I am an unfortunate mixture of naivete, judgment and insatiable curiosity.
Never was this more apparent than when a girlfriend invited me to a “Passion Party” this weekend.
What, you may be wondering, is a Passion Party? It’s kind of like those Tupperware parties your mother used to go to. But with dildos.
I was surprised to be invited. Not because I am not obviously the very first person you would want attending your pecker party, but because she is the absolute last person I can imagine admitting to having ever seen a pecker.
She is what my husband calls “straight off the plantation”. (Which he means to be a compliment to her fair haired beauty and innocent Southern charm, as opposed to some type of racially inappropriate commentary.) In fact, she is so pure and gentile that even now I can’t bring myself to use her actual name in this post. And I’ve watched her throw neon rings at an inflatable penis.
ANYway – Passion Party. A very mature gathering of very mature adults to look at very mature adult toys.
And they let you ask questions.
I would like to defend myself right now and tell you that the party host encouraged frank discussion. She said this was a great place to have fun and learn more. I think, therefore, that all of my questions and/or observations were completely justified.
And not inappropriate.
Just so we’re clear.
When we went around the room and everyone was asked to state their favorite position, and my very pure and innocent friend cupped her hands around her mouth before admitting that doggy style was her preference, it was in the spirit of having fun that I collapsed onto the floor in an uncontrollable fit of giggles.
Honestly, what is not fun about a 28 year old woman rolling around on the ground, clutching her sides and squealing, “Oh my God! She said.. heee… heee… you said… heee… she said Dooooogggggggggeeeeee!!”?
I stand by my original assertion that laughing and pointing promotes openness and fun.
When Fantasy Panties – a product resembling a black jock strap with a plastic broccoli floweret in the crotch and an accompanying remote control – is passed around, I think it only makes sense to ask “where the hell does the plastic tumor go?”
When told that the black plastic nub which is roughly the width of a baby’s fist is reported to go inside you and stay there for the duration of an evening out in public as some sort of exciting secret game among mates, it is perfectly reasonable to observe that “you’re out of your damn mind! That thing is huge!”
When someone tries to justify said black plastic nub residing within your body for an extended period of time by comparing it to other perfectly acceptable and comparably sized things that may on occasion find themselves in that same general area, it only makes sense that someone should clarify that “I don’t WALK AROUND with it up there all night!”
Completely. and totally. appropriate.
I even raised my hand before askin why in God’s name it would be a good idea to put a diamond studded anything in your butt.