Passion Partiers Wanted in Greenpoint
I am not going to lie to you: during my 30-odd years of tip toeing along the primrose path of this mortal coil I have become prim. I have seen a lot of weird shit. Enough so to find what most people call “perverse” utterly devoid of interest. Unlike most of my fellow Greenpoint ‘nilla wifers, I seek boredom, not chocolate.
If there is one thing living (and working) in the Garden Spot will do to you, it is this: make you wish you didn’t know the sexual predilections of your neighbors. I learn about them regularly from my bedroom window. My husband often asks me why I am not that excited like “that woman”. I tell him because “that woman” isn’t married.
Bearing the previous in mind, you can imagine my utter revulsion upon finding the following at The Garden. I went to this local grocery store to buy lunch and nearly lost it before I even ate it. Greenpointus vomitus extremus retroactivus.
Maybe I am being old fashioned here, but whatever happened to going to ye olde sex shoppe to pump your junk?
Perhaps it is my post-feminism talking, but when I seek martial aides the sleazier the venue the better. The area around Penn Station has a number of establishments that cater to my effete brand of kink. Most have nudie booths and I like to hover around them to see who comes out. My husband finds this practice embarrassing. I, on the other hand, find it both educational and informative.
I want to see compellingly complex sexual gadgetry. The more Rube Goldberg-esque, the better. It’s sort of like putting together a puzzle or solving cross
wordturd. I like challenging discoveries. I do not like discovering that one of my sexually-challenged neighbors craves a Roto-Cooter 2007 Deluxe in my living room. Over crab ran gpoon.
Much like revenge, sex is a dish best served cold. Touchy-feely Fuckerware parties ruin it.
Does this mean if the hostess of said party sells a 10 inch dong she gets 1 inch back in “product”? WOW. She’d have to make at least ten sales to get what I have been told is “average” by the menfolk hereabouts (visual evidence contradicts their assertions, but I chock that up to the metric system). And I thought doing straight commission as a real estate broker was rough. I hope the lube is on the house.
Then again, you know what they say: everyone has a bullet with his (or her name on it). Maybe I should host a party and get mine? Oh wait, I already have one.