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"Introducing Inanimate Objects into Your Bed"
by B. Marshall
My husband is of the British persuasion. Not really a country that's renowned for its adventuresome nature, sexual or otherwise. Rather the opposite, as one of 'em might say, so I was a bit annoyed when during a pause at dinner he said, "You know, I had no idea when I married you that you were such a pervert."
It bothered me, for about a minute. Because first of all, I am not a pervert, and second, it's his fault. He started it. He was the one who rolled over one morning several years ago and said, "I think it's high time you had a vibrator."
At the time, I was ambivalent vis-à-vis vibrators, because I considered myself exempt - I own a Mixmaster, what do I need an eggbeater for? But I did find the idea of the sex shop intriguing. I pictured a small, dimly lit shop staffed by extras from The Matrix who were knowledgeable and professional without making too much eye contact. I pictured exotic, discreetly packaged doodads that were both accessible and reasonably priced. I think what I was going for was an adult version of The Body Shop. So we headed uptown.
That's not what I got, as anyone who's been in a sex shop knows. Sex shops aren't about making you feel comfortable, nor are they about romance. Sex shops are about sex, and the raw physicality is displayed in all its pink rubber glory. And there are people in there! Once you walk into the sex shop, you are on equal footing with the person next to you; that is to say - just because you've come in for massage oil with your husband of ten years, don't think you're any better than the person who is pricing handheld vaginas. You're not. That's what was hardest for me to deal with. Reconciling with my inner pervert. But then I figured, hey, anyone who is not satisfied with exactly the same thing every single time they have sex is a pervert. So we're all perverts. Power to the perverts; we are the people. Once I had my label between my teeth, I could shop in relative comfort. And what the hell do I care what the guy next to me thinks? He's buying a rubber mouth.
As I became more comfortable with this, we expanded our horizons, and I learned a few things about the world of sex toys and their uses. For example, if you are female, I think it's important to make clear to all involved that the reason you are interested in buying that giant rubber thing is NOT because it makes your partner's look like a brine shrimp. Even if it's true. Things your pervert knows the rest of the world doesn't necessarily have to. And if you are male, and your partner is new to this: I would recommend starting small. To the untrained eye, there is little difference between some of those things and a police baton. You might want to downsize your fantasy for a few weeks. And if you haven't, for heaven's sake, be careful how you wave the thing around.
I am a firm believer in spontaneity and surprise in all things. Except this one. I just think you need to be very careful with the element of surprise when you're introducing inanimate objects into your bed. You may find that cute little plug highly arousing. But peeling someone off the ceiling after its unannounced introduction is not. Besides, I still believe that the greatest sexual resources we have at our disposal are imagination and vocal chords. Talk about it. Lie down and describe. Open your ears and open your mind. Ready to shop?
Thankfully, nobody (well, nobody who has access to a computer) has to go the route of taking that deep breath and stepping through the unmarked door of the sex shop any more. Thanks to such cozy, dimly lit places as good ol' Kinglove, you don't have to worry about that little man hyperventilating next to the edible underwear. No one has to know you're hiding a secret sexual adventurer inside that tasteful suit. So point and click your way to pervertdom. We are the world.
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