A few weeks ago after work, I needed gas. The light came on while I was driving to work, so I knew that there was no way I was making it home without putting at least $5 in my tank. If you know me at all, then you know that I procrastinate to the fullest extent of the law without getting arrested. Therefore, I would not be leaving the next day in time to get gas AND make it to work on time, which meant that I had to stop that night.
The one thing I like about getting gas in Oregon is that you aren’t allowed to pump it yourself. It took awhile to get used to, but is the best thing ever if you’re feeling lazy and have a debit/credit card. Sadly, I had neither of those on me, so I had to go into the station to pay. BUT I didn’t have to touch that yucky pump handle (that always makes me feel like a dirty hooker because I have a “thing” about clean hands), so that’s a pretty good thing.
On the way to the gas station, I passed an “adult” store that I swore to myself I was going to go back to after getting gas.
This was one of the few times that I kept my promise to myself.
You see, The Manchild and I split up sometime in April, and I’ve been quite lonely ever since. It’s not that we had sex on a regular basis or anything. Hell, it had been months at the time we split, and the only reason we had sex in the last year or two was because I was drunk! Needless to say, I was sick of him long ago, and had pretty much lost my sex drive completely.
Until he moved out. Then it hit me in the face like a ninja on crack. My Spidey-senses are tingling like a mo-fo! I look at people I would normally never check out and think something like: “I’d totally do him.” “He’s really not that bad looking for a guy over 60…” “You look really good in pants. I bet you’d look better if they were on my floor.”
In all honesty, I could go out and find a random piece of ass anywhere I wanted to, because guys are easy and I’m still cute. I just don’t want to. That requires (minimal) effort, and having the time to see someone on a semi-regular basis. Between my sorely neglected friends, my crappy hours at work, and me not wanting to put in said effort, I just don’t have time for that shit.
I’ve actually got quite a few guys “chomping at the bit” to get into my pants. I just won’t let them in because they start text conversations with things like “Hey,” or “Hey sweet-cheeks,” or “What’s up” and apparently can’t be bothered to punctuate, spell things correctly, or hold an interesting conversation.
So, I stopped at the toy store to get myself a new “friend.”
When I walked in, someone said “Hi,” but I had no idea where it came from because I saw absolutely nobody near me, so I just assumed that the dildos were talking to me. “Well, hello!” I shot back with my best Mrs. Doubtfire impression, because who doesn’t talk to talking dildos?!
I found the “toy” section and started browsing. It was then that I realized that there was a cashier station hidden behind a wall full of whips and cute lingerie beside the entrance. I said hi to the guy behind the desk and kept going.
One of the very first things that caught my eye was called a “Pussy Pump*.”
“What in the holy hell is this?!” I thought to myself.
I took the box off of the display, and sure enough, it was exactly what I had imagined. It’s like a penis pump, but for your lady-business. Apparently, attaching this battery operated vacuum to your junk will not only engorge it (supposedly making things tingly), but increase pleasure and make it “rosy.”
Yeah, no shit! I imagine that it would be like when your foot falls asleep. As far as “rosy” goes, ya’ll have just been watching too much porn. The only time my junk should be “rosy” is after it’s been pounded into oblivion. Dry. Eff that in the A, dude. That shit hurts. No thank you!
*For the love of all that is disturbingly hilarious and unholy, DO NOT do a Google image search for this thing! It can not be unseen, and you may regret it for the rest of your life. I know I do. Also: don’t Google blue waffles. It’s not what you think…
I took out my phone to take a picture of the package, but the little man behind the counter told me that I couldn’t take pictures in there. I tried my best to act as professionally as an immature person can in an adult store, and rambled something about promoting their business on my blog, but he still said no. I told him that I wouldn’t attempt it again, but of course, I was lying. When I saw the huge black dildos, I whipped out my phone again.
This is when he started following me around like a lost puppy looking for food and love. He kept asking if I needed any assistance. I didn’t, obviously, but instead of saying no, I asked him where the fitting room was as I held up a strap-on dildo.
Clerk: We don’t have fitting rooms. You can’t try those on before you buy them. The straps are adjustable so you can make it fit properly.
Me: What about the belt? If you couldn’t tell, I have large hips and a small waist. Is that going to create a problem? I know that all sales are final because there are about eleventy-billion signs around here stating that.
Clerk: I don’t think it will be a problem.
Me: Well, can I at least take it out of the package and look at it? I need to make sure that the dildo is the right size. My boyfriend is very particular about what gets shoved in his ass.
Clerk (now blushing): I don’t think that model comes with a dildo. You have to buy that separately.
Me: This comes with a model?! Male or female? Are they usually pretty hot? I’m not very superficial, but if they’re too ugly, I’m going to be pissed. Ugly people creep me out, but if I paid for them, I have to use them at least once or twice before throwing them away because I’m frugal.
Clerk: I didn’t mean that kind of model.
Me: Oh. Well that’s very disappointing. You had me all kinds of excited for a minute there. Now I’m just sad.
Clerk: I didn’t mean to make you sad.
Me: Well, you did. You should be ashamed of yourself.
He didn’t say it, but I could tell that he was by the sheepish grin on his face.
With the help of my newly embarrassed friend/stalker/picture Nazi, I decided on a kit that had a vibrator and all kinds of amazing purple attachments. He went back behind the counter to ring up my purchase, and put some “tester” batteries in the vibrator to make sure that it worked…
Clerk: Does this work for you?
Me: I’m sure it will. It sounds amazing!
Clerk: This is actually one of my favorite kits. I bought one for my girlfriend and she loves it.
Me: I’m sure she does! Has she cancelled many dates since you bought it for her?
Clerk: Actually, yes she has…
Me: Well, then I guess that sucks for you. So, how many of those do you get to play with in an average work day?
Clerk: All too many.
Me: Well, at least you probably know the good ones from the shitty ones, right?
Clerk: Yeah… You’d be amazed at how many crappy toys I sell because they’re cheap.
Me: Oh, I’m sure. I should work here. I bet I could make tons of sales just based on my weirdness alone. My sense of humor, combined with actual knowledge would be dangerous.
That’s about when I started asking him how many hookers take their “clients” into the video booths in the back room, and asking how much of a pain in the ass it is to clean up the mess. It was a lovely conversation (at least for me), and he was so distracted by my oddness that he forgot to take the batteries back out of my toy.
So, other than this mildly entertaining story, the point of all of this would be to make sure that you’re super weird at the toy store because you end up with free batteries. And in case you were wondering: Yes. Fernando is my new best friend.