I don’t usually (read: ever) blog about sex. I’m a shy, retiring flower when it comes to such things. Also, my husband is descended from Puritans and my dad reads here (waving to all of the horrified men in my life). So, yeah. Not a sex blogger.
On the other hand, some things must be blogged. Some things BEG to be blogged. And going to a “special” party just for ladies is one of them, no? Yes. I went to such an event, my pretties, and it was truly the experience of a lifetime.
Not so much because of the products themselves, no. More because you just tend to learn a lot about people when you’re hanging out in a room where there’s a table full of fake penises just sitting there. Come on in! Have a drink! Try the bean dip! And have you seen the giant assortment of brightly-colored mechanical phalluses? No? Well COME HAVE A LOOK!
One of the first things the hostess did was announce that there was to be no flash photography. So I—being the wiseass that I am—immediately whipped out my phone and took a (non-flash) picture of the Table O Schlongs and emailed it to Otto. “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore” I put in the subject line. (The picture displayed a dozen vibrators, various other paraphernalia, and someone’s half-finished glass of wine. Otto mailed me right back: “What kind of wine is that?”)
Actually, I’m getting ahead of myself. The FIRST thing the hostess did (after greeting me) was tell me that she’d already been though the consultant’s stash and had picked what she was going to buy. Mind you, I was there as a friend-of-friends, so I barely know this woman, but I commended her on her decisive thinking and asked her what she was planning to buy. She was only too happy to take me to the table and show me the item in question.
Now, I think of myself as a pretty experienced person. I’ve been around the block. I’m no prude. But she held up this contraption and I was… completely baffled.
I mean, had you handed it to me ANYWHERE ELSE I would’ve told you it was a doggie tug-of-war chew toy. There was a lot of rubbery kind of… webbing… and then a couple of giant metal capsules (I did figure out that those were “magic bullets”) threaded through a couple of holes. But the hostess was explaining how this was EXACTLY what she and her husband need and all I could think was that:
1) I can never look her husband in the eye again,
2) I don’t understand how this works.
Finally—if only to get her to STOP TALKING ABOUT WHAT POSITION HER HUSBAND PREFERS (because: there’s not enough alcohol on hand, if I barely know you, for THAT conversation)—I said, “Okay, I don’t think I get how this works.”
The consultant’s assistant (though I didn’t know that’s what she was, at the time; I thought she was just another person I didn’t know) leapt out of a nearby chair and grabbed it from me.
“It goes LIKE THIS!” she said, and with a single flick of her wrist she had fitted it to her pelvic area. And began thrusting her hips. And then I DIED.
“Okay!” I said, casting my eyes around the room for ANYTHING less embarrassing to look at. George W. Bush fully naked, perhaps? But no, no such luck. “That was very… educational. I NEED A DRINK!”
I went and got a drink. I ran into a couple of people I knew, while doing so, but none of them felt the need to either tell me their husband’s favorite position or simulate strap-on sex, so it was all good. Plus, there were snacks. So, you know.
After some general milling around, a friend called for me to come sit with her as we settled in for the presentation. Now, at Pampered Chef parties, the consultant cooks. At Arbonne parties, the consultant makes up your face. I was a little frightened as to what exactly this was going to entail, but actually, this presentation involved going through EVERY PRODUCT IN THE CATALOG, which would actually have been pretty boring, I think, if not for a few things.
First of all, I was sitting directly across from a woman (whom I didn’t know) who had the most expressive eyebrows in the entire world. Every time the consultant whipped out another product, this woman’s eyebrows would leap six inches into the air. It was astonishing. And really, really amusing. Soon I could tune out the presentation altogether and only bothered with further inspection if I saw that woman’s eyebrows smack against the ceiling.
Second, the assistant had an armful of plastic leis, and the “game” was that you were supposed to stand up and shout “I WANNA GET LEI-ED!” any time the consultant used the word “ultimate.” (You only do it once, and then at the end there’s a color drawing and whoever’s wearing the “winning” color of lei gets some sort of prize.) I managed to get lei-ed the first time she said it, because stuff like that makes me tense and I figured I’d just get it out of the way. But thereafter it was very entertaining to watch other people declaring they wanted to get lei-ed. (And no, it never did stop being funny. A room full of tipsy straight women, with periodic shouts of “I WANNA GET LAID!” and everyone answering back “WOOOOOOOOOO!” Comedy gold.)
Third, as the presentation went on, I don’t know if there was more drinking or what, but some of the questions asked about various products were, um, not shy. I think she spent a full 10 minutes on the anal lube product, for example. Ahem. Someone asked if that actually feels good and before you know it, PEOPLE ARE SWAPPING BUTTSEX STORIES. And you know, to each her own, and I’m happy you’re happy, but GOOD GOD. There’s not enough alcohol in the WORLD for me to want to hear that, ever. Some things should stay private.
There were vibrators with multi-colored strobe lights. Disco dicks, if you will. There was a vibrator designed to simulate the ultimate oral sex experience, I guess? It had a GIANT TONGUE. And a NOSE. (Because we’ve all had that moment of ultimate pleasure where we moan, “Oh, baby… MORE NOSE!”) There were creams for shrinking and creams for biggening and chocolate body pens which require refrigeration (they don’t come with a year of therapy for the child who discovers it in the fridge—I asked) and an endless parade of things to attach to your man, because some of us missed the memo about the penis merely being a convenient hook upon which to hang scary-looking toys.
Of course, the very best part was the passing around of the vibrators. I had NO IDEA there are so many different options. I also had no idea how hilarious it would be to watch people discussing the relative merits, preferably while waving the merchandise around. I kept waiting for someone to scream “USE THE FORCE!” and for a lightsaber-esque duel to break out. The rabbit versus the dolphin, maybe. (She’s going in for the kill but OH! Her opponent parries with the wave-action rotator! Now she’s backing up and activating the spinning beads. And LOOK OUT! THE RABBIT EARS ARE FLICKING, but she’s countering with the pulsating massage action! Etc.)
“Oh, I don’t think my husband would be willing to… you know… WEAR any of those things that… attach,” one woman confided to me as we sat around waiting for our individual turns to go “shopping” after the presentation.
“Really?” I answered, wondering how I could best end this conversation. Maybe I could pretend not to speak English. No matter that we’d now been together for hours and that probably wouldn’t work.
“Oh yes,” she said. “I think he’d find it sort of threatening, you know? Probably better to get a toy he doesn’t have to wear.”
“Wait. What?” See, this is where my lack of tact becomes problematic. “You’re telling me he’d find a little silicone helper threatening, even though it’s something that still requires his participation, but if you showed up with one of those massive vibrators that could completely take his place, THAT would be okay?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Good point,” she conceded.
Bonds were forged, people. Too bad I’m going to have to pretend not to know any of those women if I run into them at the grocery store or whatever.