When I was a kid, I used words like "snatch," "gay," and "gerbil," and "tossed salad," freely and without fear of double entendres. This continued into college, and I couldn't figure out why people sniggered and tittered when I told them about the incident with Grandma's vibrator.
My mom has a very bad back and had a bad spell when I was about ten. Being so isolated out on the ranch and with very poor insurance, Mom was trying to avoid having to go to the doctor. Grandma thought that a few rounds with her vibrator might loosen things up.
Mom used it a couple of times, then my twin and I got to playing with it. It reminded me of an art deco Kirby vacuum that neither sucked nor blowed, a heavy steel monstrosity with red vinyl upholstery. The vibrations were powered by a spinning disc that was drilled intentionally off-center. Crank it up to a couple hundred RPM and the disc made it vibrate quite violently.
The disc didn't have anything around it to keep it from wrapping stuff around it. I asked my sister to use it on me one night, and I made the unfortunate decision not to move my hair to the side. It sucked up about six inches of my hair so tightly my mother had to cut it away.
Many years later, some kind soul at Rocky Mountain College explained to me the difference between a vibrator and a back massager. The hair was on my head, you perverts.