I don’t know about you, but I think sex toys are getting pretty
I mean, at a bachelorette party I once had, someone gave me a
piece of plastic that had more appendages than any deep sea dwelling creature
you’d care to name. This was something
that you could (apparently) use in bed while simultaneously snaking out your
toilet, cleaning your car’s exhaust system, unclogging your sink, and dialing
“Have fun,” she said.
Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
“Oh, I will.” Say-no-more, say-no-more.
I gave it to my six-year-old nephew. I think he uses it to attack his Star Wars
action figures. Darth Vader doesn’t stand
My next experience with things of this nature occurred when a
guy I had been dating for a while took me back to his apartment. There was romantic music on the CD player,
wine in the glasses, and lights turned down low.
He excused himself and came back with . . .ta da . . .a
“Did you get that from a robotic chicken?” I asked, taken aback.
“Oh, that’s one of those Japanese mechanical pets, then?”
When he told me what he intended to do with it, I politely
declined. I have enough eggs inside me
already, thank you SO much.
Then there are the inflatable dolls. I tried one of these out once, and it worked
pretty well until, after it was over, I gave him a lighted cigarette.
He should have told me he was a non-smoker.
Butt plugs are really freaky, but I’ve come to love them. I make my husband wear his all the time. He has had no gaseous explosions in years,
but he’s getting REALLY big . . .