swimmers, who are judged based on speed, the toys would be assessed qualitatively. I suggested we use the criteria for judging rhythmic gymnastics: technical merit, artistic value and execution.
   Before we even got started, Tobly expressed outrage over the pre-game performance of one of the contenders. The Talking Head Audio-Enhanced Vibrator, a rabbit-style vibrator that talks dirty using sound chips, arrived broken.
   "I'm so upset," Tobly said. "I'm trying to get another one, because if I don't hear Jean-Philippe talking dirty to you, I just don't think the French will be properly represented in the Olympics."
   There was no time to replace it, but we were consoled by the fact that more than twenty toys were available.
   "We're gonna need a Costco amount of batteries," Tobly noted. "And some ice for the swelling."
   We met for a pre-game beer at Benny's Burritos. Normally I orgasm quickly, but drinking beer decreases my ability to come, putting all the toys at a slight disadvantage and making the games more challenging. Drinking would also numb any physical pain. Beer is the sports medicine of masturbation.
   Tobly arrived carrying a giant bag labeled "Sex Toys." She was obviously inebriated. "Feel how heavy this is," she said, handing me the bag.
   The bag felt like it held three bowling balls.
   "But no peeking!" she warned, taking a seat. "I got you a present," she added, handing me a terrycloth, John McEnroe-style headband and a packet of "Horny Goat Weed."
   "Oh no, this is like steroids," I said, reading the label. "I'm gonna get 'roid rage."
   "It's called doping."
   "It claims to increase blood flow to the genitals. Is this going to give me a stroke?"
   "No," reassured Tobly, "I think I've taken it before."
   Washing down my performance enhancer, I suggested we pick up some vegetables for a "produce heat," because before people had Pocket Rockets they were forced to make do with zucchini.
   We'd barely been at the bar ten minutes when Tobly began revealing the contents of her bag to everyone there. Whipping out the Talking Head Audio-Enhanced Vibrator, she explained that the audio base had become detached from the vibrator, which no longer vibrated. But the good news was the sound chips still worked. A group of curious bar patrons gathered around the vibrator like it was a transistor radio during a blackout. Tobly played the pre-recorded fantasy scenarios, which included "Slow Ride with Koby," "Juan, the Latin Lover" and "Jean-Philippe, French Boy."
   "Wow, Jean-Philippe's voice is so hot, I could listen to that all day," I said.
   Others agreed that Jean-Philippe made their panties wet and wanted to hear more, but after two beers, it was time to hit the vegetable stand. On our way out, bar-goers wished my vagina good luck.
   All Olympic games have a motto, and ours was "Beggars Can't Be Choosers." Not only were we limited to what we could get for free, the vegetable selection at the local bodega was abysmal.
   "Ew, we are really gonna have to scrub these," I noted, picking up a dirty-yet-phallic yam and taking it to the checkout along with a cucumber, zucchini and carrot. Because we were only buying phallic vegetables and no lettuce or dressing, I was certain everyone knew what we were up to. Just in case they didn't, Tobly announced to the stony-faced cashier, "We're going to put these in her vagina!" For emphasis, she pointed toward my crotch.
   The cashier bent his head down to get a look and smiled. Mortified, I scurried out of the store.

Vibrators buzzed all over the bed.

   "Did you see the smile on his face?" Tobly said with a laugh. "He's going to be jacking to that for a week."
   To further alienate me from my neighbors, Tobly showed her giant bag of sex toys to everyone we passed, even a well-dressed couple sitting at an outdoor café sharing a bottle of wine.
   "Feel how heavy this is," she said, handing the man her bag.
   "That is heavy," he said.
   "Yep. It's gonna be a long night."
   Back at my crib, Tobly emptied the contents of her bag onto my bedspread. It looked we'd just held up the Pink Pussycat Boutique. She gave a brief commentary on each toy. "This was made by women for women," she said, pointing to a Magnifique Natural Contours Vibrator.
   "It looks like an at-home microdermabrasion kit," I said.
   "This one is from Sweden," Tobly noted, holding up a tiny Lily Vibrator in antique pink. "It costs $129." She then produced a bright yellow vibrator. "Here Germany is represented. This is the Dinky Digger."
   "It looks like a mole, and it's holding a flower! Cute!"
   "And it hits your g-spot like you would not believe."
   "That's not going to get all the way in. It's too fat."
   "That's what the lube is for," she said, pulling out a five-pack of Wet flavored lube and a bottle of Pjur German lube.
   "Klebt garantiert nicht" is now the only German phrase I know. It means "guaranteed never sticky."
   I suggested we engage in a blind taste test of the flavored lubes. Tobly poured a drop of each flavor on her fingers, which I then licked with my eyes closed, attempting to identify the flavors. Amazingly, the lube engineers at Wet have managed to perfectly replicate the flavor of piña coladas. The only unidentifiable flavor was "passion fruit," which tasted just like Hi-C.
   The largest heat was the glass heat, which featured six dildos in all, two of which were hand-blown by a dude who fabricates bongs. Glass, Tobly noted, is all the rage because you can heat it up and cool it down.
   As she spoke, vibrators buzzed all over the bed.
   "Which ones are visually sexy to you?" Tobly asked.
   "Well, I'll tell you what's not sexy: the Dinky Digger," I said. "It looks like something out of Yellow Submarine. The glass ones look the sexiest. That one is cute," I said, pointing to a small vibe with a bear-shaped clitoral stimulator.
   "Which ones scare you?"
   "These two," I said, straining to lift two massive glass dildos. "They weigh about fifty pounds each. Any sex toy that reminds me of a discus is scary. And that tongue attachment that goes on the bullet vibe is scary in more of a Silence of the Lambs way."
   "It made me come."
   "Well, I've gotten really greedy ever since my squirting column. I want it all — g-spot, vaginal, clitoral. I want to have every type of orgasm at once."
   "We'll see what we can do."

Observations/Results:
Quantify the effects of the experiment.

Commemorating the theft of fire from the Greek god Zeus by Prometheus, Tobly lit the ceremonial torch — in this case, a very large joint. My room filled with more smoke than Spicoli's van as I splayed my legs and prepared my beaver for the external heat. A classic Pocket Rocket started the games and would have ended the games a few seconds later had Tobly not replaced it with the more genteel Lily. The Lily's small size makes it great for traveling, and though it's not as direct as the Pocket Rocket, it works on a slow build. Unfortunately, it doesn't cover a lot of area. Once you put it down on the bed it's easily lost, especially if you own twenty other toys. The Natural Contours vibe was thrust upon me next, but I wasn't sure where it should go or to what natural contours it was supposed to conform.
   Tobly grew visibly weary as I barked commands like a bitchy choreographer: "Move it up. Move it down. To the left. To the right."
   Frustrated, she swapped Natural Contours for the bullet vibe with the creepy tongue attachment. It felt like something one might accidentally step on in the ocean: soft and slimy. Tobly tried a combo, pressing the tiny Lily against my clit while thrusting the slimy fake tongue against my vaginal opening. This combo worked wonders but didn't push me over the edge.
   I wanted to use my fingers to finish myself off, but that would have clouded my judgment of the vibrators. As my head swooned, the vibrator with the honey bear clitoral stimulator was thrust against me. The bear only had one setting — high. My clit throbbed.
   Greedily, I snatched it from my lab partner and thrust it inside myself. This was technically cheating because we were still in the external heat,

but when you're seconds away from coming, cheating is an option. I worked the little vibrator in and out until I came.
   Emerging from my post-orgasmic haze, I felt something gooey. The entire bottle of passion-fruit lube had leaked on my bed. We were swimming in it. My room smelled like a punch bowl.
   Removing the soiled comforter, we began the internal heat. Again, combos worked best. I held the Lily to my clit while trying out the bigger fellas, including the pasty penis and red, satanic-looking dildo. I eyed the Dinky Digger, whose silliness was starting to charm me despite his girth. But the time was right; I was lubed up with natural juices and passion-fruit spillage.
   Tobly slicked up the little fellow and slowly inserted him. His curved, smiling head greeted my g-spot. As he ventured further inside, the flower in his hand stimulated my fleshy walls. Tobly fiddled with the Dinky Digger's speed settings while I enjoyed his silicone surface, which felt smooth as skin. It didn't take long for the enchanted creature to produce a cascade of love juice. Plus, he was totally quiet — a bonus if you're not drowning out your vibrator with music.
   Exhausted from only two rounds and two big Os, we took a beer/dildo-cleaning/peeing halftime break. Tobly put the prettiest glass dildo, which featured a kaleidoscopic image of a flower, in the freezer.
   "Don't forget it's in there," I warned her. "I don't think my roommate wants to discover that when he reaches for frozen tamales."
   The second half of the games proved a disappointment. The freezer dildo was too cold, causing the tongue-to-frozen-flag-pole effect. My body was weary. The red sea was unwilling to part, even for more sex toys. It was a scoreless overtime, and Tobly and I were both ready to call it a night.


Conclusion:
Summarize your findings. Don't forget to attempt to identify possible variables that could result in different findings for others trying to recreate your test results.

The Dinky Digger has both techincal and artistic merit.

The next day, Tobly said her arm was so tired she felt like she'd just pitched nine innings. My vagina was worn out. Worst of all, I wasn't sure which toy should win. If I were stranded on a desert island, I'd want a toy that offered the most options. By those standards, the Talking Vibrator would be my first choice. It offers the most speed settings, a clitoral stimulator and a penis head that swivels. Plus, it speaks French. Sadly, it was disqualified. To make up my mind, I masturbated a few more times, but my clit still had a hard time deciding. I even tried a wearable vibrator, figuring I could get my errands done while testing it out. But the leg straps irritated my thighs and it looked as subtle under clothing as heavy-duty adult diapers. Maybe I'm as picky as Goldilocks, but I think the perfect sex toy has yet to be invented.
   I used the Lily more than the others, but mostly in an assistive role, kind of like a wing to a striker. And I'm not sure any vibrator is worth $129. As for technical merit, the Pocket Rocket wins for speed and efficiency. But aesthetically, it leaves a lot to be desired. The Dinky Digger, on the other hand, has both technical and artistic merit, and it executes orgasms with finesse, despite its oafishness.
   So it's the little mole from Germany that will take the gold, followed by the Swedish Lily in second place and the Japanese Pocket Rocket going home with the bronze. I never thought I'd write these words, but I am now tired of masturbating. Give me four years, and I might feel differently.