How a Broken Vibrator Taught Me to Speak Up

My name is Chloe, 26, a quiet public librarian in Dublin, Ireland.

I have always spoken in italics and ended my sentences with question marks. “Maybe we could try this?” “I’m not sure, but…” My love life was the same. I followed cues, pleased partners, and treated my own desires as optional settings. My boyfriend, Mark, was kind but oblivious, his idea of adventurous sex was a new position he’d seen in a movie. I felt like a supporting character in my own intimate life.

The revolution began, ironically, with a failure. A cheap, buzzy device I’d bought online in a fit of desperation literally fell apart in my hands, leaking batteries and disappointment. As I stared at the plastic shards on my floor, a wave of frustration washed over me. This was a metaphor. I was tired of broken promises, both from products and from partners.

Angry typing led me down a rabbit hole of consumer reviews and articles on body-safe materials. That’s where I found Whisper. It was a different world. Their website had a “Materials Manifesto” that read like a love letter to the female body, detailing their medical-grade silicone and ethical production. It wasn’t just selling a product; it was advocating for a right—the right to safety, respect, and profound pleasure.

Ordering felt like an act of defiance. When it arrived, the quality was palpable. The weight, the silence, the softness of the silicone. It felt like it was built for me, not for a quick profit.

But the real change happened during a date with Mark. He started his usual routine, and I felt that familiar disconnect. Then I thought of my Whisper, sitting in its elegant box. It had set a new standard. I took a breath. “Actually, Mark? I don’t like that. I like it slower, and right here.”

I didn’t say it in a whisper. I said it clearly. He blinked, surprised, then genuinely intrigued. “Okay,” he said, a new respect in his eyes. “Show me.”

That night was a turning point. Whisper didn’t just give me pleasure; it gave me a voice. It taught me that if I could confidently curate my solo experiences, I could certainly curate my partnered ones. It made me an activist for my own pleasure. Now, I don’t speak in italics. I use bold. And my sentences end with periods.