I get invited to a lot of home parties because my friends know I’m good for a $50 spend.  It doesn’t matter whether the hostess is hawking candles, cookware, or jewelry, I’ll buy something so she can get her bonus spending dollars.

A few years ago, I started getting invited to clothing parties, where you can spend hundreds of dollars on outfits without leaving the living room.  Those are kind of fun because the saleswoman shows you all these different outfits and before you know it, women are tossing their clothes off left and right to try on different pieces.

The problem with these parties is that we’ve been drinking wine – some of us more than others (you know who you are).  So you find yourself listening to your drunk girlfriends tell you that you look absolutely fabulous in that pair of plaid pants.  Unfortunately, you are sloshed enough to believe them, so you end up paying $125 for a pair of pants that, once sober, you realize make your ass look like your mother’s sofa.  Except bigger.

One of the newer trends is the home sex toy party.  This is a very interesting phenomenon, and not one that I’m sure I am fully equipped to deal with.  The first (and only) time I attended such an event, my girlfriend who invited me was a bit obtuse about the whole subject.  In fact, I think she called it a “personal accessory” party.  I thought that meant jewelry and scarves.  Imagine my surprise when I walked into her house about 45 minutes after the official start time, and the first thing I saw was a blonde woman holding a nine inch vibrator.  I couldn’t decide which was worse, the fact that it was waving back and forth, or the fact that it was purple.

“What the hell is that?” I asked Petunia.

“It’s a personal massager,” she replied.  With a straight face, like I was some sort of idiot.

“THAT is not a personal massager.  THAT is a big purple dildo,” I told her.

“Actually, it is a vibrator because it moves,” said the blond lady, as she struggled to keep the undulating device under control.  “A dildo doesn’t have a motor,” she helpfully explained.

“It’s a special for tonight’s party,” said Petunia.  If you buy $100 worth of stuff you get Tony here for a mere $49.95.”

“Tony? Oh my God, you mean it has a name?”

“Some of them have names,” said the blonde.  By now I had figured out she was the sales rep.  “<Company name blocked from memory>’s philosophy is that we want our clients to establish a personal relationship with their toys.”

Petunia smiled at me as she picked up another multi-pronged device.  It was neon pink.  “This one is named ‘Billy’,” she said.

“Petunia, I don’t think I have seen anything quite so terrifying in years.  Not to mention the fact that I don’t think there are enough orifices on the human body to accommodate that thing,” I told her as I slowly backed into the kitchen.  “I am going to get some wine now.  Or maybe vodka, I’m not sure yet.”

The rest of the evening passed by in a blur, filled with all sorts of humming noises, punctuated by the occasional squeal of surprise followed by a moment of silence as 60 pairs of eyes tried to comprehend the cornucopia of electronic devices spread across the dining room table.

Truthfully, I spent most of the party in the kitchen chatting with the women as they came and went, filling their wine glasses and grabbing bits of cheese and crackers that were being served on the island.  I’d never think of myself as a prude, but the entire situation just felt weird.  And half of the items for sale didn’t even make any sense to me.  This is probably because I had yet to read the book “50 Shades of Grey”.  Thanks to Christian Grey, I am now extremely well educated on the various types of sex toys available on the market, and could probably explain everything in the catalog.

Arriving home from the party that evening, I carried the candle I’d purchased into the house.  It seemed to be the safest item at the party, and I was delighted to have been able to do my part, although it was far from my usual $50 guarantee.  It wasn’t until I showed the candle to Bob that I realized what I’d done.

“Kelly, it says on this can that you are supposed to light the candle and drip the melted wax on your partner’s body,” said Bob.

“Good grief, let me see that.”  I inspected the can.  Sure enough, the candle was apparently made up of some sort of body oil that would melt from the heat of the burning wick.  I explained the difference to Bob.  “It isn’t wax, it is body oil.”

“So, dripping HOT OIL on my back is supposed to be better than HOT WAX?” asked Bob.  “Have you lost your mind?”

Look Bob, for all I care, we can re-gift this to the next couple we know that gets engaged.”  I then stomped upstairs to try and regain some semblance of dignity.

He’s lucky I didn’t bring home “Ivan.”

Categories: The Unexpected