Sometimes I buy things on-line that shouldn’t be bought on-line.
Like desk chairs.
This one required assembly and I do not possess good assembly skills.
It was also too big and I kept whacking my toes on it because it stuck out from the desk too far and nothing pisses me off more than fucking up a fresh pedicure so something had to give.
Said chair now resides at a re-sale shop associated with a very worthy and distinguished charitable organization that, hopefully, is not frequented by buyers who don’t like fucking up their pedicures.
Perhaps a nice man will buy this otherwise perfectly fine desk chair. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the Ragin’ Cajun polish chips embedded in the chair’s wheels.
After I wrestled this behemoth out of the back of my car and wheeled it in to my friends who volunteer there, I took a load off and had a chat during which time another generous lady dropped off a dusty, vintage box that contained something that looked like a vibrating grenade.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a grenade because I don’t think they take grenades as a rule just like another shall-remain-nameless resale shop wouldn’t take the baby gate I tried to unload on them because they don’t take anything “that protects babies”. They did not seem at all bothered by the dry-cleaning plastic that covered a coat I was donating. I hope somebody with a baby doesn’t get that plastic wrapped coat since baby safety is not a priority with this shall-remain-nameless resale shop.
The vibrating grenade turned out to be a Stimu-Lax machine. Now, to me, anything that contains the word “lax” conjures images of something that wouldn’t necessarily be the size of a grenade so said vintage box required a closer look.
The Stimu-Lax was a hand held vibrator from probably the late 50s or early 60s thus the vintage packing. The woman who dropped it off cheerfully told us that she used it all the time when she was a kid.
After she left, we opened it.
Inside we found a pocket-sized paperback. A national bestseller called How to Make Love to a Man by Alexandra Penney. It was bright pink with a pair of lipstick lips on the front of it.
It was “The sexiest book of the year” according to Self Magazine.
Naturally, I sharked the book since a blog opportunity of this magnitude does not come along often. After all, a totally fine desk chair was a fair trade for a 25 cent book and there was no way in bloody hell I was leaving that store without that book.
I mean, come on! An entire book devoted to making women feel like sexual idiots? I was in h.e.a.v.e.n. I tore into it with the enthusiasm of a little boy with a book of matches and a can of flammable liquid. I hadn’t been this excited since I found a travel-sized dildo in a Gucci purse my friend wanted to put on E-bay. She was quite happy to be reunited with it, by the by.
But I digress.
The book was better than I thought. I was on ridicule overload. I think I actually had a spontaneous orgasm when I read the chapter headings:
Beating the Jitters (Funny. But it would have been funnier if it was Beating Off the Jitters don’t you think?)
Giving Yourself Permission(To use the Stimu-lax?)
Oral Sex Step-by-Step (There’s actually a learning curve?)
Gee, I had no idea that “learning oral sex is a little like learning to swim” and that “…in swimming, you’ve got to remember your breathing” (as opposed to holding your breath until you pass out which is always a mood killer). Thanks, sex book! You’ve saved my husband some future 911 calls!
Here’s the kicker….
Just before I absconded with the sex book, another lady of similar age spotted the Stimu-Lax . “Oh, I used to play with one of those when I was a kid.”