Sometime in 2001, I attended a party at the five-star, luxury Hotel Bel Air. It was me, my friend Tara, about 200 other ladies including some chick who had been a star on Beverly Hills, 90210 in its final years, some champagne, a chocolate fountain and what seemed like more sex toys than you would find if you combined the contents of every sex shop in the Inland Empire and West Hollywood.
It was a sex toys smorgasbord, from lingerie to lotions, gels, powders, pastes and paints, dirty movies, naughty games, handcuffs, nipple clamps, dildos, cock rings and a handful of things I had never even heard of (e.g. The Sleeve—more on that later). It was a lacy, feathered, buzzing, spinning, lubricating, perfumed and plastic paradise of consumerism.
And, for the most part, the ladies in attendance were more than game to play. No one but no one could resist the allure of the vibrators. There were just so many of them. Rotating vibrators, ones with remote controls, realistic-looking vibrators complete with scrotum, the anal version, jelly or silicone vibrators, mini ones, the Bullet/Egg variety, waterproof offerings and o’ so much more. They came in all different sizes, colors and materials.
But the belle of the ball was clearly The Rabbit, an oddly shaped creature that looked like it could power a rocket ship to the moon. A favorite of Samantha from Sex in the City, this magic wand had a rotating shaft, a specially curved and enlarged tip meant to target the G-Spot, a small attachment of soft, flexible “rabbit ears” to ensure the clitoris wasn’t left out, a chamber filled with moving pearls for extra stimulation and a control panel for changing speeds. It would probably make a better story to say that we all dropped trou and fired these babies up for a test drive, but it was more like a bunch of heavy-petting and giggling.
I, however, wasn’t in the market for a vibrator because I had received one for Christmas the year previous, as a gift from my older brother. I know that sounds wronger than wrong, but hey, I was raised a hippie kid in Eugene, Oregon, so such a gift was considered enlightened and thoughtful (my brother also once gave my mom a rather expensive, plush vagina puppet—she really likes puppets). In addition, it may help to know that my brother purchased my vibrator while shopping with his girlfriend at Good Vibrations, the famed women-focused San Francisco sex-positive shop that was started by a woman to promote sexual health and pleasure. He wrapped my gift with two AA-batteries taped to the sides on one end so that it looked like a fossilized cock and balls. Anyhow, the point is that I already had a vibrator, a purple leopard print one, and I wasn’t really a fan of it in the first place, so I wasn’t looking for a suped-up version.
So what did I buy? In the end, I selected three items—a VHS cassette that promised to teach me how to dance like a professional stripper in only 30 minutes; the aforementioned Sleeve; and a package of gummy cock rings. The Sleeve is basically a soft, flexible cylinder which men are supposed to use for masturbation. Sleeves can be shaped like flashlights, beer cans, extra-large penises or realistic vaginas, but this clear, pink version had ridged walls on the outside as well, with the idea that a man could put it on and then you could put him on and get your rocks off on his extra girth. I think every woman at the event purchased a Sleeve, but no man I dated was ever willing to touch it so it sat in my underwear drawer until my fiancé-to-be demanded I throw it out.
As to the stripper how-to, I never removed the plastic wrap and eventually I sold it at a garage sale. And I ate the gummy cock rings one day when I was desperate for sugar but didn’t feel like leaving my house.
My selection of toys may not have made the earth tremble, but, in all honesty, I had a lovely time at that sex toys party. It was cool to see women of all makes and models blush and then get over it and then start to get a little raunchy. These women were taking their sexual pleasure into their own hands, and, you know, power to those husky ladies from the Midwest if they could make a little profit off our orgasms.
There’s now a whole gaggle of companies that offer Passion Parties, Pleasure Parties or whatever for you to consider hosting for all any and all lady-kind. After all, it’s the gift that keeps on giving.