House Guest

I want to invent a silent vibrator. The house guest is always there and my vibrator is languishing in the bottom drawer. I reach for it in daydreams. There is always a low note whirring somewhere in the back of my head. My body rattles sympathetically. There is, of course, the shower, my one moment of privacy away from the house guest, but there are water restrictions, and my time is limited and it is never the same.

I catch myself daydreaming about my vibrator while the house guest is trying to talk at me. I nod. I am distracted. I want to concentrate, but there is that low whirring sound and the narcotic rush of pleasure that accompanies it, plastic rattling off bone.

Our flat smells of endless rain and mouldy carpet and the sleep-breath of too many bodies sucking up the oxygen. The flat needs to be aired. It needs to be free of human bodies for a day or two. It needs to breathe.

I need the freedom to walk into the kitchen without my clothes on. I need to make the bed squeak at night, thumping off the concrete wall like a raised finger to the neighbours. I need to develop a vibrator with a silencer, one that you could safely use in your pocket on the bus, something developed for the room next door to your mother or if you are sharing a dormitory with someone else, or if you have a house guest.

The house guest wants another cup of coffee and a chat. I smile. I put the stove-top on. I listen to the phlegmatic burble of the thing which is a slightly lower note, but not dissimilar to the glorious sound that my neglected vibrator makes.