The Universe has kindly warned me that my latest single stretch is going to last forever. This poses something of a problem, since my dating dry spells also translate into sexual draughts: despite the fact that all white girls are slutty, obvi, I’m just not comfortable with casual sex divorced from any emotion or meaning. Don’t get me wrong: I highly enjoy my hanky panky and do not favor making gentle, passionate love over a rough, bruising, noisy tumble between the sheets. But for that tumble between the sheets to be enjoyable for me – and really, what is the point, unless it is enjoyable? – it has to be with someone I care about, and trust. That is just how I tick. Given that my last dating dry spell lasted 17 months, and the one before that lasted 26 months, and the one before THAT 18 months, y’all can see why I was pretty disappointed by the Universe’s warning that I was doomed to a life of singledom. I’m not ok with an eternity of abstinence, especially since I’ve only recently brushed off all the cobwebs, and rediscovered what it feels like to be a woman.
I decided that the solution to this quandry was to visit a sex shop and get myself some “assistance”. I might die a cat-less cat-lady, but this cat-lady wants strong pelvic muscles. #trainingcamp
On Saturday after training at the gym, I planned on visiting the sex shop next to the gym (our gym is located in vibrant area of town). That plan got slightly derailed because of froyo: Nene, 3 other boxers and I had a healthy post-workout snack. As we left the froyo place, they asked me where I was headed. “Ummmm, I have some errands to run.” I try never lie, whenever possible. Once I was sure they were out of eyeshot, I skulked into the sex shop. And froze, on the doorstep, as the door shut behind me. It turns out that I am definitely still Vanilla. Like, really Vanilla.
I saw things that despite looking at them for several minutes, I couldn’t figure out their purpose. I saw things that I did understand their purpose, and that made me nauseous. And I saw things that looked interesting, but at that point I was overwhelmed by the sheer plethora of items and nuances and variety.
I mean, why do some vibrators look as though they colorful dental instruments? Or weird mutant snail shapes? Why the fushia and the purple? So many questions.
During the time I stood there petrified, FOUR (one, two, three, four. 4!) adults in their fifties, strode in, like no big deal, confidently surveying the newest merchandise that could help them with their sex life. They all appeared unphased by the plastic penises long enough that I could wrap them around my neck like a new age fashionable scarf, or the anal plugs as big as my purse. There was a couple happily discussing the pros and cons of a wireless vibrator that looked like a purple bluetooth earpiece. When a helpful saleman approached me, I couldn’t even formulate a question to ask for assistance. My brain was so in shock, words were not with my repertoire; I just directed some hysterical hyenna giggles at the poor man. I needed a sex shop for beginners. I clearly was in the sex shop for the elite.
I left, empty-handed.
Next time, imma be sure to avoid the sex-shop rush-hour. I do not want any witnesses to my eventual conversation with the sales person.
Sex, even solo-sex, is an exercise in excruciating vulnerability.