What I mean exactly by that is I am not terribly skilled at being female.
My vanity is an apparition whose unexpected arrival equals the frequency and impact of jury duty subpoenas.
My maternal instincts are a flickering appliance bulb in a world of opening night spotlights.
Large gatherings of females drive an unnatural fear into my heart likely due to some cryptic combination of neural synapses and cellular coding deep within me. I have on more than one occasion consciously and unconsciously avoided events that were dubbed "ladies only." Upon being asked to attend Tupperware, Candle or Avon parties has accidentally resulted me coldly blurting out "No thank you - I would rather die."
Of course I then had to desperately backpedal to explain that I wasn't defaming the attendants, but rather didn't want to attend an exclusively "chick event" which of course generally dug the hole deeper, confirming my nomination in the asshole supreme court.
When a co-worker approached me last week about a party I had already started working up an excuse in my head until she explained that it was a sex toy party.
I thought to myself, "Heh heh - a Fuckerware party..."
The assigned date for the event had snuck up on me and before I knew it, I was knocking on the double doors of a strangers house wanting to come in to purchase dildos. The door flew open and a woman named Pepper embraced me unexpectedly. I felt foolish explaining who had invited me since Pepper clearly didn't care.
I was served red wine and taco soup and although that isn't a euphemism, it damn well ought to be.
They were both tasty and I took my place in a circle around a folding table with innocent looking bottles arranged artfully on top. The woman who was hocking the sex products seemed mercifully human and nonsalesman like.
Before she started in she casually asked Pepper if since it was her house, she would be willing to try something on later for demonstration purposes. Pepper smiled and nodded while the sales lady handed out order forms and pens with tiny rubber penises stuck on the ends.
The sales pitch then started in earnest.
Truthfully there wasn't much I hadn't already seen at sex shops I have been to in the past, but there were a few things that seemed intriguing. A spray that gets rid of the wet spot on the sheets seemed handy and this weird gloss that was meant for your nipples but she had all apply it to our lips with the dicks at the end of our pens. It was not only fragrant, but left a mild tingling upon application.
The saleswoman then started to talk about her favorite cream product which you apply to wherever a heating sensation might be appropriate. She then opened the jar and asked Pepper to demonstrate. Pepper looked mildly confused, so she instructed her to go round the corner and put some on her clit and then come back and issue a report.
Pepper looked suitably horrified. She stammered out, "I th-th-thought you meant I had to try on a HAT or something!"
She stared at the open jar like it was full of poison.
The agony on her face was spectacular and the gravity of the tension seemed to cause everything to creak slightly under the weight of extended silence.
I got up, strode purposefully to the middle of the circle and stuck my finger in the jar with temerity and maybe just a drop of showmanship.
I went around the corner and followed her instructions.
I started to giggle to myself about the premise of going to party and the subsequent sticking of hands down pants. I hadn't done this since an eighth grade episode of spin the bottle.
After I washed up and walked back into the room, everyone was staring at me.
Truthfully I felt a little powerful like I could do anything from mimicking the orgasm scene from "When Harry met Sally" to spontaneously dropping to the floor and yelling at the top of my voice that "it burns, it burns!" and suddenly claim to see Jesus.
Instead I just sat down calmly and started doodling with my penis pen.
Paul claims that I think differently than other people and I don't know if that is entirely true, but I do know that my brain can switch instantly from grandiose celestial thoughts to atomic level microcosms in short order. I remember concentrating on the clock for no good reason at all. The hands seemed to slow down and speed up while I watched it and the heat sensation began pounding at my castle doors. I became increasingly aware of the familiar gorge of blood to my sex organs. I bit my bottom lip as I realized it must they must be getting as red as my other set. The clock seemed so very loud to me as I only half listened to the presentation and every tick pushed me closer to the edge as I tried not to squirm in a room full of twenty or so women who were all randomly watching me for the slightest hint.
The number two seemed larger than all the other numbers and I felt like time was staring back at me. It had likely seen worse in its day.
Time stares at the world on a head of a pin.
I was trying to remember if I had just pulled that out of my ass or if I had read that somewhere. I started thinking about that book explaining Newtonian time theories. I am about to cum harder than a ton of bricks and I am curiously pondering Sir Isaac Newton's event cone theories. Now I am thinking about Athanasius Kircher, that's a name you can't exactly call out in ecstasy.
The number two is huge and looming.
The sales woman was now holding an enormous blue cock called "Mr. Dependable" and was flinging it about like a plane propeller... tick, tick... TICK.
Down I went, over the falls.
I didn't move a muscle except a quiet half-smile and it went completely unnoticed. I felt the after-shock sensation I usually feel, which I have only ever been able to describe as tiny bees in the pads of my fingers and toes. I broke apart my brownie and offered half to the stranger next to me as I was feeling generous.
I relaxed a little into my chair, as a poor replacement for well earned nap. Then I felt the low subtle stirrings behind my bellybutton of the whole damn thing starting over again. I almost laughed out loud.
The unending stream of demo phalluses were being handed around the circle and the wine bottle seemed to flow the opposite direction until someone ended up with a "Clit-o-patra" in one hand and a magnum of Merlot in the other. The Japanese line of vibrators were slightly disturbing as it is apparently against the law to make a likeness of a penis in that country. The manufacturers get around it by calling them "toys" and putting faces on them.
I pushed down the urge to suddenly start up a profane puppet show.
As the presentation drew to a close, the saleslady asked for a report and all eyes turned towards me waiting for information that could possibly leave them eighteen dollars poorer.
I considered lying or showboating or making some kind of oblique joke, but I was suddenly struck with the unexpected need to bond with my sisters. Perhaps I could regain membership to the club instead of just standing tiptoe on my ovaries and peering into the frosted windows of womankind.
I smiled and said, "Well I have popped off twice just sitting here!" and stuck half a brownie in my mouth.
Everyone bent down and furiously filled out their order forms.
Later on the sales lady pulled me aside to give me her card.
She told me to consider selling this stuff, she told me she thought I would be great at it.