It was just your typical Wednesday night at Body English, really. A girlfriend had a bachelor party in town; I tagged along for a night of Vegas’ simple pleasures and with hopes of, I dunno, maybe kissing one of the groom’s single buddies. On the VIP balcony, awaiting guest DJ Paolo Mojo’s set, we settled into the cushy VIP section, complete with velvety couch, beaucoup bottles, a silver service set polished to a mirror-shine and a cocktail server straight out of a comic book artist’s racier fantasies. The beat took a turn as Mojo assumed control over the backdrop of a roaring crowd.

And that’s when I whipped out the vibrator.

Allow me to explain—or be forced to forever live with that statement. Every few years or so, there’s an innovation that revolutionizes the nightlife industry: The discovery of alcohol. The corset. Electricity. Bottle service. And now, perhaps, the Club Vibe.

OhMiBod, the makers of fine vibrators—or so I’ve read—have a gift for the clubgoing public. The Club Vibe is a hybrid of sex toy and geeky gadget. Basically, it’s just a bullet vibrator. You can turn it on and get turned on, period. Or, as with some of OhMiBod’s other “acsexsories,” you can hook it up to your iPod and go! Go! Go! But the real innovation lies in the addition of the ambient mode in which the toy’s little black controller picks up on the DJ’s beat and lets the wearer (man or women, I might add) go out and get off simultaneously. How thoughtful!

“Where does that thing … go?!” Deanna asked, looking first at me, then It, then back at me. For now, it was going nowhere but my pocket, I told her, and jammed the hot pink bullet (about the size of a key) into my jeans pocket—and nearly doubled over as the interaction of Paolo Mojo’s beats caused the thing to dance like a Mexican jumping bean.

At everyone’s request, I proudly displayed the happy-ratus for all to see. They observed the tiny pink bullet, remarking how soft the plastic was, then gave me a look. “It just came out of the package,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s never been anywhere …” Pleased by its virginity, they explored the controller, which, to their delight, much resembled a Wii controller. The tiny black box consists of just an X and an O. Hit the X for stop, the O for OHHHHHH! It will cycle through seven pre-set vibrations in manual mode, or in ambient mode, find the beat and run with it.

“People in a giant cuddle-puddle would love that,” remarked Deanna, holding the toy by its clear cord; the new Freestyle model is cordless, I pointed out. Yes, I too can picture a heap of fuzzy-booted ravers on Ecstasy having a blast with the Club Vibe.

Short attention span and all, after about five minutes the adult-toy portion of this bachelor party came to a screeching halt. Swinging bachelor talk gave way to weddings and girlfriends, girlfriends who were probably at that very moment wondering if something was happening in Vegas that might—gasp!—stay in Vegas. They wandered away one by one like bored dogs to text their ladies for reassurance that God wasn’t watching just now and that they were indeed not gay. They left me with Guy Who Likes to Talk About Drugs. Club Vibe dancing away in my pocket, I listened as Sir-Smokes-a-Lot rattled off the virtues of Vancouver’s Northern Lights over Alberta bud. “Uh-huh,” I interjected every now and again when it sounded appropriate.

The next night at Downtown Cocktail Room, not having learned my lesson the first time, I debuted the vibe in the presence of Beatrice, one of my more audacious and sexually liberated friends. She was not impressed.

Apparently the item has been huge in the gay world (her area of expertise as a semi-pro fag hag) for “like, two years.” The vibe’s ambient mode could barely get it up for DCR’s chill beats, so it lay spent, eking out the occasional buzz like a dying bee on the sidewalk. Quiet as it was, we substituted the term “purse” for “Xania’s creepy sex toy on a string.” I was most grateful.

“Well, you also have to learn to be quiet,” pointed out Beatrice, ever practical. True, the vibe was whining a tad loudly. We considered its many uses. “I hate being in clubs, because I get fidgety waiting in line, waiting for drinks,” she said. “Maybe I would have a better time with this!” And then it could also be the solution to a bad date: “Yes! Tell me more about yourself! More! You live with you parents? Oh, yes, that’s wonderful!” Or, cut off from a steady source of nookie, there’s always the trusty manual mode ...

“Gym every morning, bar every night,” declared Mama B. With that kind of logic, we toasted, neither of us should be playing with toys. Unless of course, she wants to.

And for those of you who might be wondering whether I gave the Club Vibe a proper, ahem, road test, let’s just say that I very much value my position as an, er, in-depth reporter and that in my now-informed opinion, this little guy serves better as an appetizer than a main course—a bit more fiddle than diddle ... And may I also suggest Benny Benassi’s “Satisfaction” for your iPod?