I remember the night of my epiphany, feeling much like Columbus when he discovered Ohio. I'm  Chlamydia Burns, a southern gal from Chatanooga working as an Olive Garden server, befitting my Vanderbilt education. But enough about me. I'm thirty-six, single,  auburn hair, hippy, (sounds so much better than big-assed) buxom (which doesn't sound better than 'big tits'). I was tossing and turning at 1:42 AM. Restless. Needy. Internet down and bored with my fingers. I was looking for neither a meaningful relationship nor a meaningless fuck. 

A lesser southern belle might have settled for the coward's way out...go to a shit-kicking, line-dancing, Conway Twitty-listening redneck bar. But, I was afraid I'd run into my dear ole drunken Daddy so I continued to lie awake, agitated and contemplating. Almost immediately after humping my pillow in a most refined, ladylike manner, the revelation hit with the rapidity of diarrhoea after a Taco Bell burrito. Tomorrow I would search for sex toys. 

I hadn't owned one in ten years due to a traumatic masturbation accident. Inadvertently, I had squeezed so hard on the slender, purple vibe that the batteries came flying out the end like a Photon torpedo, striking Papa between the eyes. I had suggested he move three times to no avail. He eventually forgave me. Ma's forgiveness took considerably longer. 

Getting online while dishing out faux Italian food the next day, I didn't want the commonplace vibes, dildos nor other clichéd toys that lay concealed in bedrooms of every orgasm-challenged female throughout the land. Years ago I found Mom's in a well-worn shoebox in her closet with a 'Do not open! Recipes' note taped to it in shaky penmanship. Recipes, my ass! I wasn't fooled because she had read more Kierkegaard than recipes. Her Idea of a four-course meal was mac and cheese with pork and beans. But like both Nancys (Drew and Grace) I was determined to solve this riddle. With hands shaking I unpeeled the five rolls of duct tape and voila ...there it was, her well-used, extra-long, black dildo with 'Mandingo' etched into the shaft. As the scent escaped the box, I expected cadaver dogs to burst through the door, pointing and snarling.

 I dropped two orders of shrimp scampi as my iPhone 3 labored mightily to load the object d'art I sought. My tears and pussy began to flow like the mighty Mississippi as I drooled over the  'Fucking Bronco,' a Sybian wannabe sex saddle designed with the lonely woman in mind: inner rotation 0-120 RPMs with vibrations of 6,500 RPMs. It even came with a wide-variety (some fearfully too wide in my opinion) of attachments, even one for double penetration. Fortunately, it's also dishwasher safe. True, it was over $800 but since I'm a Prime member shipping is free and you can't put a price tag on pleasure. (Unless you're a hooker, of course.

Placing the order, I began counting the moments until O Day. I even gave my en route electric lover a name and backstory. It is Beauregard T. Appomattox,  a wealthy southern gent, owner of a lucrative okra plantation in Richmond. He was firm yet gentle with a powerful baritone. Many nights after making ferocious love in his okra fields, Beau would serenade me with Randy Newman's "Sail Away." Occasionally he would ask me to dress like Mrs. Butterworth so he could croon "Brown Sugar" during cosplay. But due to his mechanical nature,  our song was inevitably "Mr. Roboto."

Finally, the day that will live in infamy arrived. According to Amazon, like the froggy in song, Beau would come a-courtin' today. I was as nervous as a newlywed being quizzed about her anal sex experience. To both prepare and relax myself, I took a lava-hot bath using a twenty-gallon drum of Mr. Bubble. I felt as luxurious as Cleopatra discovering the Nile. Wardrobe was a real dilemma. I wanted to both feel and look sexy for my caller. I had a pink teddy that accented my curvature beautifully when backlit, but I didn't want to look overly cheap.

 Instead, with him being a saddle, I opted for a western look, slipping on brown chaps, a virgin-white Stetson cowgirl hat, blue-checked kerchief around my neck and a  leather vest with nothing beneath. Gazing at my reflection in a mirror, I thought I might look a tad too whore-ish and decided to lose the kerchief. While attaching spurs to my brand-new Tony Lama fringed boots I heard banging on my door. Elated, I dashed to answer, my boobs bouncing like melons being transported by stagecoach. I yanked it open violently, startling the young punk standing there gawking with two dozen pink roses and a terminal case of acne.

With his voice cracking and jeans tenting obscenely, he stared at my still jiggling bosom and mumbled nervously, "I have a delivery for a Miss Burns."

I had forgotten I ordered roses for myself under Beau's name to add a touch of romance. I barely had time to put them in a vase before another knock. Shaking my head at the depths I had sunk, I was afraid it might be Mr. Rogers asking if I can say "delusional." I was already certain Arkham Asylum had a padded cell reserved for me, adjacent to the Joker. Being cautious now, I walked slowly to the door, curbing my enthusiasm. My spurs going jingle, jangle, jingle all the way. I did not want to hear a discouraging word.

This time it was my eagerly-awaited Fed Ex dude carrying a rather substantial brown, nondescript box. Looking down at the shipping label, he snickered and said, "I have a delivery for the frustrated woman of the house." Then looking me up and down,  he added with a smirk, "That's you, I assume." I rudely grabbed the package and slammed the door in his giggling face. Opening it and withdrawing the saddle along with two thousand shipping peanuts, I began to peruse the succinct instructions. 

First "How to Use For Max Performance." (Damn! Why didn't I name him Max Performance?) Step One...Climb on. Step Two...Turn on. Step Three... Hang on. Step Four...Orgasm. Repeat if necessary. Fuck yes I will repeat! Next, I attached the hand-held controller to the saddle and read about its functions. As ecstatically mentioned earlier, my gratifying toy can provide inner rotation of zero to 120 RPMs. To make it simpler should the rider suffer blurred vision or a brain aneurysm, they posted representative pics next to the settings. For example, for one RPM there was a photo of Clint Howard. For the max rate a pic of legendary porn star Ron Jeremy. (Also legendary for sheer ugliness) I played it safe and set the dial in the middle by the image of Rosie O'Donnell.

After washing the medium-sized phallic attachment with clit stimulator (mine was already stimulated from just gazing at it) I mounted the Silicon dong to the saddle then lubed it generously. Taking a deep breath I impaled myself and the race was on! It felt like I was at the Kentucky Derby, practically tasting and smelling the mint juleps while flipping off Mitch McConnell. Hanging on desperately, I began to feel a burning inside my stuffed vagina as if I'd used a Buffalo hot wing as a tampon... again.  Also, Beau seemed to be mercilessly tugging on my walls and lips. I was in agony but not the good kind. 

Through tear-stained eyes, I scanned the instructions for any remedy. Failing that, I glanced at the floor and discovered my critical mistake. Instead of grabbing lube from my junk drawers, I had mistakenly picked up Gorilla Glue. The harder I tugged the more it hurt. (I seem to recall Daddy saying that on occasion ) I even resorted to prayer like a convict on death row. I knew it was futile. I've always suspected God has Prayer ID on his Motorola flip phone and when my name popped up he would tell his secretary, Marilyn Monroe, not to pick up or she'd be fucking the Kennedy boys in Hell for all eternity. Hence, my prayers remain unanswered. Just once I wanted to hear his resonating Pee Wee Herman-like voice.

Being the eternal optimist, I found solace knowing I hadn't used the DP attachment or I'd be constipated for a long,  long time. I had to traverse the ten feet to my phone somehow for any hope of salvation. Struggling to my feet, I began to waddle to the coffee table, Beau dangling between my quivering legs. This sucker was heavy and fiercely tugging at my pussy like Tyrion Lannister dangling from my lips after vaginal spelunking. Thirty minutes later, phone in hand, my options were running out. I fought through my embarrassment and called 9-1-1. Being vague, I only told the operator I had a sticky situation requiring immediate medical attention. 

Five minutes later I heard the sirens outside. Quick ambulance service. Just one of the perks of being Caucasian in the new South. My lone remaining hope was for blind, elderly, female paramedics. So, of course, it was two young males who were Billy Idol fans apparently since they burst into loud rebel yells upon discovering my lurid predicament. I was in a hurry for a remedy but first, they had to preserve the moment with selfies for every social media outlet available. Fucking Millennials.

However, the Hardy Boys of Healthcare did find a solution. Apparently, glue can be dissolved by applying nail polish remover to a Q-tip then carefully spread over the adhesive. I felt relief as my two angels of mercy debated over who would be swabbing my pulsating pussy, like an X-rated parody of CSI. The two stooges finally resorted to a coin toss. I waited patiently as the one named Frank ambled over, Q-tip in hand.

"Oh, you won?" I asked politely.

"Fuck no! I lost. I hate this fucking job," he snarled.  I had a bad feeling about this.

He, however, was gentle as he swabbed the glue. Then he stood, eyes watering, nose running and wiping sweat from his brow like Hawkeye Pierce in a M*A*S*H* rerun, but not as annoying.

"Did you get it all?" I asked hopefully.

"Lady, I'd need a ten-foot pole to get all the way in there and I ain't touching THAT even with a ten-foot pole!" (How many times have I heard that before?)

 I was told it would take five minutes for the solvent to work so we resorted to awkward small talk which proved more tedious than an M. Night Shyamalan movie. Eventually, the time passed and both lifted me from my coitus contraption with a pop so loud schools in a  five-block radius went into lockdown. To ease the awkwardness of the situation I implored, "I hope you boys will be discreet about this."
 
Frank replied quickly, "Discreet? Lady, I never want to think about this again or I may NEVER get another hard-on."

Was he flirting with me right in front of Beauregard? How rude. After they left I picked up my clutter, tucked Beau into bed and plopped onto the sofa, heating pad nestled between my legs. No sooner had I gotten comfy when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter: sirens, deafening crowd noise and even strains of a Sousa march. Tiptoeing to my window, my jaw fell in amazement. My normally sleepy street was swarming with activity: firetrucks, ambulances, and marching bands were everywhere. Even a SWAT team was glaring at my home. Neighborhood children had set up lemonade stands and business was booming. My home seemed to be the epicenter of all this hubbub. Such exuberant behavior is normally reserved for the return of the McRib but this felt different.

There were even protesters carrying "Masturbation is a Victimless Crime" placards. Hell, I didn't know it was a crime of any kind. If so, I'm one lesbian dream away from a lethal injection. Opening the door,    
there stood a familiar face. "Frank, what the fuck is going on?" I could barely hear myself think above the cacophony outside. Chants of, "play Freebird" was deafening. I'm a Southern girl and required by law to like Skynyrd but even I didn't want to hear "Freebird" performed by the George Wallace marching band.

"These kind folks all saw our social media posts and want to see you. Your video went viral!" Frank gleefully said, providing exposition.

I've been viral many times before, as the Health Dept. can attest, but never with this reaction. I stepped outside to thunderous applause. Bowing like the diva I strive to be I noticed local TV stations had their copters in the air as if R. Kelly had been spotted near an area school. And since more than five people were gathered together, Willie Nelson was here for a benefit concert inspired by your's truly, called "On the Saddle Again Aid."Appalled by all this vulgar attention I dashed inside to change into my previously mentioned pink teddy. Exiting my bedroom, my surprises continued. Frank's EMT pals were now inside, carrying 13  gallons of KY Jelly and a variety of ten-foot poles. Discreet, my ass!

More raucous cheering as reporters from CNN and Fox News broke into fisticuffs near my "I Heart Jimmy Carter" sign until Elizabeth Warren arrived, kicking both their asses. She was on the warpath. Joe Biden was non-committal on who to root for.

I was momentarily distracted, watching Beau getting it on with my Roomba when even more noise erupted. We snuck to the window. Apparently, some of my neighbors thought this commotion meant an ICE roundup  and began fleeing wildly, screaming in terror, like they just heard Adam Sandler is making "Grown Ups 3." Three harmless mariachi bands were seized while assault rifle-toting, cross-burning, goose-stepping Klansmen were given keys to the city. I was still flabbergasted at how rapidly social media had spread my news. If the Confederacy had Snapchat, Atlanta might not have burned and there would be no "Gone With the Wind."

But I had other concerns. "Frank I can't stay here with all this racket. Where shall I go?"

He looked at me coldly and said,  (all together now, you know it's coming.) "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn." How I hate pop culture nerds with their obscure and smug references. And always so self-aware. Assholes! It was after Trump's third phone call offering me a position under him, I had to vamoose. Making a dress from my drapes and with Beau and his suctioning electronic concubine in tow, we departed for the quiet dignity and luxury of a Motel 6.  After all, tomorrow is another day.

*

I would be remiss if I didn't thank the always ravishing AAnna for her overall help and encouragement, even suggesting the ending. You probably wish she had suggested it about 2,000 words. Jerks!