Confession: I have never successfully used a pair of love eggs. I say ‘successfully’ because I have used love eggs, I have just never managed to get one iota of joy out of them.
It’s easy to write about sex toys I love – glass dildos or massagers or butt plugs or what have you. It’s trickier to rant about the things you hate, because it isn’t particularly sexy. But this love egg incident is the most Easter-y story I have, so pull up a bag of mini eggs and bear witness to my sex toy downfall.
What the fuck is a love egg?
It’s a small, stone egg-shaped thing that you put in your vagina. Love eggs usually come in pairs. They’re designed to simultaneously give you pleasure and help you tighten your cunt muscles.
If you want to see an example, the ones I have seem to be discontinued but these are a close enough match – imagine them egg-shaped instead of round and you’ve got it.
How the fuck do you use love eggs?
You put one in your vag, pointy end first. Then you put the other one in your vag, pointy end first. Then you do things: masturbate, wander around, get on an exercise bike, ride the number 25 bus to Oxford Circus and make faces that ensure no stranger will sit next to you… the possibilities are endless.
Unless you are me.
The first time I used love eggs
I bought a pair of these pretty stone things years ago, mainly because I was excited by the possibility of stone, combined with the challenge of having to squeeze my muscles and hold something in my cunt while I wandered around the house.
Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t always allow me to enjoy things. Sometimes I am merrily going about my business, preparing for an interesting wank and then – BAM – my brain throws an apocalyptic idea at me and I turn into a panicking wreck.
What I’m telling you is that the second I got one of the love eggs in, I was gripped by a cold terror that it would never again see the light of day. I had an anxious twenty minutes trying to fish it out while my vagina clung to it like a dog with its favourite tennis ball.
Love eggs: take 2
I am not one to be beaten. If at first you don’t succeed at getting love eggs into your vagina: wait about six years until you’ve forgotten the incident, and have another go.
So bought some better ones, and made big plans. I was going to try and use the love eggs for some or all of the following:
- wearing in public, to see if I could have an orgasm on the bus
- wearing during anal sex, to see if he could feel them on his dick (I’ve no idea if this works or is safe so for God’s sake don’t take my word on it)
- wearing during a wank with a Doxy, because I love my glass dildo for that and I figured the eggs might be similar-yet-different in a way that’d give me the happy shivers
- loads more besides.
As you can imagine, I was as excited as a five-year-old who’d found a Creme Egg down the back of the sofa.
The good news is that I got both of the love eggs in. The bad news is that’s where the good news ends.
Once they were in, I spent half an hour wandering around the house, occasionally doing star jumps or wiggling my hips like Shakira, and I felt Not A Fucking Thing. It reminded me of the first time I managed to use tampons properly: having been putting them in at awkward angles for a while, and wondering how most women coped with the pain, one day I managed to slide it in right and the clouds of heaven parted to reveal a chorus of archangels singing ‘Glory Be To Thee Who Learns How To Work Her Own Cunt.’ It was special.
But the thing with tampons is you’re not meant to feel them. With love eggs, you are. It’s sort of the point.
So. That sucks. But what sucks more is that as soon as I realised I couldn’t feel them at all the panic set in again. Because if I can’t feel something then how do I know where it is? How do I know that it hasn’t slipped all the way up my vagina, past my cervix, and settled in my womb? Nesting there like it’s been laid by a terrifying stone cuckoo?!? HOW DO I KNOW?
Technically I could have calmed the fuck down, re-read the instructions to see that, yes, I definitely had put them in right and no, they were no more likely to infiltrate my womb than they were to hatch open and take flight, but see above re: being irrational and panicky.
Dear reader, I did what I imagine any of you would do in that situation. I shouted “FUCK FUCK FUCK” then pulled down my trousers and pants and started scrabbling around in my cunt like I’d a winning lottery ticket stashed somewhere near my ovaries.
No, it was not dignified.
Yes, it was humiliating.
No, it was not successful.
Thing is, the more I panic the tighter my cunt squeezes around whatever is inside. Presumably for the same reason that people who are fleeing from danger grab the thing they love best to take with them. But fishing around with your fingers is no good, really, because the eggs are egg-shaped, and my vagina is slick, so pulling one out is nigh-on impossible. You can simulate the experience, if you like, by covering a Creme Egg in cooking oil and trying to tease it out of a drainpipe.
Help was required, so I deployed my ‘reasonable’ voice to yell “WHAT IF I HAVE EGGS IN ME FOREVER” and my other half came rushing through to the bedroom to see what all the fuss was about.
After trying to calm me by saying ‘eeeeasy’ like I was a horse about to kick him in the head, he suggested a squat-and-squeeze strategy. Good plan. I removed my trousers completely, and gripped both of his hands for balance while I crouched on the floor.
Picture the scene: a crying, terrified goth wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of trainers, squatting and squeezing like she’s trying to crack walnuts with her fanny, and occasionally yelling something like: “URGARGHRGHA.”
Finally, with sweat dripping from my brow and my face contorted into a terrifying gurn, I managed to ‘lay’ two love eggs in the middle of the bedroom carpet.
Happy. Fucking. Easter.
If you fancy giving me an Easter present, please buy some sex toys from places where I get a kickback.
Or you can buy my book, which has yet more fun sex stories, and which you definitely shouldn’t try to put inside you.