Some stories get their humor from a punch line, and some of them are funny just because of the situation. This is one of those situational ones.
My friend, who I’ll call Josephine, is a really great person. She’s generous, kind, intelligent, adventurous, interesting, and isn’t afraid to act silly once in a while.
Oh, and she’s extremely liberal. Keep this in mind as we proceed.
A few years ago, I made the mistake of dragging Josephine into one of the local adult toyshops for shits and giggles. After wandering around and joking about the displays, I finally realized that while I was just being an immature idiot, Josephine was truly embarrassed. I was confused; this is a woman who’s been living in the gay district of an extremely liberal city for over ten years. What’s the problem? And that’s when it dawned on me that even ultra-tolerant, ultra-liberal people have comfort zones, and I’d shoved Josephine out of hers. I immediately felt bad for putting her in such an uncomfortable situation, so we left and never spoke of it again.
About a month later, Josephine came over and made an announcement. Namely, she had decided that it was time to get her first vibrator. And she wants me to come. This normally wouldn’t have bothered me, except it was less “I want to get a vibrator, and won’t it be fun for you to tag along,” and more “I am a fifty-two year old woman on her way to buying her very first vibrator, and there must be an experienced woman to witness this modern Rite of Passage.”
I guess in her mind, having the same BOB for a decade makes me the expert on all things that whir and jiggle, thus qualifying me for the position of “experienced woman.”
Now, the adult toyshop we went into before was one of those little boutiques designed to make people feel comfortable about getting off, turning their kink into a Lifestyle Choice. In other words, the perfect place to take someone who’s not been all that sexually adventurous.
Apparently Josephine’s desire to liberate herself from the prison of sexual conservatism didn’t overcome her need to price-shop, because she wanted to go to the other adult toyshop. The one with not just a wall of dildos, but a wall and three aisles. And massive bins of porn with titles like “Virgin Brides IV” just thrown all together. And an entire selection of lingerie that was in style back when beach balls were considered erotic.
You know, the skeevy one.
I, the “experienced woman,” am desperately trying to ignore the pasty-faced clerks quivering in fear and excitement at the prospect of not one, but two real women being within ten feet of them. Meanwhile, Josephine, the inferred “inexperienced woman,” is bouncing around the store, loudly asking me things like why the DVDs are so expensive (“Um, they don’t exactly make their production costs back in ticket sales.” “Oh, yeah. I can see that.”)
And then I’m staring at the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen: The Rabbit Vibrator.
And it’s speaking to me.
“Look at me! ” it says. “I’m so much better than that tired old thing you’ve been using for ten years. I’ve got more buttons than a universal remote. Push one, and watch me dance and sing! My shaft is double-jointed, with pretty shiny beads that run all through it. I have a clitoris stimulator in the shape of an adorable little bunny. And, I come in a wide array of colors perfect for matching your bedspread.
You want me. I know you do. Buy me. Buy me, and you’ll never have to cruise bars looking for Mr. Right again, because I have been so skillfully engineered for your pleasure that I will RUIN YOU FOR MEN FOREVER. And then, World Domination!”
And Josephine is waving this thing under my nose, asking me if I think she should buy it.
“I dunno,” I reply, visions of Sinfest’s “The Matriarchy”
“Hm. The floor model’s not working. I think the batteries are dead.”
“It’s a vibrator, Josephine. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“But I want to see if the action’s smooth.”
Josephine heads over to the service desk, where, like the competent professionals they look nothing like, the staff have batteries lying around for just such an occasion. After playing with the Devil’s Prosthesis for a few minutes, Josephine decides it’s perfect and buys it.
Five seconds later, we’re out the door and on our way home. She holds her head high, proud to have completely joined the ranks of the Modern Woman. I, on the other hand, am dragging my feet in shame, my head hanging. Apparently, I am not as ultra-tolerant, ultra-liberal as I thought. I have shamed my fellow women. The terrorists have won.
For five minutes.
I shrugged off my embarrassment and went back to work. Now, every time I think about my reaction to vibrator-shopping with Josephine, I giggle like an idiot at my own hypocrisy.
Except when I think about The Rabbit. Then I flinch.
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