R is for Revelation -- a Sexual Revelation that is

I am on the PTA and I sell sex toys. I never thought I could stand up in front of a bunch of women and explain how to find their G spot since I was still looking for my own. I’m no prude. I’ve taken the walk of shame more times than I’d like to admit. I had every intern in the hospital watch me spread my legs and pop out three cherubs. But I’ve always been private about my sex life. I never gossiped about hook ups unlike friends who’d divulge TMA. Did I really need to know how his balls smelled like Drakar (yuck)? It’s no surprise that presenting an array of dildos, vibrators, and lubes in someone’s living room is something I never expected to do.

I have friend, a network-marketing junkie, who dabbled in home parties, the kind where a bunch of women get together, get buzzed, listen to a spiel about housewares or jewelry and buy. Instead of selling Tupperware this friend began selling sex toys and loved it. I was intrigued by her enthusiasm and her bank account.

“My husband thinks it’s great too,” she said showing me her sex swing. And I thought those hooks in her bedroom ceiling were for hanging plants.

No doubt my husband would be thrilled to volunteer his assistance with this venture as well. But get real; I’d never be able to do it. I’m a nice girl, with exception of getting off on my rabbit pearl I was hardly an expert.

A challenge.

So I signed up and in a few days a brown box arrived at my doorstep filled with pink pulsating toys, pheromone releasing bath gels, and vaginal tightening creams. Now I just had to master the difference between a Loving Spoonful (a spoon shaped vibrator to help reach my new friend, the G-spot) and a Turtle Teaser that promised to keep you “cuming’. I was going to be busy.

Flashback—fifth grade bus to school. “I bet you don’t know what a blow-job is?”

my girlfriend asked.

“Duh. It’s when they blow-out your hair at the beauty salon,” I said. I should

know, my mother dragged me there every Saturday.

I can still remember her laughing like crazy and telling everyone what I said. And then she told me what a blow-job really was. Why would anyone ever stick a penis in their mouth? Obviously, she was a big, fat liar and now I was scarred for life.

No way was I going to ride that bus again. I was going to be the next Dr. Ruth. My fifth grade self would be vindicated. I would explore the value of anal beads and be able to explain how a jelly tube could simulate the feel of a real vagina.

 The night of my first party my stomach felt like I’d swallowed one of my vibrators. I’d asked a friend to throw the party for me. Great idea, except she lived in the same town. Women were coming to this party that I saw everyday: at school pick-up, the supermarket, Starbucks. Would they think I was getting off in the back of my mini-van every chance I had?

I dimmed the lights and passed around a giant black dildo like a torch. We were ready to begin.  As I unleashed each of my wondrous new finds the crowd whispered, giggled, and wanted to know more.

“What’s this for?’ they asked after tasting a minty edible gel.

“It makes going down on each other taste good. And therefore you take your time,” I explained redeeming my fifth grade self.

As the women grew more comfortable passing around penis rings and oscillating butterflies (use your imagination), I became more comfortable talking about them. Talking about sex -- real sex-- felt good. Empowering. Turns out I liked selling sex toys—it was an orgasm for my mind and my pocketbook.