This is Part Three in a series of posts promoting the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign to benefit RAINN, the Rape and Incest National Network.
Let me repeat my earlier warning one last time:
If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me.
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. PG-13 entries will resume later this week.
Read Part One here
Read Part Two Here
“Oh! I know what I want to show you!”
I turned around and she had one more vibrator in her hand. She adjusted this one some more, searching for something. As she walked toward me, I felt a unique sense of pride in my accomplishments. I had held almost every vibrator in the store, learned the proper techniques for the care and maintenance of glass dildos, and discovered that vaginal barbells exist. I was confident that my level of discomfort had finally reached its plateau.
Looking back on that moment, I now realize just how naïve I was.
“This one has some amazing settings, but let me show you the best way to really tell the difference…”
She walked toward me holding the buzzing device. My false veneer of bravado began to splinter as she got closer and closer. Everything started to move in slow motion at that point – I reached out my hand, saw her slowly shake her head from side to side, then watched in a state of paralysis as she lifted the machine up toward my face, adjusted the settings, and then pressed the vibrator against the tip of my nose.
This bears repeating: a complete stranger held a display model vibrator against my face.
The second I felt the vibrations, the adult toy store became a scene from The Matrix, where everyone was frozen in mid-air and the camera spun around us 360º, except instead of watching a bullet whiz by my chest, I was able to see the sound vibrations from the OrgMaster 3000 as it reached the tip of my nose.
Once time unfroze again – which seemed like hours later – all I could say was “Wow,” and inch back ever so slightly from the vibrator pressed against my face. Without taking my eyes off the sales woman, in the event that she had any other ideas about live demos, I felt around on the table blindly for one of the models she had demonstrated earlier.
I drew back a fistful of silicone and said, “Want. Buy. I go now.”
At that moment, a man walked into the store, looked at me and said, “Oh! My wife just got that model. She loves it! The best part is…”
“Sold!”
I had to get the hell out of there, and the only thing I had left, the only shred of modesty I could retain, was that I would refuse to listen to what this man’s wife did with the vibrator I was about to buy.
“Excellent choice! Pink or fuschia?”
“Fuschia?”
“Good call.”
I grabbed my discrete brown paper bag and sprinted out the door.
They say that when you share a traumatic experience with someone, it bonds you to them forever. While we may have been perfect strangers when she held that vibrator to my nose, today, I’d take a bullet for that adult toy store sales woman. I can never look her in the eyes again, but I’d totally take a bullet for her.
My first foray into the world of adult toys was an eye-opening one for me. If you can learn anything from Old John Henry and me, it’s this: you can’t fight progress, unless you want to die trying. You may as well just submit to the machines, because as history has proven, they’ll beat you time and again. And again. And again. Oh, god. And again.

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!
Click here to donate!

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This is Part Two in a series of posts promoting the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign to benefit RAINN, the Rape and Incest National Network.
Let me repeat my earlier warning:
If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me. You know who you are.
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Read Part One here

Part Two
“What can I help you find?”
I stood there silently for a moment, without turning around, then carefully slid the Tantric Sex DVD back onto the shelf, took a deep breath and exhaled, “I think I’m in the market for a vibrator.”
The sales clerk was blonde and heavily tattooed. She flashed me a smile and said, “Great, do you have anything specific in mind, or just want me to show you around?”
This was the moment I had been expecting, which was why I had spent countless hours on the Internet preparing myself to be able to talk the talk. I had done my research and was going to convince her that I was no newbie.
“I’ve heard good things about the Pearl Whisper. Do you carry it?”
She seemed a bit surprised, but said, “Oh, definitely – it’s over here.”
It became immediately clear to me that Toys in Babeland needed to add some sort of gauge – like maybe a dollar bill – next to all the photos on their site for scale purposes, because what the saleswoman lugged over to me was the size and shape of a fire hydrant. An opalescent blue fire hydrant with 12 different speeds.
My cover was blown.
“Oh my god! That’s enormous – are you kidding me?!”
She laughed out loud, “Yeah, it gets that reaction sometimes. Let me show you something else.”
She took a very serious, almost clinical approach to showing me around. It was kind of like shopping for a car, as she walked through all the features and functionality, and had me hold each model to test drive it, so to speak, as she cycled through the various settings.
The entire store was humming like a power plant. Suddenly, I felt like Goldilocks in a forest of sex toys. This one was too small, that one too big. This one had no battery life, that one was too loud.
She had no idea how completely uncomfortable I was. I was masterful in my deception. It was just like when I went to Munich in college, not knowing a word of German. I found that if you shouted and pointed with enough authority, people assumed that they were the dumb ones for not being able to understand you.
“Hey!” I yelled. “What’s that one all about? Ohmigod, is that supposed to be a rat?”
“It’s actually a dog.”
“Why does it have claws?”
There were dogs and rabbits and mice and dolphins, and it became very clear to me that I didn’t want anything with a face, let alone claws.
We rolled our eyes and laughed and bonded.
For all the fake confidence I mustered, I could still feel that my cheeks were giving me away. At one point, she picked up one of the models and fiddled with the settings a bit until she found the one she was looking for. She grabbed my hand and placed the vibrator in it.
“There. Feel that? Yeah, that’s the one. Feel the thump, thump, thump?”
I did, but I had assumed it was the vein in my temple about to burst due to the unprecedented levels of blood rushing to my face.
“What’s that?” I pointed, desperate to change the subject.
It looked like one of those clackety-clacker toys you had as a kid – two balls on the end of a string that smacked together, inevitably smashing your fingers.
“Oh – those are for your kegel exercises. You just insert that like a tampon and wear it around all day. Helps build up your muscles, and feels really nice, like a clit piercing.”
“Ah. Mmm hmm. I see.”
I was feeling light-headed, but soldiered on.
“Oh! I know what I want to show you!”
I turned around and she had one more vibrator in her hand. She adjusted this one some more, searching for something. As she walked toward me, I felt a unique sense of pride in my accomplishments. I had held almost every vibrator in the store, learned the proper techniques for the care and maintenance of glass dildos, and discovered the existence of vaginal barbells. I was confident that my level of discomfort had finally reached its plateau.
Looking back on that moment, I now realize just how naïve I was.
[To Be Continued]

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!
Click here to donate!

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As many of you are probably already aware, Kevin from kapgar and author Carly Milne have put together the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign to benefit RAINN, the Rape and Incest National Network.
Here’s the scoop from Kevin’s site:

“April is National Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention Month, and it’s a big month for the Rape and Incest National Network (RAINN). The organization’s goal is to raise enough money to be able to offer victims of sexual abuse, sexual assault and rape an online hotline offering counseling and assistance 24 hours a day, seven days a week. RAINN’s Chelsea Bowers, Kevin Apgar and Sexography author Carly Milne have banded together to launch a one-of-a-kind online fundraising event to help RAINN reach that goal… but they need your help! All you have to do is do what you already do – blog, but with a twist.
Carly’s book, Sexography, is both a tragic and comedic memoirs about her journey of sexual self-discovery. And now, it’s your turn to blog your own version of Sexography. Even if you’re not a “sex writer” per se, we want to encourage you to explore the comedy, fear, silliness, scariness, million-and-one emotions and million-and-one experiences that are mental, physical, emotional and spiritual, all of which make up the rich tapestry of sexuality.”

So since sex is a topic I rarely cover, I figured now was as good a time as any to break that barrier. A few quick notes, though:
If you are:
a) uncomfortable with the topic of sex toys and self-love, or
b) in any way related to me…
… please know that you are reading at your own risk. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Steel Drivin’ Man – Part One
I had walked past the store dozens of times, always glancing in without being too conspicuous.
Tulip, an Intimate Toy Gallery, the sign said. The delicate lace curtains spoke of a Martha Stewartly quiet elegance, but the leather whip and harness in the window told me otherwise. As I would peek in the welcoming yet daunting doorway, I would catch a glimpse of row upon row of cheerful, brightly colored silicone apparatuses.
For all my perceived open-mindedness, I had to admit that I was a bit of a sexual luddite when it came to self-love. Some habits die hard. As with any form of technology, there are the “early adopters,” the “me-too’s,” and the “Ohmigod, how is it possible you don’t already own one of those’s?”
I just recently figured out how to text message, so it should be clear into which category I fell.
But much like John Henry, that steel drivin’ man, I was a believer in the human spirit. As the tale goes, that salesman came to town with promises of a machine that could do the work of ten railmen, better and faster. Old John knew that no steam engine could out-pace the brute force of his pounding flesh, and I felt exactly the same way.
“T’ain’t no machine can beat me,” I thought.
Over time, though, curiosity started to itch at me like a fresh mosquito bite on my ankle. What if it’s true, what they say? What if this technology is the wave of the future? What if it really is faster, better, more efficient than me? Do I want to end up like poor John Henry, a dead winner?
So I decided that I would go into that store, but not right away. First I needed to educate myself so as not to seem the rube. I hit the Internet hard, spending time on all the key sites: Good Vibrations, Come as You Are, Toys in Babeland, all of them. I studied the makes and models, read customer reviews, learning everything about battery life, charging time, noise level and portability.
I was ready.
It was a Wednesday evening when I finally walked into my local adult toy store. I remember this because it was a calculated decision. I didn’t want to go there too close to the weekend, lest I seem like I had nothing better to do, and too early in the week just seemed wrong, like going to a bar at 10:00am.
It was a small store – intimate, just like the tagline said – and made me feel like I was walking into one of those exclusive clothing boutiques in the hipster neighborhoods. You know the ones – where each table has only one sweater lying perfectly in the center so you don’t dare touch it. Except here, the center table was stacked high with every possible type of vibrator known to woman.
Like a ninja, I slithered along the walls, past the nipple clamps and ball gags, toward the bookshelves. I’m just here to read, because I’m a reader, I said to myself. There was one other customer in the store, and she was at the checkout counter, so I quickly occupied myself by perusing the lesbian erotica section, admiring the collection of hand-blown glass dildos, and flipping through the position-a-day calendar to see what was on my birthday… until finally I heard the words I was dreading:
“What can I help you find?”

[To Be Continued]

If you decide to donate to RAINN as part of this awareness campaign, be sure to write “GBBMC2008” in the “More Information” box and note that you came from Run Jen Run. And if you’re interested in joining all the other bloggers promoting this cause, you can sign up at Kevin’s site through April 15th. Thanks!
Click here to donate!

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I made an important decision just now – one that will impact all of 2008, and potentially beyond. Last year, I chose Ann Margret as my personal sponsor and guide for 2007 because of her sexy grooviness and devil-may-care attitude. I love Ann for everything she did for me, but 2008 is a new year and that calls for a new sponsor.
Tonight, as I was sitting on my couch eating dried apricots, I had somewhat of an epiphany. This will be the year of Ja’net. Yes, I’ve selected Ja’net Dubois, or more specifically, her character Willona from Good Times, to guide me through 2008.

I seriously want her exact outfit here, including the hat:

Top 5 Reasons You Should Love Willona:
a. She’s funny *and* foxy.
b. She’s sassy. She doesn’t take lip from anybody, especially not Bookman, the superintendent.
c. She’s got a big heart, like when she takes in Penny (Hey! Isn’t that Janet Jackson?) from her abusive home.
d. No one looks finer in a jumpsuit.
e. She co-wrote and sang the theme song to The Jeffersons. Well, Ja’net did, not Willona.

And that is why Willona Woods is my 2008 sponsor. I see good times in my future. Good times, indeed.

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Sometimes when I’m having writer’s block because I never get enough sleep or because I hear news that makes me sad, I open up a folder I call, “Blog Ideas.”
And today when I did that, I had absolutely no idea what I was thinking when I wrote item #28, which was simply, “Pandas having sex.”
But then I thought about it some more because there had to have been a really good reason I wrote that down in my official “Blog Ideas” folder, and then suddenly, I vaguely remembered being at my grandma’s house a year or so ago and watching some nature show about pandas.
I then recalled that pandas can only get pregnant something like once a year during a 3-day period, and since that’s the only time they have sex, they never get enough practice to know how to do it quite right.
And then I remembered seeing a bunch of scientists who devoted their entire lives to watching pandas have sex and then trying to figure out if the pandas got pregnant or not. See, pandas are kind of like kangaroos because their babies are wee and hairless, which makes it really hard to tell if the females are pregnant.
So anyway, at one point, all the scientists were watching the female panda because she seemed to be acting a little strangely, when all of the sudden, a tiny baby panda shot out of her butt and slammed into the glass wall. Turned out she was pregnant after all. She licked the baby and it was just fine. The scientists might have hugged or high-fived, I can’t really remember.
I think we’re all pretty clear on why that idea didn’t make it any higher than #28.

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Hey guys, sorry to tell you like this, but I totally have to cancel TequilaCon. I just found out that I’ve got a thing I need to do that weekend, so, you know. Some other time.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA APRIL FOOLS!

Wasn’t that hilarious when I tricked you? OMG, I’m peeing. Wait… what? You just canceled your flight? No… no. I was totally joking! It’s still on! TequilaCon isn’t really canceled! And now it’s going to cost you an extra $400 to rebook? But… I didn’t think you’d believe me. Are you serious? Why would you cancel your flight? And how did you even do that so fast? I mean… it was just a joke.

Oh god. Oh, I feel sick. I’m sick right now. I’m so sorry. See, this is why I hate April Fool’s Day.
Look – if it really was canceled, would Dave2 have designed this kickass poster? Of course not! See – it’s still on!

So for those of you who didn’t fall for my clever April Fool’s trick, here are the details once again:

TequilaCon ’08: Yes It’s Still On
May 3rd, 2008
6:00pm – ?
North Bowl Lounge ‘n Lanes
Philadelphia, PA
Look forward to seeing you all there!

18 Comments; | Filed under: TequilaCon

Sometimes I wonder why I’m not more productive, and don’t have more to show for my 37 years, but then I remember that I just spent the past 30 minutes deep inside the rabbit hole known as Flickr looking at page after page of photos of people with beards. Not anyone I know… just random people with beards.
So clearly the reason I don’t have more to show for my life is because of all those damn people with beards. You know who you are.

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Today we’re going to play a game called Three Truths and a Lie. The goal is to see if you can distinguish fact from fiction.
1. I love honey.
2. I love lattés.
3. Starbucks now makes honey lattés.
4. I think the Starbucks honey latté is the most delicious beverage I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.

Hint: They’re repulsive.

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Few people are given a chance to make up for a decades-old mistake, but on Saturday, even though she was sitting at home in Milwaukee unawares, comfortably playing Yahtzee and eating Jack’s pizza, my friend Dee-Dee was given such a chance.
Then:
It was 1988 and Dee-Dee had just moved into the dorms. Still riding high on a wave of small-town celebrity, having been voted “Most Friendly” by her senior class mere months earlier, Dee-Dee was a blur of toothy smiles, belted sweaters and sky-high bangs.
Her friend from high-school moved into the dorms too, and was assigned a room with a sensitive, arty girl who wore oversized floppy velvet berets and Doc Marten boots. Rumor had it she was a film major because she spent a lot of time in her room with the shades drawn.
Dee-Dee soon learned that the girl’s name was Natasha. She was from Chicago, and that gave her an edge. Nat didn’t wear Tretorns or high-waisted Benetton jeans, and she had friends who wore a terry cloth shirts with kittens on them long before the concept of ironic T-shirts even existed. But what defined Nat more than all of this – more than the black boots and the giant stereo headphones and the Pretty in Pink peasant shirts – what truly defined Natasha was her utter devotion to one man: George Michael.
So when Nat found herself during that second week of school with an extra ticket to the George Michael concert, and when she knocked on Dee-Dee’s door while Dee was listening to When in Rome, it meant something. This was a big deal – a really big deal. Nat wouldn’t have asked just anyone to see George Michael, but Dee-Dee didn’t see that. Dee got scared because where she came from, people didn’t just ask strangers to go places, unless it was a brat fry sponsored by the 4H Club. She panicked, so she made up a lie.
“Oh… I can’t.”
It was an embarrassing lie – almost insulting in its lack of effort. It would take years for Dee to hone her now pathological ability to spin a tale, but still, it did the trick. Natasha went to the concert alone and switched her major to photography. Over the coming months, Dee would come to trust Nat, and eventually understood that different didn’t necessarily mean dangerous. Soon enough, they found themselves meeting up for sodas in the cafeteria and joining aerobics classes in the gym in the basement of the dorms.
“She was my first alternative friend,” Dee would later comment. “I have a ton of regrets about the George Michael concert.”
Now:
Natasha, Farnsworth and I were in the car on our way to dinner when Nat screamed something unintelligible and started frantically scribbling in her notebook.
“What? What are you freaking out about?”
“There!” she said, pointing to a row of posters plastered on a wall.
I looked over and saw dozens of giant George Michael heads, advertising his upcoming North American Tour, his first in 17 years. Nat was already texting her sister to make plans.
We spontaneously launched into a George Michael medley, starting with Father Figure, building up to Monkey and Careless Whisper, and ending with Freedom ‘90.
“Hey! You should go with me! You, me and Farnsworth.”
Before I could respond, Farnsworth chimed in, “No way I’m going to a George Michael concert.”
“What? You seriously won’t go with me? I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“All right, Jenny. It’s you and me.”
After hearing about the ill-fated George Michael/Dee-Dee debacle of 1988 for years, I felt completely honored to be invited to this reunion tour. I never would have considered myself a George Michael fan, but somehow I knew all the lyrics to every song Nat rattled off. It would be a once-in-a-lifetime event, and I would be able to lord this over Dee-Dee for the rest of our lives, because I would be the friend who accepted her invitation to see George Michael. I would be “Most Friendly,” not Dee.
I was secretly thrilled and made a mental note to start downloading songs from iTunes, which is why I can’t really explain what came out of my mouth next.
“He smokes crack, you know.”
“What did you just say?”
“George Michael. He’s a total crackhead. And I’m pretty sure he snorts meth at rest stops, too.”
“NO HE DOES NOT! YOU TAKE THAT BACK!”
“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”
“You are uninvited. UNINVITED!”
“What? But I was just-“
“It’s too late! You’re not coming!”
“Fine. I’ll go anyway, and I’ll get better seats than you. Plus I’ll get Dee to make some calls and get me a backstage pass, too. And then I’ll smoke crack with George Michael and you won’t.”
We sat in uncomfortable silence for the remainder of the ride to the restaurant, where a fortunate bottle of Pinot Noir made all the bad memories go away.
For the past two days, Natasha has been researching all the tour dates and locations, mapping out a strategic plan of where we’ll go next if for some reason Chicago sells out in 5.4 seconds. I suggested Vegas and Toronto. She seems to be leaning toward DC.
As much as I wanted to keep this to myself, I couldn’t help but tell Dee-Dee that this was perhaps her one and only opportunity for redemption, as this is likely George Michael’s last US tour ever. We agreed that we would all go together. I’ve been searching for velvet berets on eBay all evening. Dee and I are finally going to make this dream come true for Natasha. It’s everything she wants.

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Top 10 Reasons Living in the Midwest Can Totally Suck:
1. Severe snowstorms in almost-April
2-10. See above

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