last week, i got an email from Beth inviting me to a party being given yesterday by one of her coworkers. she’d figured that if she brought along wild-n-crazy me, then she wouldn’t be too embarrassed to go herself (bonus, i could help her drag Vivian along, too). see, in our modern trashy age of hookerobics, people don’t host tupperware parties anymore, now it’s all about sex toys.
the email was subject-lined “dirty party” and linked up to the slumber parties website, so you could peruse their online catalog before you started drinking at your friend’s house. i’m all for this environment of shopping for toys like it’s a big fun adventure with your girls – plenty of people feel so much more comfortable in an arena of “everyone else is getting something, so it’s ok for me to want things, too.” but calling it “dirty” instead of “flirty” or “risque,” or just flat-out honestly saying it was a “sexy party,” seemed to just reinforce the idea that pursuing your own sexuality was somehow a less-than-moral thing. in a nutshell, that was the theme of the night: part open and hilarious and fun, but somehow trapped in the 50s.
the company reps (apparently pulling down commission in a tried-and-true mary kay pyramid scheme sort of way, as evidenced by the sales pitch for their sales pitch at the end of the night) were in jeans and standard-issue hanes tees with a company logo screened across the front, so as to not seem so intimidating as those sex-and-the-city cocktail-dressed women smiling forth from the website. the blonde early 30s housefrau in charge was refreshingly no-nonsense about many things (“this is the best product we sell,” or “don’t bother with this at all, we have other things that do it better,” or “my husband liked it so much he went and sold a few at his office.”), and annoyingly coy about others (“this product is for your doorbell…i hate using the word clitoris”). in a somewhat surreal fashion, every cream, instruction manual, lube, and vibrating device she’d brought with her was passed around the room in true tupperware party style. encouraged to try the various unguents on each other’s skin, we had a laugh riot at various ladies’ amused/shocked/blushing faces, most evidenced by the wide-eyed return of those who had been each given a q-tip of a warming gel product to “doctor their doorbells” with. but as soon as we’d laugh together about how much fun all this sex was going to be, it would swing back over to commiserating over what a horrible chore and waste of valuable time performing these acts is. “when he’s harassing you 5 minutes before ‘greys anatomy’ comes on,” she winked, “just grab these 2 handy little products, and you’ll get him off in 3 minutes. plenty of time to make the popcorn before your show.” maybe i’m just overly idealistic about my (former?) sex life, but when the focus has somehow shifted off of having a good time and on to “getting over with it quickly so he’ll stop harassing you,” why bother? if you need the foul tasting benzocaine anesthetic gel to knock out your gag reflex enough to blow someone, for the love of fsm, girl, change your technique or something. fucking for the fun of it = fun time for everyone, right? but this fucking for the sake of obligation or convenience is distasteful in a june cleaver perfect-cracked-smile sort of way.
it was a fun time, and i’m quite sure that several people that would never have otherwise sought out such things for themselves scored some loot. but i think i prefer my doorbell not to be candy-flavored.