I heard that story, I complained to a feminist colleague who was known for her innovative and bold actions: “Toni, you should open a vibrator store for women.”
“Too busy,” my friend characteristically replied. “You do it.”
It made sense. I had recently left my job as a sex counselor, and my living expenses were low enough that I could afford to run a store that just broke even for a while. With full knowledge of the fact that most new businesses folded within a year, I scraped together enough to rent a little storefront on the edge ofupscale, family-oriented Noe Valley, and plunged into the risky world of a small business owner. I ordered vibrators from wholesalers and placed a few discreet ads in the local paper, calling my shop
Good Vibrations:
“A vibrator store and museum, especially but not exclusively for women.” I bought brown paper bags without our name on it, so folks could hide their purchases if they wanted (but for fun we stamped PLAIN BROWN WRAPPER on each bag). I even put together a catalogue—a crummy little mimeographed fold-over sheet featuring two plug-in vibrators, two battery-operated ones, and a few books:
Our Bodies, Ourselves; For Yourself
(a masturbation handbook); and the sex workbooks I had written,
A Playbook for Women about Sex,
and a similar one for men, both
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