By Walker Thornton of A Woman’s Page
I’m thinking about writing a letter to my best friend, to be opened upon my death. I’d beg her to rush over to my house and find my growing stash of erotica and sex toys so she can destroy them before my sons started rummaging through my stuff. As it is now, my son won’t go in my bathroom to get a Q-tip without asking first. What’s he afraid of finding? Well, there is the home pregnancy kit I bought last winter, it came in a package of two. (Don’t even ask.) There’s a 4-pack of Summer’s Eve douches, a few odd condoms strewn around, and my diaphragm. Oh yeah, and scented massage oil and lubricant. What’s the problem, I ask you?
In the bedroom, secreted behind my everyday undies, are some of my ‘toys’. Nothing too shocking. I’ve had a fairly vanilla sex life for most of my years. No gags or studded items. No leather, strappy things, or whips. And the books? Well, they could be considered writing material, research. I don’t own The Story of “O”or any terribly salacious reading materials. My collection is mostly erotica, written by women for women. Some of it is openly displayed on the shelf by my desk. I guess they’ll have to be moved once my granddaughter is old enough to read the titles.
But–I’m not finished expanding my horizons yet, and who knows what will be added to my stash in the upcoming years. I’ve just become an affiliate for Babeland, a sex toy website, which means I get a small percentage when readers link to that site and buy something via my blog, A Woman’s Page
It also means that I can request a toy to try out and review for them. I’d have to write a fairly detailed review of my chosen toy, and that’s the hold-up for me. I don’t want to talk in real detail about my sexual stuff, not when I’m blogging under my real name. It’s one thing to say cute things like, “It’s small and discreet enough to carry in your purse.” Or “the vibrations are just strong enough to send nice sensations through your body.” Subtle, but useful tidbits for the prospective customer: those comments I have been able to say comfortably. It’s the other more explicit information that I can’t bring myself to write about from a personal perspective. The this-went-where kinda stuff.
I do want to do a toy review, however. I’m dying to try the finger vibrators. They look so cool, and I’m intrigued by how small the batteries must be, or is there a cord? Imagine having little vibrations on several fingers that you can use in various places! I can only fantasize about their utility. I mentioned the little finger vibrators to my stitching group the other day. A couple of them blushed, and the ensuing silence was a tad uncomfortable. I thought it was pretty funny. C’mon. We’re adults. My god, I’ll be 56 next month. If I want to talk about sex toys, I think I’ve earned that privilege. Can you imagine when I’m 85 and exhibiting even less restraint? “Watch out, for the dirty little old lady over in the corner. She must have been a wild thing when she was younger.”
I worry about things I shouldn’t. Dying with my sex toys still around is one of those things. When I’m dead and gone, I won’t really know or care how my sons react. They won’t die from embarrassment, and I’ll already be dead, so maybe it’ll be an enlightening moment for them? But just in case. Sue, if you’re reading: there is another little goodie behind the fourth shoebox on the top right of my closet. I’d like to be buried with that one.