I AM NOT a promise-maker. But here’s one I intend to keep: never will I attend another sex-toy party as long as blood continues to pump to my pink parts. I don’t care if it’s being thrown by Parker Posey on a Caribbean island and the dress code is string bikinis. I’m not going.
These may be harsh words, but they’re not without reason. I have a lifeless, veiny penis under my bed that haunts me and a pair of nipple clamps that almost separated me from a tender piece of my flesh.
This is what happens to me at sex-toy parties: I feel compelled to buy something. Then, as with any impulse buy, I regret spending too much money on something that isn’t that great when I already have a perfectly good shower nozzle at home.
Initially, I had no desire to attend a sex-toy party, especially considering that Sweet-N-Nasty, Eros, and Amazing Express are all within walking distance of my apartment. Personally, I’m not embarrassed to take a stroll through the sex shops every now and again. I’ll pick up, try on, sample, or ask for an explanation of exactly how people fit half-inch metal rods into their urethras. I don’t need to be surrounded by a bunch of suburban housewives sharing dip recipes to realize that sex toys aren’t taboo. But I think a lot of people take comfort in knowing that others share their fantasies and perversions. Or perhaps it’s a sign that our society is growing more sexually liberated, going from hawking Tupperware to butt plugs in the span of a decade.
At my first party, I chose three products: Nipple Nibblers, Nympho’s Desire Arousal Balm, and a large black strap-on. All of these were ordered from the privacy of the hostess’s trailer, which was parked down the street from the party. That’s another weird thing about these events: you spend hours passing dildos around the room, listening to your neighbor talk of her affinity for anal beads the size of avocados, and then you’re shipped off to a top-secret location to place your order, as if it’s going to be for mustard gas rather than a vibrator.
My penis, I was told, was out of stock and would have to be shipped. After two agonizing weeks, during which I realized that my other new products amounted to expensive Ben-Gay, I received a nondescript manila envelope in the mail. I anxiously brought it with me into the bathroom, peeled open the envelope, pulled out the satin bag, grabbed the drawstring that cinched it shut, and yanked my penis out of its sack. Then I screamed, whipped my penis at the wall, and jumped off the toilet.
The item I’d ordered was a sleek, black, shiny number akin to a chocolate-covered missile. The item I received was a bulbous beige object with a scrotum the size of a turnip. I was furious. I called the hostess and spent a good 20 minutes arguing over the definition of “realistic.” I just wanted it to work like a penis, I explained. I didn’t want it to look like one.
“Well, that’s what you ordered,” she insisted. “And you can’t return it. I’m sorry, hon.”
Needless to say, I wasn’t enthusiastic when I recently got a call from my sister demanding my attendance at yet another sex-toy party. Not only would I have to listen to what my brothers-in-law enjoy doing to my sisters, but I’d be surrounded by a bunch of their straight co-workers who are unaware of my flaming gayness.
But off I went. This party was much more interactive than the first, with embarrassing “icebreakers” that have you passing a humming vibrator around the room using just your locked knees. One lucky partygoer even got to wear a pair of vibrating panties, her clit like a victim in a bad game of Operation, my ruthless sister holding the remote.
The main difference was that this party was geared toward straight girls. So instead of strap-ons and double-ended dildos, the focus was on vibrators and an array of items to fool women into thinking they might actually want a penis in their mouths. The Swedish Fish mouth guard was a must-have for my sister, whose order form, 20 minutes into the presentation, read like the Magna Carta.
But I was determined not to make the same mistakes I’d made at the last party. I’d get something that I could actually take home with me that evening, and I’d only spend the requisite 50 or so dollars that make you feel like you’ve paid your admission. But at the end of my sale, the hostess informed me that my cordless vibrating nipple clamps would have to be shipped. (Either there are a lot of freaks out there draining the supply of weird novelties, or I’m the weird novelty.)
A week or so later, the manila envelope arrived in the mail, and I tore it open with the same enthusiasm that I had before. I didn’t waste any time: still in my pajamas, I pulled my shirt up and clamped them on. I turned them down, then cranked them all the way up. I loosened the grip, tightened the grip. Then I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. Not only was I feeling nothing, but I looked like a lab experiment. In the moment between regaining my breath after a fit of laughter and phoning my sister to see how her 12 vibrators were working, I contemplated calling the hostess and demanding to return the merchandise.
But really, whose fault is it that I keep ending up dissatisfied with my purchases? The hostesses can’t be to blame. And it’s not the merchandise that’s flawed, I realize. What’s flawed is the image I have of myself as this adventurous sex goddess strung with nipple clamps and brandishing a giant penis. All the other girls seemed perfectly content with their purple bunny vibrators. @
[Illustrationby Corey Smigliani]
Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer whose batteries are not included. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.
