Object-ives #22: My Heavy Metal Companion

An intimate prized possession that will never be an heirloom

Feb 13, 2026

eleven large curved shiny silver colored metal dildo on a wood floor — Jamie M.’s beloved sex toy, The Eleven, acquired during a past relationship

by Jamie M.

In my Great Lesbian Breakup of 2012, there were a lot of adult toys to sort through. By “a lot” I mean an Ikea locker full of pleasure objects in every shape, size, and color, courtesy of the employee discount from my job at a sex shop. Battery operated, plug in, human powered; leather, silicone, jelly rubber, nylon, feather; clips, clamps, and plugs. I placed few limitations on what I took home—cock rings, for example, clearly had no role in my bedroom—so after five years at Good Vibrations, my locker overflowed.

My newly ex-girlfriend and I had been together for most of the time I worked in the shop, so many of the items were hers as much as they were mine. We each brought some of our own toys to the relationship, from the single days before we met, and we upgraded together. Plastic-y rubber was replaced with silicone; fake leather replaced with real. Hastily bought and terribly shot DVDs found on Amazon were swapped out with top-of-the-line adult content featuring great lighting and crisp editing.

The collection was varied, expansive, and expensive. Even half of it would have been too much to take into the new relationship I had already begun. Almost everything had to go. Videos that didn’t make the cut were buried in donation boxes dropped at the thrift store on Valencia Street, after calling to confirm they accepted them, books were sold, and my ex took the few things she wanted. What went directly into the trash can were the items that were a part of our relationship, the toys we shared.

There was one toy in the locker that was mine, and mine alone. An item that I had worked for and bought with no intention of sharing. Tucked snugly in its black, purse-like case, the dildo, named the Eleven, was stainless steel, 11 inches long, two inches in diameter, and simply beautiful. My love for it didn’t run deep, but wide. Girthy. Its retail cost at the time was over $300, expensive even with my discount. Instead of cash, however, I paid for it in shop credit accrued by screening videos. At $5 per review, I needed to watch a lot of porn to have enough credit to cover the cost. And watch I did. For months I was sent DVDs via intra-office mail, and would play them at home, eyes peeled for non-consensual acts, hate speech, scenes that would get the shop in trouble. The fast forward button on my laptop was rubbed clean, but there are worse ways to earn a dildo. A week before I left the company, I redeemed my credits. The Eleven was mine.

I felt like I was bringing a trophy home. I wanted to engrave it with something but couldn’t figure out what. Earning it was an accomplishment, and I quickly learned that using it was as well. The metal was cool to the touch, needing to be warmed with body heat, and the weight of almost three pounds tired my forearm quickly. The size itself also required intentionally applied relaxation. I was immediately in love.

Three years after the breakup I married the woman from the new relationship, and two years after that we had a child. The Eleven has been neglected for months at a time, but I always find my way back. Now, at 44, I have more confidence than ever, wielding a tool not everyone could use. For 13 years, that solid chunk of smooth metal has been a source of pride and release. I also feel like a badass holding it, the line between sex toy and weapon blurred in my fist.

Would I save the Eleven in a fire? No, I would not. It’s hidden deep in the bedroom closet and grabbing it in an emergency would be quite difficult. Standing outside my burning house with a gigantic metal dildo would also be pretty awkward. But would I scavenge through the ashes after the fire, hoping to catch a flash of stainless steel shining through the rubble, and upon finding it rejoice with the enthusiasm of a woman reunited with her heavyweight lover? Yes, yes I would.

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