Who needs fiber?

It was the butt plug that did me in.

Before I came to the conclusion that the Almighty would not, in fact, strike me down for drinking or having sex, I thought Adult Shops were a place for degenerate fornicators who wore long coats and big sunglasses. They would grope their genitalia in a back corner, perverted glances concealed as they watched porn and read filthy magazines. I thought if you visited a place like that, your morals had slipped to places so low, that no amount of witnessing would lead you back towards the pearly gates; anything that might have to do with self gratification immediately secured your spot in hell next to people like Larry Flynt and Hugh Hefner (when he gets around to kicking it, that is). The End. I thought touching a vibrator or masturbation would invite blindness, insanity or, as one article I looked up today stated, thinning hair (which explains the bald pates on a lot of you men out there. Ahem).

Of course, then something happened, called growing up and moving past my judgmental attitude. God…I was SO judge-y! Which isn’t to say that suddenly I’ve grown fond of porn or visiting sex shops. Of the two times I have ever seen porn, I have been reduced to fits of giggles and pointing and gasping. Usually things like “And THIS is supposed to get you in the mood? Where do you think she got shoes like that? Why does she have such weird tan lines?” Let’s just say it doesn’t work for me. But I find sex shops deeply interesting. Sort of like an exercise in social anthropology.

So Saturday night, after a very civilized dinner with Angie and Kenneth, we were walking home, past the transvestites and pretty men of the Castro, when Kenneth turned to me and said “Hey! Do you want to see that video of the cock punch?” Well, OF COURSE I DID. The weekend prior, Kenneth had explained how they had walked into a porn shop and there was a video playing of men punching each other in the privates as a way of getting off. It was either go home and play Scrabble or witness the cock punching in all of its seedy glory. Clearly, Scrabble could wait.

And so in we went. What Kenneth and Angie did NOT prepare me for was the immense display of toys that were on shelves within the first few feet of the shop. Toys that were intended to be inserted up one’s bottom.

Now, I’ve had a colonoscopy, so I’m VERY aware how far up the GI tract things can go, but I wasn’t prepared for the sheer length and girth of these particular instruments. I’m fairly certain that they would require not only a passport, but some sort of travelers permit to wander that far up someone’s ass. In fact, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if, upon insertion, the tip might in fact come out through one’s open mouth. Further perusal brought me upon the anal beads which resembled something one might use to unclog your toilet. It would definitely need a preamble of wine and a heavy narcotic to fit into a human orifice. How would you approach your mate with such a device? Fortunately, it bore the name “The Rascal!”, which would definitely divert from its ominous appearance. “Bend over, love! The Rascal wants to come out to play!” I imagine someone might say, playfully slapping their lover on the bottom as a sort of preparation for what was to come.

Fearing that my head might explode and shoot out of my eye sockets, I went to amuse myself in the back where the bondage suits and crotch-less wrestling outfits hung. Pity they didn’t have one in Marc’s size as he doesn’t have a costume for Halloween on Friday…next time. Kenneth came over, crestfallen, to report that the cock punching video was not playing. Being that he very much likes girls, he wanted to scoot, pronto, and head back to Angie’s, but I needed to inspect the butt toys one more time. For research. I led him back up front for a second opinion. “How do you think these things work?” I asked, still trying to do the math: A + B seemed to equate a trip to the emergency room for an unintentional episiotomy. “I think you need a lot of lubricant,” Kenneth said. Angie approached, somewhat indignant over the fact that, in the entire store, there was but one vibrator hanging, dejected, amongst the plethora of butt plugs with a small tag that said, quietly, “female play.” In the Castro, girls don’t even rate CAPS. However, it was a lovely shade of purple with a neat design on the packaging. You know, like where art and sex meet!

We left, but not before I took several, covert pictures of what I was seeing. I’ll only post the one photo of the most robust plug (apologies for the quality. I was trying to be discreet). If you imagine a new toilet paper roll (double ply) you’ll have some idea as to its dimensions. If used, constipation would no longer be a problem. On the other hand, you wouldn’t shit right for weeks.