I like to think I know people. Like can tell right off the bat what they’re all about and what makes them tick. For instance, is my next-door neighbor a murderer? Nah. He barbecues on the weekends. Serial griller, maybe, not serial killer. Does that guy up the street cheat on his wife? Totally. Have you seen his washboard abs? He’s completely infidelous. Does my circle of mom friends shop for s#x toys? No way. They wear bedazzled Keds.
Like the adage my old friend Matter of Fact Mommy wears on her t-shirt: “Stereotypes are a real timesaver.”
It’s like when you’re watching Oprah? And you see a puppy-faced, sweet-looking man admit that he eats too many carbs? And you’re like NO WAY does he eat too many carbs! He looks like a fish guy. And also? Who could know that his stash of b#tt p#orn rivals the number of boobs flashed to Joe Francis?
This is all a very roundabout way to remind us to not judge a book by its cover.
Because? My circle of mom friends totally shop for s@x toys.
It all went down (ha!) last weekend when after a lovely innocent dinner at a nice table overlooking the sea, the most chaste-looking mom of all suggested we go to an adults-only shop. The other chastey-looking moms quickly agreed. I was aghast. Really, I thought I had these ladies all figured out. I mean: straight hair! T-shirts! PartyLite candles! Minivans! Wha-?
Speaking of which, we took the minivan to the s#x shop. Pulled right up to it and piled outta the car like a gaggle of dorky clowns in a VW.
At this juncture, I still thought this all was just a silly out-of-the-ordinary thing a bunch of drunk moms do when they have a designated driver. So I was wholly unprepared for the number of times I heard “Oh San Diego Momma! You gotta get THIS! It feels real good on your cl#t.”
I am completely serious.
The chaste ones say “cl#t.”
Every single one of the ladies (there were 5) knew their way around the shop. Knew what vibrator was the most vibratory (the one with rotating beads in the sh$ft! it feels real good on your cl#t!). Knew which brand of handcuffs didn’t chafe. Also, they all dress up in “outfits.” S#x outfits. With pigtails.
I am completely serious.
The chaste ones wear s#x pigtails.
Then, the chastest-looking one of all suggested we see a peep show. And since we were in the most decidedly gay part of town (not that there’s anything wrong with that), we opted to not, only because the paper towel roll by the door implied it might get messy in there.
You’re probably onto me by now. I am naive in the ways of the s#x implements. Naive naive. It all seems very distracting to concentrate on the plastic this and the plastic that when you are getting it on with your partner. This became quickly obvious to the cl#t-talkers, because pretty soon I was adopted. I had my own personal s#x shopper circle walking me around the store, pointing to the plastic this and the plastic that, and extolling the virtues of the rotating sh#ft beads and an#l ticklers as I occasionally shouted, “But I’m Catholic!”
Also, the shapes of things! How do you figure out what to do with this stuff? What’s poking out over there? What are those tendril-like things over here? And? That does WHAT? Why is this made out of foam? Wouldn’t skin be better? I had oh so many naive person questions.
(I thought it was funny that as I uploaded this picture, WordPress asked me if I wanted to “insert it into my post.” Yes WP! Oh yes! Insert it! Insert it GOOD!)
Still before I could say harness butt strap, the freckled-faced, young pixie shopkeeper rang up my c#ck right complete with vibrator and an@l tickler all-in-one and as I left I couldn’t help but ask if her mom knew she worked there.
Because obviously she’s just working there for the money while trying to put herself through school to become a veterinarian or rocket scientist.
Like I said, I know people.
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