What follows is a pretty freaky story. And I must warn you that it involves me, Beaverton, an eye patch--and a fuck machine. At least that's what I like to call it. Its real name is "Sybian," and it's a very fancy vibrator/sex machine tailored to the pleasure of females. Apparently, even females like me.

Much like a mechanical bull, the woman mounts its base: a leather saddle-like half cylinder, fitted with a moving dildo attachment. The controls consist of two knobs: One controls its rotational capabilities, which are designed to stimulate the g-spot. The other controls the intensity of vibration. You can buy these babies over the internet for a couple thou. That's what George did, and he keeps it in a "salon" in Beaverton for women to come and pay money to... umm... "test drive." Still with me?


Don't ask me why, but I'm the "go-to gal" around the office for all the sleaziest dares. And its true, I can't say no. So when someone found out about the Sybian Salon, I could hear the chorus of "We should make Marjorie try it" coming from clear across the office. To tell the truth, I was really nervous. The thought of being locked in a strange, empty room with a kinky machine was creepy--not to mention unerotic. Still, I was resolved that if I was going to go all the way to the suburbs, I was going to go all the way on the Sybian.

During negotiations with George, wherein I arranged to try out the Sybian and report on the experience, several things came to light. Although an "attendant" would be in the "cottage" (as the salon is referred to), I would need to bring a chaperone to be in the room with me. This prospect was even more horrifying than going it alone, as I wracked my brains to think of someone I would be comfortable with--and who would be willing or interested in sharing this extremely intimate moment.

As fate would have it, the very next email I received was from my dear, kind, open-minded, trusted, and unabashedly perverted friend Bobby. I'll spare you the details of our relationship, but let me assure you they are as bizarre as the proposition itself, making him the perfect companion. So after a quick Google search of "Sybian" and one night of consideration, he agreed. It was a date!


When Bobby and I arrived for our appointment, George was waiting at the front door. He was an older gentleman with an eye patch. Bobby and I--in our giddy, nervous states--could barely handle it. We entered the cottage, a very small, barely furnished house. We sat down on a couch, so George could explain a bit about the salon... and this is when things started to get really weird.

After some perfunctory small talk, George abruptly blurts out, "Everybody wants to know about the patch!" He went on to passionately explain that his tour of duty in Vietnam had exposed him to Agent Orange, which we soon discovered "never leaves you."

When the conversation finally returned to something relevant, George showed me his container full of flesh-colored penile attachments. Each Sybian user must purchase their own such dildo, which is fitted over a large screw sticking out of the top of the saddle. They're shrink-wrapped, washable, reusable, and the base is wide enough that when you sit on it, your action is not touching any other part of the machine. As long as you don't let anyone get all up on it, and you keep it clean, it is your personal barrier between your self and the nasty, nasty world.


Finally, we were shown into the "riding room"--a teeny boudoir containing the Sybian, an alarm clock on a small table, and literally nothing else. No velvet curtains, stereo, oils--nothing to create an even remotely sexy atmosphere... unless you count the scary calisthenics-like chart of different Sybian positions hanging on the wall.

As George began demonstrating the functions of the controls, the dickless dick (the big screw that the dildo attaches to) began to spiral around in circles. In order to prove the strength of his machine, George asked me to grab it and try to prevent its spinning. I was a little taken aback, and put my hand on it loosely.

"Grab it! Grab it!" he commanded. "You can't stop it, it's too strong!"

Blushing and confused, I admitted that "no, I couldn't stop it"--and I wanted to cry.

Next came the signing of the waiver, relinquishing the salon from any fault if I were to incur injury (emotional or physical). I ran down the checklist.

No, I am not pregnant.

No, I don't get seizures.

No, I don't have an IUD--uh, oh.

"Oh, actually I do have an IUD," I admitted, thinking for a moment, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, that I was off the hook.

"Thank you for being honest with me," said George. "You can just cross that line out and write, "I do have an IUD, then initial it."

"Uh... uh-huh, but is it safe?"

"Think about it," he said. "You're putting a hard machine part inside your body."

"Yeah, but it's not like its going inside my uterus... right?"

Let's pause for a moment. Millions of women put hard machine parts inside their bodies every day--at least when they're using a vibrator. It's realistically impossible to accidentally stab yourself in the uterus (where IUDs live), which was the danger he seemed to be implying. This made my mind reel. George, the closest thing I had to an expert onsite, had clearly missed a few memos on female anatomy. This also made me think there could be any number of realistic dangers that he didn't know of. But since I couldn't think of any either, I said, "fuck it" and signed away.

There was one last warning before we began: George assured us he would be right outside "banging away" at his computer keyboard, that no one around would know or hear anything, and in no way could we do anything in there that was going to shock him. But! The only thing that would make him curious was silence. After all, how did he know he wouldn't open the door and find two dead bodies who had perished from... ohh, a double heart attack, for instance?


So there we were, stuck in this tiny, sterile room, guarded by a stranger in an eye patch who was threatening to come in if he didn't hear us "making noise." I had just possibly signed away my uterus, and I was somehow supposed to ride this monstrosity to the point of getting off??!! It seemed an impossible task.

As soon as the door closed, Bobby and I mouthed silent "Oh my gods" to each other. After some muffled giggles and panicky whispers (and some fake louder giggles to pacify George), I took off my panties. To top everything off, I'd forgotten to bring lube, but luckily found some facial moisturizer in my makeup bag.

And so, it began.

I mounted the thing, and gingerly began testing the controls, keeping myself lifted up somewhat, nervous about relaxing onto it totally, especially with Bobby making cracks about it electrocuting my IUD. Most of our time was spent giggling and being freaked out and uncomfortable. I was nowhere near orgasm, although in a (totally) different context I could see how it would be hot. I mean, the contraption really does cover all the bases--it even has little clit stimulators on the base of the plastic penis.

The clock ticked onwards, and my thoughts went from, "I can't do this, there is absolutely no way I can do this here," to "I must do this, goddamn it! I came here to come and as God as my witness riding this mechanical sex bull, I AM GOING TO COME."

It was difficult to say the least, and I kept cranking up the vibrations that were starting to make me numb. I even sort of pseudo tried to fake it, weakly saying, "I sort of came"-- but that didn't fly with Coach Bobby. And a good thing, too, because even though it took me 45 minutes, and even though I felt a little weird and gross about it, when I finally dropped all the blushing and bullshit and really bore down on the thing, I finally got a big, full orgasm. I think Bobby almost clapped. Then we got the hell out of there.


Although I'd like to, I can't recommend the experience of renting a session with the Sybian; there are too many factors that gave me the willies. But the Sybian itself would be an excellent addition to an adventurous sex toy-collector's stash. And though you may be tempted to think that, like buying a car, you should try it before plunking down the dough, you don't need to--because, hey, I already did. And if I can get my rocks off under those conditions, then you will surely be able to do so in the comfort of your own home.

Maybe I'm a prude, but the only thing I really got out of the situation was pride in my ability to get off despite totally groady circumstances. That, and a bunch of tit hickeys that Bobby gave me after we hung out the next few times and couldn't keep our hands off each other.

Hmm, maybe there is something to the place after all...

The Sybian Salon, call 490-5532 for an appointment, or go to sybiansalon.com