by Jennifer VanBuren
(10/05/05)
I do not have a gagging reflex problem. But somehow I wind up with a bottle of "Good Head" mint-flavored anti-gag potion tucked discreetly into a pink plastic bag, which I will find out later happens to be the perfect trash bag to hang on your cigarette lighter.
Dipping pita into bowls of various beige foods, I could not tell which of these women was the consultant. When she stood to introduce the new line of sexual enhancement products, I was only slightly surprised. Yeah, it was a sexy enough dress, but I could not stop thinking about her huge thighs as she passed us glow-in-the-dark penis candles, fuzzy handcuffs, and other cheap novice novelties. In this Southern heat, she must have a serious rub rash between them, because baby powder or not, friction happens. With every new lotion or gadget she passed to us, I just imagined her husband wedged between these thighs. I imagined he needed dental work and didn't take off his seasonal hat when he fucked her.
I am snapped back into reality by flashing lights and a low hum. "They all have faces on them, because in China you can't sell things that look like real penises." I am mesmerized by the red smiling face that jiggles as he reels and lurches in fourteen different modes, each with its own signature LED light pattern.
I have no desire to become married to the gyrating Chinese man, but I do confess to being hypnotized by this miracle of modern science in my hands, until Janice passes me the little blue dolphin. Clarify: an angry blue dolphin whose motor is growling for my attention. Loudly. "The tip of your nose has the same sensitivity as your 'doorbell,' so you can test him out to see what you like."
"Doorbell!" three women shout and raise their hands. Janice throws them the "hide-a-vibe" pillow in our game of modified hot potato.
The dolphin gets his turn on my nose. "Okay, I am sorry, but this is nowhere near the sensitivity of my clit!" I forgot I was talking. I forgot to call it my doorbell.
"Another Mint Julep?" Yes, please.
I call "Romeo!" when the consultant gives Janice and me the choice. "Okay Juliet, you make a fist, a tight one, there! Now put it down, that's it, so the opening faces up. Good girl! Now Romeo, I want you to take your finger, and try to get it in the hole, you know, as if you were having intercourse!"
She has me finger-fuck Juliet's clenched hand. I am transformed into a 7th grade boy with a hard on as I try to wedge my finger in this carnal reenactment. "Let me in, Juliet! "Then, with the magic of Astroglide repackaged into pretty pink bottles, my digit slips effortlessly into the tight grasp, and I feel all of the tension slide down my back and onto the chair, until I realize that I am still vigorously fucking Juliet's fist while the housewife sex consultant continues to pass around the fashion lube so that we too can have a penis slide right up our ass in style. Damn it! I mean back door. No prize for me.
Presenting magic jars of potions, the snake oil hustler tells us to pick our poison, hot or cold? "Oh, surprise me" I say, and she hands me a Q-tip dipped in doorbell polish. The bathroom is occupied so I sneak into Janice's daughter's glitter-ridden bedroom to slip the Q-tip under my skirt and twirl it around my clit. I am pretty sure this is not normal.
"Ooh! I feel like my pussy just ate a York Peppermint Patty!" one of the neighborhood women shouts from behind the door. She must have gotten the super-chill potion. Truth is, I cannot tell if I got the burn or the freeze, as all my doorbell and I are interested in right now is the all-but-naked Janice in the stretch lace bodice coming down the stairs in her new whore boots. Sure, it is cliché, but for good reason. My face is flushed with the rush of this live, lotioned, beautiful woman in her fuck-me getup.
And I just know that the next time I run into "Mr. Janice," my imagination will position his face between her legs under lime green stretch lace. Her nipples are poking through with the perker-upper cream, and I can almost taste the cool mint that bathes her clit. Suddenly the bourbon and my own nipple-lotion kick in, and I am buzzing like an angry dolphin, so flustered I wind up dropping "Good Head" in my pink bag with other products I do not need. Except the dolphin. Everyone needs a good dolphin.
