I appreciate a vibrator that’s like a good book — intriguing, engaging, powerful, moving, with hidden depths that become more apparent with each use. Lyla is not that book. Instead it is an untranslated Russian novel which is so complex, so convoluted, and so utterly inaccessible that you end up using it as a fucking doorstop because the very idea of dragging out the goddamn dictionary for such a comparatively small payout is just too painful to bear.

Listen, I’m a simple woman with simple tastes. My vibrator needs to turn on, turn up, get me off, and then go away. I don’t want batteries and rechargers and fancy boxes and plastic inserts and storage bags and motherfucking stupid fucking plastic opening keys.