TBT: The Best Vibrator You Never Knew You Needed

So apparently, there’s a vibrator that orders pizza from Domino’s for you after you orgasm. Best thing of all? It’s named the RubGrub.

RubGrub. FUCKING RubGrub.

LOVING. the spin on the name GrubHub by calling this toy the “RubGrub.” I respect how clever it is and I love that I’m not the only one who is subjected to having their name being manipulated into a nickname having to do with a sex toy because my “friends” used to call me Mildo. Fifth grade was a dark time for me.

I joined the good vibe tribe at the beginning of the New Year (along with the 3 year protection plan because I’m really not feeling optimistic about monogamy happening anytime in the very near or very far future). And I haven’t looked back.

Had the RubGrub been around six years back, college would’ve been so different for women everywhere. Picture this: you finally get a text from that guy you met the other night. “Wyd?” he asks at 11:45 on a Tuesday night. “Come over to Meat Mansion. It’s lit.”

It’s not.

It’s a bunch of dudes huddled in their living room that reeks of urine, broken hymens of barely legal teenage girls, and weed. Like R. Kelly’s freaky sex cult hosted a virgin sacrifice there the night before and peaced out without bothering to clean up their half empty beer cans or at the very least Febreze the place. They’re smoking out of a bong while token SoundCloud rapper of the house forces everyone to listen to his new mixtape. You exchange uncomfortable acknowledgements, and you pretend to be oblivious to the fact that your fuckpiece just showed everyone your nudes five minutes before you arrived.

You make your way to his room. His roommate gratuitously turns up the volume all the way up on his shitty SoundCloud rap because he’s far too optimistic about how hot and heavy this hook up will really be. You endure his pathetic attempt at foreplay, and once he gets your engine revving, you’re kind of totally taken out of the moment by the most unpleasant sensation down under because you can feel that he still has Flamin’ Hot Cheetos dust on his fingers. Ew. So then after some half hearted oral, you get down to business. You go at it for like, 15 minutes, tops. And the entire time he’s bragging about how he got his stamina because he plays club rugby.

So he’s passed out. And you’re wide awake and starving. You don’t want to venture downstairs post hookup only to see his housemates watching Futurama and are smirking at each other the entire time. And what’s there in the kitchen, anyways? Do you help yourself to some flat Code Red Mountain Dew in the fridge? Do you really think eating Captain Crunch out of a cooking pot (because, of course, none of the actual bowls are clean and they’ve never used the cooking pot) is worth the walk of shame?

It’s not. Between the lame sex and the lame post sex food, this is the reality for most collegiate women. And the RubGrub could have prevented us from enduring this cycle for four years straight.

So the RubGrub is revolutionary. Not just because it flips the classic porn scenario where the pizza delivery guy comes first, then you get off by fucking him by just cutting out the middle man and getting off first, then having the pizza. Not just because I’m the one lying there, doing none of the work, only to get off and then be all, “get back to the kitchen and make me a meal, bitch.” But because the first machine that completely cuts out any need to communicate with anyone ever. Can the iPhone X get me off? Unless my phone is on vibrate and I’m inundated with texts and emails I won’t respond to, probably not. And trust me, as someone with 606 unread texts and 40,495 unread emails, that may or may not be in the realm of possibility and trust me, it does not work. All the iPhone has on the RubGrub is that it connects me to the outerworld, to people, and that’s the opposite of what I want.

Orgasms, pizza, and isolation from society that debilitates me from personal growth and developing healthy relationships. I mean, yeah, it does only get Domino’s to deliver. But post orgasm pizza is post orgasm pizza is post orgasm pizza. Merry Masturbation Month, everybody!


Millie Moore