Recently I went to a sex toys party. Actually, this wasn’t my first rodeo in this arena so I thought I knew what to expect. Years ago I had a good friend who was a sex toys rep. She booked Tupperware-like parties in women’s homes and gave compelling speeches to frustrated suburban housewives on the joys of silicon-based slippery lotions and vibrating devices with names like The Banging Butterfly and The Platinum Power Bullet. These gatherings were even more fun when a clueless Mormon mom showed up, thinking she was attending a sect party that was supposed to be raising money for some kid’s mission.
Anywho, my friend eventually got out of the business, so she stopped having sex toys parties. I only went in the first place to be supportive. I mean, how many tubes of Nympho Niagra can one girl use, right? And besides, once she ceased being a rep she had to dump her inventory. As a “supportive friend” I greatly benefited from her fire sales.
Fast-forward to today; I haven’t been to a sex toys party in at least six years. Mainly because I can hardly remember what sex is. But lo and behold, yet another friend, this one in California, decided to become a sex toys rep. Trying to drum up business, my Cali friend invited me to her inaugural booty bash when she found out that I was headed to the Coast the same week as her party. I told her I’d attend, but that I’d be a slacker guest because I was too poor right now to buy anything. And besides, unless she was giving away blow-up dolls of Robert Downey, Jr., in his Iron Man suit, I didn’t have a boudoir partner to share sex toys with. How pitiful would that be — to purchase couples sex toys when you sleep alone. It’s like buying that stupid Campbell’s Soup for One. Pathetic.
But she is my friend, so I thought, what the hell. Maybe I’ll meet some new, interesting women, at the very least.
Okay, that was my first mistake.
The Evolution of Sex Toys Parties
Apparently sex toys parties have changed in the last few years, mainly in that they’ve evolved into couples’ parties. Last time I went to one of these shindigs it was women only. Now every woman there was paired up with a man that she definitely outshined. I don’t know if these women had low self-esteem or what, but to say they could all do better was an understatement. The females in this crowd were stunning, while the men were average schlubs that collectively resembled Jared on those Subway commercials before he ate a bazillion turkey sandwiches and got skinny. It was like being at my 20-year high school reunion all over again.
Other than me, there were only two other single women there; one was a 40-something former Miss California who could still rock a halter top without looking like she had two sacks of rice hanging off her chest (given her intimidating beauty I assumed she was there to shop for vibrators). And the other was a preschool teacher who had a second part time job as a bounty hunter (I kid you not). Actually, she was a process-server, but she was also a master in Marshall Arts, so her job sometimes morphed into chase scenes that ended in butt-kicking adventures. (Since she only meets married men and losers in her jobs, I’m guessing vibrators were on her hit list, as well.)
On the other hand, the only single dude in attendance was a skinny, little, nerdy guy who said he was there to get an early jump on his holiday shopping. When I asked where his wife or girlfriend was, he said he had neither, but had just signed up for online dating and was hoping to be hooked up by Christmas.
And then there was me — reeking of Campbell’s Soup for One.
A Graceful Exit
Fortunately, I didn’t have to stay long, because as fate would have it I embarrassed myself to the point that I had to leave. As I perused all the displayed sex toys before the presentation started, I saw a table of jewelry. How cool, I thought. My friend invited a local artist to sell her wares on the side. The stuff was mostly beaded necklaces and bracelets made out of semi-precious stones. I picked up a necklace and held it up to my throat. “What do you think?” I asked the perky-breasted, middle-aged Miss California. She furrowed her brow, which I assumed meant the beads weren’t my color.
I froze, still holding the string of beads up to my neck, trying to process what she’d just said. “You mean…they can only be worn by people with obsessive-compulsive disorder?” I tentatively asked.
My friend shook her head. “No. Your partner starts with the small end and inserts them up your—”
“Okay, I get it.” I quickly set the beads down like I was touching toxic waste.
“These are just samples, in fact the ones you were wearing are mine. Anything you purchase is shipped directly from the factory to your home.”
“Uh-huh. Can I use your bathroom?” I asked. “And is there a wire brush in there? Because I need to scrub off the first four layers of skin from my hands.” Actually, I didn’t say that last part, but that’s what I was thinking.
She pointed to a hallway. As I headed in that direction everyone stared at me like I was the rube from Utah who didn’t know what anal beads were…mainly because I was the rube from Utah who didn’t know what anal beads were. Hell, even the skinny geek who was hoping to get laid by Christmas knew what anal beads were. “Didn’t you notice there were no clasps on the ends?” He asked as I passed by him.
After I hosed myself off in the bathroom, I discretely left the party by sneaking out the back through the kitchen. But as I made my stealth exit I could hear my friend talking to the group about her company’s new product, Sadie’s Sex Swing, in which couples could hang upside down in a giddy effort to redefine the missionary position. Good lord, I thought. I can’t wait to get back to Utah. Where the only paraphernalia the missionary position requires is a bicycle and a doorbell.
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Stacy Dymalski is the host of the hilarious TV talk show “Mother Bloggers” on FirstRun.tv. She’s also an award winning keynote speaker and stand-up comic who gave up the glamorous life of coach travel, smokey comedy clubs, and heckling drunks for the glamourous life of raising kids (who happen to be bigger hecklers than the drunks). This blog is her new stage.
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