Sex Pistols

And there you have it: the largest pile of sex toys ever constructed. Buzzing silicone insects, undergarments fitted with remote-control massaging nubs, pulsating penises fashioned out of the same materials used to manufacture prosthetic limbs. All this and more is piled on my living room floor. I'm alone in my pajamas, up to my knees in the stuff. For the third time in as many seconds I find myself wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.

When I first set out to explore the world of sex toys, I was, practically speaking, a vibrator virgin. Sure, I'd been the proud owner of a Pocket Rocket for years, using it solo and with a boyfriend or two. But—confession time—the closest I'd come to the iconic Rabbit Pearl was seeing it featured on Sex and the City. I didn't even know the difference between a vibrator and a dildo. (Sex Toys 101: Vibrators vibrate; dildos don't, unless they're vibrating dildos. For our purposes we're sticking with the vibrators.)

I'd noticed a recent surge in chatter about sex toys among friends and acquaintances. It seemed everyone was using them, singles and couples alike. According to reps from some of the nation's high-end stores, consumers are buying about three times as many vibrators as they did five years ago. Chalk it up to a happy confluence of high-tech advances—these whirling dervishes get you off faster, harder and more creatively than ever before—and the anonymity of Internet commerce. These days anyone can log on to a trustworthy website and have high-quality orgasm-enhancing products delivered discreetly to her door.

It hasn't always been this way. The early vibrators weren't even considered sexual aids. An American physician named George Taylor patented the first—a steam-powered monster called the Manipulator—back in the 1860s to assist women suffering from hysteria. (No surprise, he had plenty of return patients.) Mechanical toys weren't available for private use until the 1960s. Since then, design and marketing improvements have grown exponentially. Despite a few remaining bastions of stick-in-the-mud puritanism—sex toys are still illegal in six states, where cops actually set up sting operations to bust people selling them—we appear to be entering the golden age of the vibrator.

Optimistic industry bigwigs predict that these pulsating playthings will soon be as commonplace in American homes as toasters. "Twenty years ago lingerie was sold only in sleazy catalogs, but Victoria's Secret made it a mainstream, acceptable product," says Sandor Gardos, a clinical psychologist and sex researcher. "Sex toys are moving in the same direction."

In the name of journalism, I decided to tackle this trend myself. After weeks of research and preparation, I devoted five days to a round-the-clock sexual expedition. I tried every product on the market (no matter how bizarre), sharing the wealth with a few trusted girlfriends to get a well-rounded view. I visited factories, warehouses and vibrator stores, and spoke to doctors, researchers—even my own mother (explaining the use of that strange "novelty" she'd received as a wedding present nearly 40 years ago).

Through it all I came to some surprising revelations. I learned that my body is capable of reaching heights of pleasure I'd heretofore considered unattainable. I also found that it's entirely possible to become emotionally dependent on the battery department of the local drugstore. Whether I'll continue with the pace I had to set remains to be seen. But I know that what I've embarked on is a lifelong project—and I'm nothing if not dedicated to the research process.

Day one: ladies and lipstick

My first task: to recruit a few women who can help round out the study. I remember that Kate, my half-Asian, half-Jewish writer friend, took me vibrator shopping the very day we met. And surely Emily, blonde and angelic, with a former life as an S&M chick, will be up for it. Finally I ask Jill—an Ivy League-educated, curly-haired sales rep who reads three newspapers a day—if she can think of anyone else who might help out. When she offers her own services, I'm surprised.

"I never would've thought this was your kind of thing," I tell her. She informs me, ever so casually, that she typically makes herself come six times a night, more often than not with the aid of some kind of external device. I'm shocked, so I accuse her of exaggeration.

"It's true," she swears. "It's almost an obsessive-compulsive thing, like I won't be able to sleep until I get to six."

What have Jill and I been so busy talking about that I didn't know this?

That afternoon I sit down in my living room and scan the mass of plastic and rubber devices. Where to begin? The lifelike Vibrating Tongue? The purple-and-green bendable unit surely modeled after an alien's private parts? I decide to start small, picking up something called a Classic Hide-a-Vibe. It's an inch-long pink bullet—phallic only if you were, say, an Oompa Loompa—designed to look like a miniature lipstick. (In fact, it comes with a lipstick-like case so you can carry it around without tipping anyone off.)

With the afternoon sunlight peeking in and R. Kelly's "Ignition" remix blasting from my computer speakers, I lean back on my couch and reach under my flowing pink skirt with the "lipstick." The tip finds its way directly on top of my clitoris, buzzing through my panties. A little roundabout, an adjustment or two and I can no longer feel the mess of scattered C batteries wedged uncomfortably against my outer thigh. My cat is looking at me, terrified, but I forget about her as the tiny tickle grows and spreads down my legs. In just a few minutes I'm there. The little sucker makes the grade.

Day two: sex-o-phone

When I give my phone number to Carol Queen, she literally yelps when she hears that 6 and 9 are the last two numbers. "Our number ends in 69 too," she remarks excitedly. "Did you request it?" (I didn't.)

Queen, who has a doctorate from the Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality in San Francisco, is the "resident sexologist" at Good Vibrations, a chain of stores in northern California that's been around since 1977. (Good Vibes perfectly represents today's clean, well-lit place for sex toys, where the packaging is elegant and the employees are approachable—and not much freakier than those at your local Kinko's.)

She gives me a rundown of the store's best-sellers: the Pocket Rocket (my old favorite); the Vibratex Rabbit Pearl, a Japanese-made cutie with a see-through, pearl-filled silicone shaft and a clit-tickling "bunny"; and the Hitachi Magic Wand, a 12-inch body massager originally made for sore backs and necks, which has become one of the best-selling vibrators of all time (Playboy recently named it among the top inventions of the past half century). The Pocket Rocket and the Wand are for external stimulation only, while the Rabbit works simultaneously on the vagina and the clitoris; as Queen says, "it brings both to the party."

Back home I proudly lay out my goodies on the bed. I'm ready to give the Wand a whirl, but just as I'm about to get down to it I receive a call from Gardos, the sex researcher. After I review my products with him, a note of concern creeps into his voice. "A lot of people find the Wand too powerful," he tells me as I hold the giant thing in my hand. "Keep in mind that you should place several towels between you and it."

The towel news is shocking—and slightly alarming. I glance at the Wand and realize that gargantuan is really the only word to describe this white plug-in device. It occurs to me that the Wand would make a tremendous weapon.

The Rabbit, on the other hand, is pink—my favorite color—and kind of cute. And the control device has separate buttons for the penetrating shaft and the clitoris-tickling part.

Conveniently I've recently met a special someone who lives across the country. Though my impersonation of a 976 operator usually makes me cringe, somehow phone sex seems inevitable from the beginning of our conversation. It starts innocently enough—a clarification about a work project, really. I mention that I'm in bed with the lights dimmed and the Rabbit Pearl next to me.

"You mean you're just lying there? With the vibrator?"

"That's right."

"There's a pause. Then, in his naturally deep voice: "That's the sexiest thing I've ever heard." Another pause, and then: "Is it turned on?"

It is. And I am.

This guy—usually the model of smooth control—sounds as if he's breathing a bit fast. And once he begins to describe what he'd be doing to me if we were in the same room, he's not the only one. His words and the Rabbit Pearl's clitoris massager and burrowing shaft are a perfect combination, though I'm not sure I appreciate the pearls as much as I would if they were, say, around my neck.

The Wand watches it all. If it could talk, I feel certain it would taunt me.

Day three: panties from heaven

I spend the morning sifting through a dizzying array of penetrators and massagers—products that resemble penises, dental drills and Xbox controllers. By now I've determined that California Exotics takes the prize for manufacturing the most bizarre stuff on the market. Its Impulse Computer Accessory, a bullet vibrator that attaches to a computer via a USB cord, would come in handy if I were into Internet porn. And the Vibrating Pleasure Periscope, with its see-through tip and series of mirrors, actually allows you to look between your legs into a viewing window to see what's going on inside. ("We sell a ton of them," says a company rep. "Even gynecologists buy them.")

As my afternoon coffee brews, I slip on a pair of Cal Exotics' Vibrating Panties, a black polyester G-string with front pockets containing a battery and a bullet vibrator. I like that the panties have a remote control attachment, enabling a partner to activate them from across the room. I also know that unless I can teach one of my cats a fancy trick, I won't be experiencing that today.

Wearing nothing but the panties, I slide onto my couch. The mini bullet hits just the right spot, and I do my part by moving it in circles. I think about how amazing these would be on a plane ride, assuming you could get it through today's airport security without humiliating yourself.

Afterward I call Emily, my former S&M-worker friend, who tells me she came twice while wearing hers in her office with the door shut. We conference call Kate and then Jill, the multi-orgasmic Ivy Leaguer, who tells us she pranced around in hers while making lunch. "Oh," she says, "and I used the Wand today. I came like 20 times."

Emily and I are silenced. Kate announces that she found the Wand's "jackhammer-like sensation" overwhelming. "I kept thinking of that line in Sex and the City when someone tells Samantha this Sharper Image massager will burn her clit off," she says.

My Wand fear has now reached new heights.

"I think it looks more like an instrument of torture than a vibrator," I say.

They all laugh, and I don't bother to ask about the towels.

Day four: field trip

It's Doc Johnson factory tour day. With more than 450 employees and 2,000 products, the Los Angeles–based company is a leader in the sex-toy industry, known not only for quality but for the most gorgeous packaging this side of spa products. Donna, a no-nonsense former New Yorker who spent most of her career working in the garment industry, greets me at the door. Just as I'm shaking her hand, J.C., a cheerful young guy in research and development, walks up holding three jelly cocks. He hands them to Donna and asks what she thinks.

Donna's fingers graze appreciatively over the pink, purple and white dongs. "Oh, I can really see the iridescence in this," she comments while holding up the white one.

"Which do you like best?" J.C., asks me, his eyes twinkling flirtatiously. He has no idea who I am—all he knows is that I'm a woman in the target demographic, so my opinion about these things is highly relevant. I tell him I'm partial to pink. He grins proudly, as if he'd invented the color himself.

Because J.C. is in R&D, he's an expert in T&A. As Donna takes me on a tour of the warehouse, where hundreds of factory workers calmly pour liquid plastic into copper dishes shaped like penises of every size imaginable, she informs me that J.C. is in charge of all the castings. This means he's the guy who slaps the mold on, say, Jenna Jameson when she's allowing her vagina and ass to be used to create a product. And I always thought movie casting directors were the ones who had it good.

For someone in the industry Donna seems remarkably innocent. She uses words like gynormous, tells me she "just wants to make a product that looks pretty" and blushes when I ask if she's ever tried Doc's G-spot-, clitoral-and anal-stimulating Trigasm. When she informs me that the company is known for its Ultra Realistic 3.0 material—UR3 to those in the know—she adds that customers are warned not to cook or microwave the products (which certainly cuts down on the hors d'oeuvres options).

As we tour the factory, Donna begins to sound like a Food Network host: "The ones that are dipped are cooked in the oven, like pizza," she explains. "After they cool they're put on a sort of hamburger griddle to make them smooth."

We pause next to a group of Mexican workers who are adding amazingly lifelike hair to UR3 penises. An older woman with the name Martha sewn on her work apron says something in Spanish, and her co-workers all laugh. Though I don't speak Spanish I feel certain that Martha's joke has little to do with the gynormous John Holmes cock she's holding. In fact, everyone in the room seems so indifferent to the leg-size penises they're decorating, they may as well be packaging mustard.

When I get home I decide that, among the dozen products I'll be playing around with tonight, I should probably road test a vibrator that resembles an actual penis. In fact, the Hank, made in the factory where I spent my morning, is more penislike than actual penises I've come across, except that it can be propped upright on its flat half-ball-sac bottom.

Sitting on my couch, I place the apparatus at the base of my nether region and turn it on. Slowly I move it around and push it inside me, gripping tightly (it's not like I'm going to hurt anyone). The buzz begins to make me quiver but not for long. Something about the experience makes me long for a heartbeat. It's both too much and not enough like the real thing. This dick gets the shaft.

Day five: climax

With about 30 products down and roughly 20 to go, I invite over my three partners in crime. Time is running short, and I want to get a feel for how these women are making out. Sitting in my living room, the place trashed with empty vibrator boxes and battery packaging, we get down to business.

Emily announces that she adored the Good Vibes Rock and Roll, a lifelike penis vibrator. "I used it in combination with the Wand," she says as she tucks a few blond ringlets behind her ear. She also liked Cal Exotics' Infra Red Massager, with its on-off heat button. "The heat didn't enhance the orgasm per se, but the overall feeling was highly enjoyable," she says.

Multiorgasmic Jill was thrilled with Cal Exotics' Impulse Flirtatious Dolphin, a sea-blue jelly tube molded in the shape of a miniature sea mammal. Though I found it off-putting, she loved everything about it, especially the various speed options: escalating, pulsating, low and high. "I moved the switch from high to pulsating when I started to come, and my orgasm lasted literally minutes," she gloats.

Emily also flipped over the Dolphin. Her orgasms were so strong, she tells us, she cried. "But I'm completely PMSing," she adds. "I cried during Friends, too."

The thing that really got Kate buzzing was the Itty Bitty Bump-N-Grind, a rubber device with a bunch of tiny spaghetti-like ticklers hanging off it and a bullet that vibrates them. Of course Kate has an accessory the rest of us do not: a boyfriend who lives in the same city.

The Bump-N-Grind slides onto a (concluded on page 154)Sex Pistols(continued from page 92) penis and acts like a kind of cock ring, delicately vibrating against both partners' organs. "We felt a little like 15-year-old virgins because we were bumbling around so much at first," she says, "but I really think it's the undiscovered hero of missionary-style orgasmic sex." (She typically can't come during sex unless she's also touching herself.) "It excited my boyfriend, too," she reports. "He had a tough time lasting as long as he usually does."

Once the girls leave I realize that Jill's multiorgasmic abilities have stirred my competitive nature. Plus, I'm growing resentful that even with all this practice, I'm still just a one-time-only girl. I feel as though I've tried everything short of the anatomically correct Cal Exotics Tera Patrick love doll, whose voice box is activated when a finger or penis is inserted into her vagina or mouth. Surveying my trashed living room, I spot the Wand. I can't avoid it any longer.

If I'm going to do it, I may as well go full force, so I skip the towels I'd been instructed to layer between the Wand's bulbous tip and my skin. I plug the sucker in and switch its one button to high, leaving on just my G-string. Despite the Wand's blenderlike sounds, its head doesn't seem to be moving. When I touch it, however, it feels as if I'm being electrocuted. I decide to slip into something less comfortable—men's tightie whities—and surrender, lying back in my bed.

Immediately the shock waves jolt up my spine. It is, without a doubt, the strongest, most titillating, most fantastic thing I've ever felt (barring, of course, the touch of someone I love). Typically I need to be in a thoroughly sexual state of mind to get myself going, but here I am, with all the lights on and the dull blare of CNN in the background, and the sensations in my body are overpowering everything else. The first orgasm hits in less than a minute, and I come a second time without even trying.

History has been made, and I have the Wand to thank.

Just deserts

When I sit down to begin writing this story, I find myself bewildered. Everything except the Wand has meshed into one big pulsating silicone animal or some kind of vibrating, lifelike cock. As the pressure of my deadline mounts I seek ways to procrastinate—which are readily available thanks to the device that is now permanently plugged in next to my bed. (Writers who work at home surely play with themselves more than any other sector of society.)

So what have I learned? My head is filled with interesting, if useless, information. For instance, a man having his penis molded for a vibrator or dildo must maintain his erection sans stimulation for three minutes—no easy task. (That one goes in the FYI folder.) More to the point, I've learned that women are just as dedicated to the fine art of self-gratification as men are, though the distinct female body-mind combination makes reaching nirvana a matter of personal preference—as evidenced by each of my friends having an altogether different take on the best product for the task. I catch myself wondering whether I'll get addicted to the Wand, whether any man will ever top its magical powers.

The famed sexologists Masters and Johnson claimed in 1982 that women who rely on "intense mechanical means" to reach "instant orgasm" will eventually find their ablity to achieve higher pleasure with a partner more difficult. Generally speaking their claims are probably true. And so it seems that—as with so many other things in life—the end of this story is another beginning. No matter how gratifying a week spent with a pile of vibrators can be, a week spent with a pile of vibrators and another pair of hands can be only that much better.

Unfortunately men aren't packaged in plastic and sold in high-end sex stores the way vibrators are today. But judging by how far this industry has advanced, the day when a woman will be able to order up a human who meets her specific needs—with extended warranty!—could be just around the corner. Make mine a tall one.

"I learned that my body is capable of reaching heights of pleasure I'd heretofore considered unattainable."

Great Moments in Vibrator History

Jill was thrilled with the Flirtatious Dolphin: "I moved the switch from high to pulsating when I started to come, and my orgasm lasted literally minutes."