I hurt you, and I am sorry.
I’m sure it’s difficult to comprehend now, while you are still so swollen and bruised, but I actually intended last night to be special for us. I bought that toy because it came highly recommended. It was meant for you and me to share, without the need to involve any other lady bits.
In retrospect, the name—The Bullet—should have hinted at the violence to come; nevertheless, the multiple, differently-textured sleeves included in the package seemed reassuring to me. I bought The Bullet with the confidence that you would be well-protected while we explored an exciting change of pace.
Admittedly, it was my drunken decision that led to your suffering, and not the toy itself. I see now that we wouldn’t be in this awful predicament if I had been sober enough to stay awake. But certainly you can admit that many of our best times have come after nights of similar debauchery, when you acted as a willing participant. After all, neither of us is a saint.
Please know that I would never intentionally hurt you. I really did think that I was capable of operating such basic machinery. Was I not resourceful enough to find the batteries we needed in that TV remote? I swear that at no point did I imagine my purchase could hold the possibility of injuring you. Even if I had realized how quickly I would pass out, I would have never assumed myself capable of sleeping through The Bullet’s commitment to doing the very thing I bought it to do.
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It’s just that I was feeling a little lazy and a bit dizzy. I thought that if I put The Bullet in place and crossed my legs a certain way, it would, in time, do its job without my help. At no point would I have guessed that I would sleep so soundly, in that same position, for so long. And I need you to believe that while I lay there, unconscious, I was completely unaware that you were spending the longest seven hours of your life, smothered by my so-called gift to you, and my tightly locked and increasingly heavy thighs.
Oh, my poor, puffy pink canoe. It was not until this morning when I was forced to peel you away from the beaded, ribbed silicon suit of your tormentor that I understood what I had done. And still so many questions remain. How did I sleep through all of that? Was I drugged? Did I actually achieve orgasm? How many times? At what point did the batteries die? Will you ever go back to your original shape? Such smooth and vulnerable skin was never meant to have indents and impressions carved into it.
I understand that you are still sore—literally—about what happened. My remorse cannot simply erase the pain of your inflammation. All I can do now is swear to never again abandon you. I shall take my just punishment of walking like a cowboy for an undetermined amount of time as bravely as I am able. Just know that when the time is right, I will still be here for you, and I hope that together we can find a way to move forward from this.
Apologetically and lovingly yours,
This original piece by McCall Humes was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC.