I am a sophisticated adult. I attended college during the free love era with both eyes wide open. I am forward-thinking and non-judgmental when it comes to love and romance. Two people being in love and expressing themselves with each other mentally, emotionally, and physically is one of life’s most perfect pleasures.
I am bringing this entire thing up because of something that happened the other day. My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.
Sis and I went into a large lingerie shop in another city. We always shop the competitions’ lingerie to make sure we’re not missing something. Just as I thought we were ready to go, my sister motioned me over to the back section of the store. I was met with shelf upon shelf of what I assumed were bath and body products. Once I got there and started reading the labels, I knew I was in trouble. My sister took a step back with arms folded and a big grin on her face and just waited for me to squirm.
I would not be taunted, so I casually picked up one of the bottles of pink liquid and showed it the same respect I would a bottle of Chanel No.5. I admired the container and gave it a short, appreciative sniff. “This is very nice,” I said, trying to be as cool and worldly as possible. The words were barely out of my mouth when, out of nowhere, a saleslady with a purple mohawk and a ring in her nose appeared before me, as if by magic. “So, you like our Groove Lube, do you?” she asked. My sister was about to spring a leak, she was laughing so hard. “Uhhhh,” I sputtered, “I’ve heard good things about it.”
My sister accused me of being a “prissy butt”, whatever that means.
The salesperson then proceeded to dot my hand with the pink champagne-flavored goo and began massaging it into my palm. “It warms up on your body wherever you apply it”, she said with a wink. Oh good, I thought. The next time I am involved in an amorous interlude, I won’t need a sweater.
Then, without skipping a beat, she asked about my “personal massaging system”. She took my perplexed look as an indication that I might be considering an upgrade in this department. If she only knew that the closest thing to a personal massaging system that I have is a little wooden ducky thing on rollers for back rubs. I never used it for anything other than to tease the hell out of the cat.
Before I knew what hit me, she showed up with this contraption called “The Explorer”. As she whipped this cylinder-shaped thing out of the package, she began her sales pitch by explaining that it was designed to replicate a man’s most personal body part exactly. I have no idea who the model was for that damn thing, but Paul Bunyan must have been in town that day.
At this point in the demonstration, she started to explain all the different attachments that came with this vibrating wonder. It had a spiky thing, and a bumpy thing, a plunger looking gizmo, and even one attachment that looked like a hairbrush. I swear this apparatus could probably do everything but clean your carpets. It had multi speeds, came in three “fashion” colors, and was waterproof. “You can use it in the pool!” said the salesgirl excitedly. For a second I got caught up in her salesmanship and thought that since it could be used in the swimming pool that I should definitely go with the blue one to match my swim fins.
Thank goodness my sister brought me back to reality. By now she was gasping for breath and crying real tears. “Is she alright?” the saleslady asked. “Oh, she’s fine”, I said, regaining my composure. “It’s just that she has always dreamed of owning her own Explorer and she’s just a bit overwhelmed”. My sister’s look of horror felt nothing short of divine.
The salesperson sprang into action, pushed me aside like yesterdays garbage, and began wielding that crazy thing on my sister’s arm and shoulder, changing the speeds as she went along. As sister stood there, half-paralyzed from embarrassment, I shot her a sweet sisterly smile and reminded her about the old adage regarding pay back.
I hurriedly made my escape toward the door. My sister followed my lead and bolted right past me and raced towards the car. I was almost out of there when the saleswoman caught up to me and in a last ditch effort to make a sale asked if I had ever thought about nipple clamps.
“Got ‘em!” I said without hesitation.
“Well, what about an edible G-string?” she asked. “No thanks, too many carbs!” I replied, just before the door nearly swung back and hit her in the head. As I hopped into the car, my sister motioned madly for me to hurry up. “Let’s get out of this crazy place!” she whined. Spoken like a true prissy butt, I would say.
