By Kia Pantaloni
Like many lovers in Savannah, I was lucky to find my match here-one who not only shares but understands my appetite. In our three years (on and off), I’ve picked up my own unique remedies for a spicy love life, and one that I particularly stand by is that couples should make the effort to buy themselves a naughty gift once every month.
Personally, I love a good sex store on my own, but there’s something very exclusive and intimate about walking into that tawdry place with someone you love and picking out and buying something together in front of God and all the other in-store perverts. It’s like a shared sexual experience in itself—a delicious way to shamelessly flaunt the fact that you two are young, hot, and have killer sex.
Recently I felt that enough time had passed to add another addition to our bedroom play, a new kind of toy or some fancy lube at least. I looked forward to returning to the same place we had a most successful shopping trip long before.
It was midday. We walked through the door on a spur-of-the-moment whim.
“Hello!”
“Welcome!”
Overly cheerful voices and faces greeted us, causing our steps to slow into a tiptoe. We gave our tepid, obligatory hellos.
And then what should’ve ended completely there, didn’t.
I’ve been jaunting happily into sex shops since I was 18, and until this one day, there was something I enjoyed thoroughly about each of them: Privacy.
I understand good business practices and whatnot, but the two employees in this shop (one overly-eager girl in particular) seemed lost on the fact that just maybe some people want to be left alone while deciding which dildo is best to put inside themselves.
We bit our tongues and lingered at the front entrance while the cashiers attempted painfully awkward small talk with us (“Have you been here before? Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”). Suffice to say, it made our cross over to the wall of cock rings very uncomfortable. (“Let us know if you need anything!”)
My boyfriend and I stood a space apart from each other staring into the rows of dangling vibrators and french ticklers. When I asked him questions, he gave cool, quick responses. He was officially uneasy, and how could I blame him?
The pain, unfortunately, did not stop there. As we quietly slipped by each display, we were pulled into more and more horribly amicable and ill-placed conversations. I literally was asked where I’m from while trying to decide between flavored or climax burst lubricant. I was asked if I go to school while thumbing through fat leather paddles. It got to the point where I almost asked them to leave us alone. My poor, uncomfortable boyfriend held onto his nerves and politely stammered through their questions, while I bitterly resigned to the fact that this smutty shopping trip was not the bubbly venture I had romanticized. That bubble had been popped—to completion later when they rang us up and told us to Like them on Facebook and come back soon to check out their new stuff.
The lube I bought that day now sits untouched at my bedside, terrified that its use will spawn a similarly awkward scenario reminiscent of the shopping trip from whence it came. Perhaps it wasn’t such an unlucky twist that the glass slide my boyfriend bought from them also broke effortlessly the very next morning!
I never thought that one day I would have to write about respecting people’s privacy while they look at vagina molds and anal plugs, but if this what my cards have dealt me, then I will gladly accept this article as my soap box:
I believe I speak for all couples out there when I say that we DO NOT want your help or pithy comments while shopping for ball gags and matching harnesses. If we wanted your input, we would invite you in on a three-way, but we’re not going to because your roots are a mess and you’re a white girl wearing Apple Bottom jeans. I implore to all sex shop employees, if I walk through the door, PLEASE treat me like the miserable, invisible piece of shit that I am, k thx!
