Men Do Not Use Sex Toys (warning: scary photos)
“Can I borrow your condo for a night?” my friend Penny asked on the phone.
“You want to borrow my condo,” I repeated.
“Right,” she confirmed.
I thought for a moment. “I’m assuming this somehow involves sex, but it doesn’t involve me.”
“Right again!” she said, cheerfully.
“Alright, on three conditions,” I said. “One, you do it when I’m in Europe. Two, you don’t annoy my neighbors. Three, you change the sheets.”
Penny laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that. I want to have a kind of a girls’ night out.”
As a matter of fact, it was a very particular kind of “girls’ night out”. Penny, who lives in western Jersey, was hosting a sex toy party for a dozen women. My place was convenient, since it was in the city and had enough room.
I’d read about these events, and thought they sounded pretty dumb. Like Tupperware parties of past generations, they require a hostess to invite her friends to drink alcohol and be a captive audience for a scripted commercial pitch from a company’s sales representative. Except instead of Tupperware, the participants are expected to buy a bunch of “down-there” ware.
Can’t people just purchase their tickly toys online? Surely that must be cheaper.
I wasn’t supposed to be there for the festivities, and I didn’t want to be. Not least because my on-again-off-again overseas relationship was officially on again, and I thought it imprudent to join a gaggle of tipsy, flushed women in my home, gushing about multi-speed gizmos of varying size, rigidity and intended location of placement.
Unfortunately, my travel plans changed. I texted Penny that a Saturday meeting in New York meant I had to fly back early. After 16 hours of connecting flights, hauling my briefcase and old-school folding suit-carrier, I paid the driver, waved to the doorman, pushed the button for my floor and leaned against the side of the elevator. I wanted a bath, a Scotch, a cigar, my sofa and my TV remote, but that was not in the cards.
The excited din was audible outside my door. I sighed and put my key in the lock.
Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the sight of a dozen seated women laughing uproariously, while a smiling, very professionally dressed lady stood before them. Holding a very impressive facsimile of a male organ in her fist. Said facsimile was buzzing, and undulating in a corkscrew motion.
Penny jumped up, nearly spilling her wine on my carpet, and rushed over to hug me. She said nice things about me, introduced me to everyone and led a cheer of thanks for the loan of my apartment.
“Glad you’re having a good time,” I said, smiling weakly and grabbing a beer from the fridge. “Cheers. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to unpack and have a shower.”
“Do you need any lotion for your shower?” offered a smartass blonde with a sly grin. “We’ve got lots!” And the ladies collapsed again into giggles and guffaws.
Sitting at the desk in my den, I looked at my watch again. Penny had estimated they’d wrap up around midnight. It was still only eleven. The hilarity in my living room continued. Occasionally I’d catch a few louder words and phrases involving particular acts, appliances and anatomical details. I drained my beer and booted up my laptop, thinking this was a distinctly odd way to spend a Friday evening.
A knock at the door of my den, and Penny poked her head in. “Got a minute? We need a man’s opinion.”
Tired, but freshly scrubbed and shaved, I padded barefoot into the party, sitting on the arm of Penny’s chair. “How can I help?”
It turned out they wanted my thoughts about a variety of toys… for men.
Well, that’s easy. Men don’t use “toys”. I mean, maybe our gay brothers do. I’d have to ask. And it’s fine for the ladies to employ technological assistants, either solo or with a partner. But for a guy, sticking artificial helpers on, around or in our privates is frankly unnecessary. And a little… unseemly?
“Oh, come on!” interjected a comely brunette, holding something apparently called a sleeve. “Are you telling me my husband wouldn’t like it if I used this on him?”
Got something up your “sleeve”?
I smiled. “If I were your husband, I can think of at least five parts of you I’d prefer you used on me.” I was inordinately pleased with myself when she blushed at that.
The sales lady held up a motorized simulated lady receptacle. “This one is a top-seller. Men love it!”
If you’ve never actually laid eyes on a disembodied female reproductive organ that looks like a mutated pink flashlight, you can’t know how you’ll react. I snorted and chuckled. It looked absolutely ridiculous.
“Seriously?” I asked. “What men? The incarcerated? Monks? Guys surfing YouPorn in their mom’s basement?”
I didn’t mean to offend, or to c-block her sales, so I continued. “Ladies, I’m not saying you shouldn’t stock up on loads of gadgets for yourselves. Go nuts. I’m in favor of female climax maximization. But it’s different with guys. This stuff is humiliating for men. All we need is a woman. If necessary, we can take matters into our own hands. And I don’t see any way these silly toys would improve either quality or quantity for us.”
That’s when the evening took a terrifying turn. The sales lady told me I was wrong, and she brought out the big guns. The stuff of feverish nightmares and torture chambers. Scary things designed, it seems, to apply raw electricity to the very last regions that should ever encounter voltage.
I was informed of the opportunity to enhance my experience via one of these horrible implements:
I don’t know what the hell this is, and I don’t want to know.
Some kind of sex Taser, I think.
The Klingons want to electrocute your rectum. Aft shields up!
This… thing… is 5 inches long. It’s supposed to be inserted where you pee. I believe it violates the Geneva Conventions.
On the far side of midnight, the women hugged and cheek-kissed each other on the way out of my place. The sales lady was happy. All of the guests had made orders, or were carrying home plastic bags of future delight. The cute brunette took home a "sleeve" for her husband, the poor man.
Penny stayed for awhile to help me clean up. I saw her to the door.
“No toys for you, huh?” she grinned.
“Never,” I growled.
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “And how’s your little English professor doing?”
“She’s fine, thank you,” I replied. “How’s Stephen?”
“He’s good,” she said, looking away, then back at me. “He’s in Vegas for the weekend.”
“In Vegas, is he?”
We smiled silently at each other for a heartbeat or two.
I leaned down and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve got that little rabbit in your purse, isn’t it?”
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