Iris vs Gigi

I held them. One in either hand, vibrating on maximum and they seemed pretty much identical for power. It’s only by doing so that you can appreciate the difference in their physical sizes. And then I realised that I’d never be able to photograph them for you this way.

Their pulsation programmes seemed different, with more variety to the Gigi. She’s got that lovely flat end which is great for frigging across the clit. There is more directional control because the head is still slimmer than her sister. And she’s smaller, fitting more easily into the palm of your hand. However, I also struggle to control her dial and get very frustrated when I switch her off rather than increasing the power.

Iris is meatier, which means that she feels more powerful against the clit because of the weight behind her. Internally she is far superior to Gigi. Filling the slippery void without gaps. Reaching the furthermost points in the dark tunnel to hit that G spot.

So, if you want clitoral stimulation only, then Gigi is your girl. But Iris is able to do both external and internal with equal ease.

However, I’m naturally greedy. I want to have my cake and eat it too. In all things. I mean, I’m not Sir Alan Sugar in The Apprentice, having to choose just one and discard the rest. I like to bring together a team who can fulfil all my needs.

And, on this day, when I so needed some physical stimulation to try to wipe out all the emotional turmoil in my brain, that type of all-encompassing support was absolutely vital.

As I knelt on the bed, with Gigi pressed firmly between my labia, I attempted to negate the need for a man by penetrating myself with the lubed up but motionless Iris. Ignoring the rather fumbling probing as I tried to get the trajectory correct, the eventual entry was as exquisite as a real penis. With the downwards pressure of the Gigi, almost forcing Iris out. Making it necessary to repeat the process. As my hands and fingers acquired the necessary co-ordination, I could hear my mouth squealing, but that was nothing to what happened when I pressed the button and initiated Iris’s power surge.

With all my Lelo guns blazing, I felt my whole groin explode in a fusillade of electricity which pulsed through me before igniting the touchpaper in my brain for further pyrotechnics.

It was some time later that my befuddled consciousness became aware of the birds singing outside and the sunlight playing through the half-closed curtains as I lay spreadeagled on the bed, both toys still buzzing resolutely.

Upon my recovery, I depressed both buttons to finish, placed them on a towel and photographed them so that you can get a real idea of their relative sizes.

And then I cleaned my equipment and hid both toys in the hatbox, before burying it under a pile of clothes in the cupboard.

Spraying Chanel into the air and stepping through the fine mist, I removed all evidence of my activity and returned the marital bedroom to its usual sexless state.

How things have changed since I wrote this almost a year ago. I now have my own bedroom, with a drawer full of sex toys under the bed and lube in the bedside cabinet.

I can wank when I want to, luxuriating in the warmth of a Saturday morning lie-in in the company of some faithful friends, secure in the knowledge that no one is going to burst into the room and catch me pleasuring myself.

Although, as happened last Saturday, I have to allow for the surprise visit from my children, which allows me about five minutes between the strident intrusion of the security buzzer and the knock on the actual door of my flat.

It’s just about enough time to throw the duvet over the evidence, open a window and plead a pyjama day.