My friend, J, informed me that she’d used me as a reference for a job at the Hustler Hollywood store. I went through the possible things they could ask to determine if she was qualified.
“Does J have the delicate sensibility needed to guide an elderly man with a furry fetish to the proper porn without giggling?”
“Since “Fifty Shades,” S&M is all the rage. Does J have a working knowledge of the use of whips, handcuffs, and ball gags?”
“Would J be willing to try out the Dr. Pink’s Anal Bleaching Cream and give it a review?”
“We carry over 150 varieties of dildos. Can J memorize the attributes of each?”
“And, most importantly, do you think J has what it takes to inspire our customers to buy a ton of sex enhancers and then go home and use them?”
I could unequivocally recommend my friend on all counts. I love Hustler Hollywood. For me, it’s equal parts adult candy store, science museum, and comedy club—some of their products just scream for the perfect one-liner. The last time I was there and purchased a vibrator as a door prize for The Sisters Provocateur “Panty Raid” show, the checkout girl took out two AAA Everreadys and asked, “Do you want to test it?” At first, I was appalled. No, I didn’t want to try it out right there in the middle of the store. And, I didn’t want to buy it if other people had tried it out in the store. And…then I realized she just meant try it out to see if the batteries worked, not to see if it hit my snazzy spot and such.
But, speaking of my snazzy spot, from my experience, what they say about women over forty is true. My libido is the size of Toledo. Part of this is probably because I am with a man who completely does it for me. Seriously, for me to get turned on all Frank has to do is screw the lid on a two liter too tight. Then, when I’m trying to pry it off, it gets me thinking about his strong, huge hands and what they can do to me. Seriously, one of the sexiest parts of a man are his hands and forearms. As a striptease, all Frank needs to do is roll up his sleeves. Admittedly, I also like a nice ass.
So, sex. I want it constantly. And, since the “real thing” is not always an option, I will be looking forward to the 15% discount that J will receive.
When another friend asked why I hadn’t purchased any plastic pleasure aids recently, I explained, “I’m hell on a sex toy, especially the ones with an engine. I always break them.” She looked at me with confusion, horror, and pity. I understand why. I said that wrong in so many ways. What I meant was that I am careless in washing sex toys and usually end up getting the vibrating mechanism wet so it doesn’t pulsate anymore. That’s why my favorite toy is a glass wand that is made out of the same king of material that convenient stores use to keep from being robbed. It found its way into my life as a creative alternative to a typical Christmas bauble at my annual ornament exchange party. It was dangling from a big gold bow. Oh, how it caught the twinkle lights and sparkled as it hung on the tree…like it was imbued with an ancient magic. After trying it out, I was certain that it was a mystical device blessed by Aphrodite, indeed.
Gotta go…all this blogging about sex has me a bit excited, and I hear the “real thing’ waking up now.
I have a confession…a somewhat shocking confession. As much as I pretend to be sassy and brassy and ballsy and badass, the fear of what people think of me permeates every aspect of my life. I will not walk my dogs because I’m afraid if they pull on their leash, people will assume they are poorly trained and report me to The Dog Whisperer. I also fear that because Doc has bald spots caused from allergies they will think he is mistreated. Tonight, Frank is meeting friends from back in the glory days when they were all big into the punk scene. I really want to go, but will probably bail because I’m afraid they are too cool for me, and will declare me lame. Tonight is also the Gypsy Poetry Slam. After winning four years ago, and then having my ass handed to me in front of a packed crowd the next year, I’m afraid if I attend people will recognize me and remember my pathetic performance, or will wonder why I’m not performing this year and deem me a has-been. Actually, I’m afraid that because I’m not attending the Kentucky Women’s Writers conference at all this weekend, people will think I’m not a REAL writer…or a real Kentuckian…or perhaps even a real woman. I’ve been carrying a gift card for a massage around for a year. I can’t make myself schedule an appointment because I have trepidations that the masseuse will think I’m fat. There are all kinds of fun adventures that I abstain from because I panic that I don’t have the proper outfit. I have this bizarre Paper Doll mentality, that I’m supposed to have the perfect costume for every occasion like Sunday Picnic at the Park dress, and Saturday at King’s Island Culottes. I know that it takes equal parts of deep-seated insecurity and paranoid vanity to live under the assumption that everyone is analyzing me all the time. But, this fear is becoming nearly paralyzing.
It must stop. So, I have decided to adopt a mantra that I will repeat every time these anxious thoughts enter my mind …my own version of “What would Jesus do?”…from now on I will chant, declare, and sometime yell to the rafters, “Fuck What People Think!” I’m even considering having FWPT tattooed on my forearm. At the least, I’ll have one of those rubber bracelets made. Hell, I may even do a whole line of jewelry. I can’t be the only one who feels this way. And, on a more esoteric note, I know the only thoughts I can control are my own. So instead of worrying about what people think of me, I’m going to be more cognizant of what I think of people, and how I can make those thoughts be of kinder, gentler nature. Who knows, if I practice enough, I might even be to think loving thoughts about myself someday.
The one thing that infuriates me to the point of nearly exploding in an irate eruption of boiling bourbon lava is cruelty to animals. Any time I hear of some barbaric bastard causing an innocent creature harm, it takes everything I have not to jump in my car, drive to where they are and inflict the same fear and pain upon them. I dream of being some animal-avenging super hero. But since currently, I do not have the power of invisibility, I would be caught and spend the rest of my life in jail, and then who would take care of all the sweet beasts in my life (including my husband).
So, for now, I can only volunteer at the Humane Society, send money to animal rights groups, and dream of a perfect world in which it is members of the Kingdom Animalia that exact the punishment upon these pathetic perpetrators. It would go something like this.
If you stomp a kitten, put a puppy in the microwave, starve an equine, or in any way hurt any fabulous fauna, the following are possible means of castigation:
1) Be hung in a simulated swamp where you would be blooded by leeches from the waist down and mosquitoes from the waist up.
2) Be dropped into a school of the carnivorous Humboldt squid during a feeding frenzy.
3) Be sodomized by a bison.
4) Be buried in a giant litter box with only your face exposed and then placed in a room with two dozen cats that have been fed 9 Lives Tender Carvings with Real Salmon & Crab in Gravy.
If you have any suggestions for other disciplinary animal actions, feel free to share.
So, in the past two weeks, I have become a total slacker. I've ceased to clean the house, walk the dogs, cook, lint roll the cat hair off of my clothes (on those pesky occasions when going outside forces me to put on clothes). Bills, laundry, and oftentimes me are piled up on the unmade bed.
I’m allowing Frank to keep all his HVAC equipment in the living room and pretending it’s just a really cool industrial art installation. I’ve been skipping meetings and appointments like I was a Double Dutch jump rope champ. I showed up for an interview yesterday without a notebook. I started to take dictation on the envelope from my unpaid electric bill, but it already had gum stuck in it, so I had to ask for a sheet of paper. At other times, this would have been mortifying. I couldn’t have cared less. I’m eating whatever I want including Sir Pizza Hawaiian Feast in bed chased down by cheap wine straight from the bottle. For my nightly midnight snack, I’m drinking a chocolate concoction with “Not FDA Approved” stamped in bold letters all over the packaging. It's supposed to have soporific effect, but obviously doesn’t work since I’m typing this at 3AM.
So, last week, in slacker fashion, instead of actually calling in and making a hair appointment I decided to try out a Walk-In Welcome salon, the same one Frank had used the week before. I should have known I was in trouble when the stylist took out the clippers and informed me that she’d taken the job there so she could “practice on her men’s cuts.” Wait…only one problem, I’m not a man. But, fifteen minutes later I wound up looking like one. Now, my hair is one inch long all over my head, and Frank and I are twinsies.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.