Dear Funny Bunny: BenWa Balls Don't Bounce

Dear Funny Bunny: BenWa Balls Don't Bounce

Dear Funny Bunny: BenWa Balls Don't Bounce

Dear Funny Bunny,

2020 was a crazy year for everyone, so it probably seems a little silly to say it was the craziest year of my life... but it really was.

Aside from the usual (you know...murder hornets, widespread political violence and... oh yeah, that’s right — a fucking plague), 2020 was also the year I got stood up at the altar by a guy I should never have let get me pregnant. 

Anyway, 2020 was crazy... but this isn’t about that. This is about how my plan to make 2021 my bitch.

I know it’s cheesy to be like one of those psychos blasting social media with “This is going to be my year!” But even in a pandemic, there’s only so long you can spend what precious little free time you have in pajamas eating peanut butter straight from the jar watching terrible sitcom reruns.

Especially if you haven’t gotten laid in so long that just the title of Two and a Half Men seems cruel. You’d settle for one. Hell, you’d settle for an incredibly shapely piece of fruit at this point. 

So, sometime around the shitshow of an election, I finally took hedge clippers to the wild jungle that had taken over pretty much everything below my waist, relearned how to do my makeup, and downloaded a dating app. I was going to get out of my slump.

But there was one thing I was pretty self-conscious about…The last time I’d invited any male guest over to Casa del Vagina was before the cursing, screaming, blood-and-gore-fest that is the miracle of childbirth.

I talked to one of my girlfriends about this, and she recommended BenWa balls — you know, to help train my vagina to take home the gold in powerlifting from the sex Olympics.

Sure, I’d seen that scene in Fifty Shades and knew about the whole jade chakra actress thing… but I had zero experience using them.

But I thought it was worth a try, so I went online and got a pair delivered like literally everything else these days. I opted for elegant glass balls that had an almost metallic-looking finish. 

I probably should have gotten some advice on what to buy.

At first, I was pretty hesitant to put something I found online in my yoni — I mean, that sounds like the premise of some terrible Lifetime movie — but if I was gonna start over with the whole dating thing, I wanted the confidence that comes with pelvic muscles that can crack a walnut.

So, I started using them. Mostly successfully.

First, I wore them to work — along with this funky Hilary-Clinton-pantsuit number I was trying out to see if it would make me more confident; it did not, but that’s a different story…

Anyway, things were going OK at first. I liked that even at the lowest points, work finally felt productive again.

But then I got in a conversation with Todd, my supervisor — a man so dull that I am pretty sure there is a clause in the Geneva convention banning him from telling stories.

And sure enough, the verbal chloroform that his condescending mouth movements produce must have bored my vagina into a coma.

To my horror, both had trickled out of my poorly-thought-out pantsuit without me noticing. When I finally did, I bent over to pick them up without thinking.

Todd noticed and asked me what they were. I blurted out that they were one of those executive toys, like fidget spinners, since I had been so stressed lately.

So, he took them from me and started playing with them.

Now, I can tell from 12 seconds of any Todd anecdote that he’s never pleased a woman. And after seeing the way he handled those balls, I now know he’s never pleased a man either. 

Back to dating, after countless swiping, I finally landed a date with someone who didn’t seem like he was thinking about wearing my skin and rocking out to “Goodbye Horses.” His name is Ben. Ben is dreamy.

He’s hot, smart, seems mentally stable, and his stories are the exact opposite of Todd’s. Best of all: he’s funny. Above everything, I love a man with a sense of humor.

On our first real adult dinner-date at a fancy restaurant, I didn’t expect to be putting out… but knew I would be soon (like, as soon as I could without feeling like I didn’t make him work at least a little), so I popped the BenWa balls in.

Well, one thing led to another… then another… then to two particular things:

  1. Somehow, he convinced me to give him my underwear. I was in a cute little red dress, and the idea seemed pretty sexy at the time…
  2. He kept making me giggle like a fawning high-school girl.

By this point, I could hold onto those little benwa balls tighter than Todd holds onto his virginity. Then again, maybe that was the problem. Ben had me cracking up. I mean the kind of belly laughter usually reserved for jolly fat white dudes.

During one of these laughter fits, the waitress came up to me and put her hand on my shoulder to ask if I wanted dessert…

Well, you know, when you grab the microwave popcorn back and somehow that slight movement pops another kernel? 

Yeah, in this metaphor, I’m the popcorn bag. And the BenWa balls are the tardy kernels.

Only, they didn’t pop — they exploded out of me. 

Ben had somehow turned me into a lethal weapon. I fired those suckers off like a cannon — there was enough stopping power to take down a naked guy on PCP.

But, from Ben’s perspective, it went a little like this.

Joy. Giggling. Raucous laughter.

Laughter abruptly stops. My face goes pale.



Clink…. clink, clink… clink, clink, clinkclinkclinkclink, clkclkclkckckckckckckckc….

Then silence.

The next 2 seconds were the longest of my life. I could crawl into a hole and die. Hell, I could get a time machine and kill my parents before they were born.

Fuck it, go wipe out whatever ancestor was dumb enough to leave the oceans. I was mortified.

Then Ben and I both start cracking up. 

All of a sudden, the embarrassment dissipated…

And I was ready to show him my grip after all.


Say YES to BenWa Balls

Pamela K. - Cleveland, Ohio

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