I keep it classy on alllll the Internets:
Sometimes you’re in a bad emotional place.
But then your friend who works at the adult boutique texts you to report that a man wearing a Trump t-shirt bought a giant, veiny dildo, and suddenly everything else seems pretty insignificant by comparison.
P.S. If you wondered, the toy IS made in America. Because America’s ALREADY fucking great. (Literally, apparently.)
Just drove past a strip club, next to a farmers market, next to an adult store, next to a Planned Parenthood.
That right there is what you call a DAY.
The other day, my amazing friend* ran a body confidence class at the sex shoppe (yep, shoppe). For “homework,” she assigned us to go home and spend an hour naked, checking out our bodies, noting the good, disregarding the bad, and just getting comfortable seeing them.
So I just emailed her and said, “Just letting you know I’m walking around naked. Carry on.”
Not gonna lie, I’m NOTICING the bad. (“Really? Those are my boobs? Huh…”) But overall, I’m kind of adorable.
Also, the heat in my house is up to like 80 degrees because brrrrr.
Also, I may have strange friendships. But they’re the best.
* FYI, the friend is the lovely and talented Yvette St. James, and you should follow her on Twitter and attend all her classes because they’re super fun and informative.
I feel like I probably had a better Thursday night than a lot of people.
Many thanks to Yvette St. James for talking our group through what goes where when couples play with toys. I’m hoping it comes (heh) in handy in the very near future.
(The ice cream is just ice cream, because there is an ice cream shop a few doors down from the sex shop. Because Jesus loves me. And ice cream. And vibrators… I haven’t read The Bible but that’s all in there, no?)
A friend of mine works at a sex shop, which sometimes leads to entertaining email conversations:
Friend #1: “I am so sick of people coming in looking for a lube that ‘turns her on right away’ or a lube for oral sex. It’s your job to turn her on. She’s not a car, it’s going to take time and effort. Do it right and stop being a schmuck and I bet she’ll be ready and willing. As for oral sex, dick is an acquired taste — acquire the taste. Same goes for pussy. Flavored lube is gross. Grow up and deal with it. I don’t know what you’re asking me for when you talk about a ‘cream for oral sex.’ Do you mean whipped cream? That’s in your local grocery store. Otherwise…I’m clueless.”
Friend #2: “Maybe they mean an edible, relatively pleasant tasting lube? That kind of makes sense, for finishing a handjob or switching from a toy to some oral. But to mask the taste of dick? I don’t know…Include some ice cream or fro-yo — a treat for both of you. But it’s still going to taste like dick. And lube that ‘turns women on?’ That’s called not being a jackass.”
Me: “I read this and genuinely didn’t know what to say, because I was so confused as to how people can be that dumb but still free to procreate. I just…I got nothin’. I won’t even eat flavored Cheerios, so making a guy’s dick taste like pie is really not going to improve the experience, which, by the way, is ALREADY MAGNIFICENT.”
The last person I was super into just had to LOOK at me right and I was wetter than a log flume at Six Flags — I would’ve let that man do anything to me, and he would’ve been damn happy with the mutual result. Other people, maybe not so much the immediate log flume, but I’d tell them, or they’d learn, the spots they could hit that turned me from lovely, gracious lady into a willing and extremely able penile vestibule, and we’d use the lube when needed. With the exception of medical problems, this doesn’t need to be THAT big an issue between healthy adults who are able to discuss what works, and who also have Internet access. Figure shit out. Prep your person. Get some lube — not the kind that tastes like Bubble Yum.
Ask not what lube can do for YOU, my friends. Ask what you can do for lube.
“It glows in the dark.”
“Cool… So, wait, will my vagina glow like E.T.’s finger?”
In case any of you ever wonder how I turned out this way, I submit as People’s exhibit A that Easter conversation with my family involved talk of gimp masks, furries, and the “classy” sex shop in the area.
Not at dinner proper, mind — we waited until dessert. We’re white trash, not barbarians.