Guest Toy Review: Rabbit Vibrator
Madison Gives Her Rabbit a Hand
Meet our first-ever guest toy reviewer, Madison. She, along with our male reviewer, Ross, won our "Be a Toy Reviewer" contest, so they're here to give you the lowdown on which toys get them off! We'll rotate their columns so you get a fresh perspective, and to give them time to play with their toys. With no further ado, here's Madison, with her take on the Rabbit Vibrator.
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The day the Rabbit Habit arrived on my doorstep, I was having a little conversation with my right hand.
"You love me, don't you?" she said, her fingers stretching seductively.
"Of course," I said. "You're the best I've ever had."
"What if I wasn't the best? Would you love me then?" she asked.
"Ssshhh," I said. "I think I hear the mailman."
Moments later, shreds of discreet brown packaging littered the floor. And there it as—the cream of the crop, the legendary, the original Rabbit Habit. "Don't worry, love," I told my hand. "I'll still need you...to press the buttons."
The Rabbit Habit, of course, is the elaborate Japanese-style vibrator recently propelled to a level of fame most sex toys can only dream about. The Rabbit's reputation for extravagance is well-deserved. It comes fully loaded with a twirling shaft, a belt of tumbling pearls, and its namesake—a clit-tickling bunny rabbit appendage. The shaft and the bunny are controlled independently by two sliding switches on the base. And unlike its cousin, the Rabbit Pearl, this wascally wabbit has no cords to get tangled up in the action.
As one Sex and the City babe discovered a while back, the Rabbit Habit is, well, habit-forming. Getting off has never taken less effort. I reach for the Rabbit whenever I want a quick, easy treat. Too tired to move? Simply cuddle up and enjoy. Bad day? The Rabbit is all ears. Just lube it up, slide it in, and let this marvel of engineering spin, tumble and flutter you into oblivion. Who knew that "fucking like a bunny" could be so relaxing?
Sure, I had my reservations. First, there’s the sticker shock. For what this baby costs, you could put a bullet vibe in every bodily orifice and still have money left over for ice cream. Then there’s the fear—not entirely rational, but still unsettling--that sex with a rubber rabbit is just the first step on a road to some really serious depravity. (As a vegetarian who eats animal crackers, I've experienced this kind of moral dilemma before.)
And then there’s the problem of my jealous right hand. Thanks to the Rabbit’s endurance, coordination, and finesse, she’s left with little to do but change its batteries and wait despairingly for the day the motor gives out.
Last night, still clutching the Rabbit in my left hand, I began to drift off into a post-orgasmic slumber. I was awakened by my right hand exploring the folds of my pussy. "I'm still the best," she whispered in the dark. "Maybe," I said. "Let me try that Rabbit one more time and I'll get back to you."
