The other weekend I met my friends Violet and Eleanor at the Museum of Sex in New York to check out the condom exhibit.
I told my editor here at SexIs about the trip, as I figured I would return with lots of fun, but useless facts about condoms that I could use as fodder for a column. And useless facts I did indeed find. Like, did you know that early condoms were made from sheep’s intestines? Or that women once inserted crocodile dung into their vaginas and used it as a spermicidal? Or, how about this: You can sew a bunch of condoms together to create a dress that does not look like a bunch of condoms sewn together.
Yeah, I could regale you with stuff like that all day long, but, as it turns out, the most interesting parts of the Sex Museum were the porn room (if I’d lingered in that room for about three minutes longer, I would have become a part of the exhibit) and the gift shop.
It was at the gift shop that I saw and bought a pair of Smart Balls (a.k.a. PC muscle exercisers). I didn’t truly know what the dang things were or what I was supposed to do with them. I just thought they looked cute and I liked the idea of being able to say that I bought a pair of balls at the sex museum. I also bought some furry red handcuffs, a book about sexual positions, and some lollipop condoms, as you just never know when those sorts of things are going to come in handy.
Eleanor and Violet bought some balls, too.
Then we went to lunch.
Then we dared each other to put in our balls.
So I took my little bag of sex toys and sauntered up to the bathroom as if I were carrying nothing more interesting than a bag of cotton balls. I slipped inside the bathroom, dropped trou and looked inside the ball box for instructions.
There were none.
That was a problem.
To understand my predicament, you really ought to see a pair of balls. That’s all I can say about that. Was I supposed to put both balls inside my vagina? Or should one hang out? And if both balls, would they both fit? Was my vagina really that big?
I decided to stick one ball inside and see what happened.
Um. Pressure.
Yum. Pressure.
Wow. Pressure.
Now the first ball was in, but the second ball was out, just hanging there like a lone testicle.
It didn’t feel remotely right having that second ball just hanging between my legs like that. Honestly, it felt as if I were about to take a crap through my vagina. I don’t know how men walk around like that all day long.
I put my index finger on the end of the second ball and I gave it a shove. It went inside. Then it slid back out. I shoved again. Finally I shoved so hard that I worried that the balls were going to end up in my ovaries.
I pulled up my pants.
And that’s when the first tremor hit. Um, that was nice.
As I walked back to the table, I got a few more tremors. Then my nipples started tingling.
“How do they feel?” Violet asked.
“Like they want me to get laid,” I said.
I felt downright naughty. I mean, here I was, in the middle of a restaurant, and I was in this blissful nirvana-like state—the kind of state that I usually only enter when I am home alone and there is a vibrator between my thighs. I was quite sure that if my girlfriends would just stop talking to me already and let me concentrate for a second or two, I could have three orgasms right there, in the middle of the restaurant, and only me and my balls would be the wiser.
I decided to call them Bert and Ernie.
And I took Bert and Ernie for a stroll around the Village. About an hour later, three things were clear:
1. My panties were soaked with my womanliness.
2. I wanted to bed every penis in the city.
3. The only thing I could possibly think about was my vagina.
This vagina mind was so bad that my girlfriends were getting frustrated with me.
“Pay attention!” one said.
“What happened to you? You used to be smart!” said the other.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking with my vagina! Now I know what it feels like to be a man.”
We went to a restaurant. I was too distracted to even begin to think about ordering. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, telling my girlfriends that things might take a wee bit longer than usual because I was not feeling remotely like the master of my own domain.
Almost as soon as I locked the bathroom door, though, someone started knocking on it.
Bastards! I thought.
I decided to ignore the knocking. I had important business to conduct, and, by the way my vagina felt, I didn’t expect that business to take long at all.
I sat on the potty. I went to work on my clit with my right hand. Oh, that was nice.
There was that knocking again.
“Just a minute!” I yelled.
More knocking.
“Dang it!”
I removed Bert and Ernie, washed them, and wrapped them in a towel. Then I walked back to the table and extinguished my desire with multiple glasses of wine. The following night, however, I let Bert and Ernie have their way with me. The next day, I did the same.
Don’t tell my husband, okay? He might get jealous.
I told my editor here at SexIs about the trip, as I figured I would return with lots of fun, but useless facts about condoms that I could use as fodder for a column. And useless facts I did indeed find. Like, did you know that early condoms were made from sheep’s intestines? Or that women once inserted crocodile dung into their vaginas and used it as a spermicidal? Or, how about this: You can sew a bunch of condoms together to create a dress that does not look like a bunch of condoms sewn together.
Yeah, I could regale you with stuff like that all day long, but, as it turns out, the most interesting parts of the Sex Museum were the porn room (if I’d lingered in that room for about three minutes longer, I would have become a part of the exhibit) and the gift shop.
It was at the gift shop that I saw and bought a pair of Smart Balls (a.k.a. PC muscle exercisers). I didn’t truly know what the dang things were or what I was supposed to do with them. I just thought they looked cute and I liked the idea of being able to say that I bought a pair of balls at the sex museum. I also bought some furry red handcuffs, a book about sexual positions, and some lollipop condoms, as you just never know when those sorts of things are going to come in handy.
Eleanor and Violet bought some balls, too.
Then we went to lunch.
Then we dared each other to put in our balls.
So I took my little bag of sex toys and sauntered up to the bathroom as if I were carrying nothing more interesting than a bag of cotton balls. I slipped inside the bathroom, dropped trou and looked inside the ball box for instructions.
There were none.
That was a problem.
To understand my predicament, you really ought to see a pair of balls. That’s all I can say about that. Was I supposed to put both balls inside my vagina? Or should one hang out? And if both balls, would they both fit? Was my vagina really that big?
I decided to stick one ball inside and see what happened.
Um. Pressure.
Yum. Pressure.
Wow. Pressure.
Now the first ball was in, but the second ball was out, just hanging there like a lone testicle.
It didn’t feel remotely right having that second ball just hanging between my legs like that. Honestly, it felt as if I were about to take a crap through my vagina. I don’t know how men walk around like that all day long.
I put my index finger on the end of the second ball and I gave it a shove. It went inside. Then it slid back out. I shoved again. Finally I shoved so hard that I worried that the balls were going to end up in my ovaries.
I pulled up my pants.
And that’s when the first tremor hit. Um, that was nice.
As I walked back to the table, I got a few more tremors. Then my nipples started tingling.
“How do they feel?” Violet asked.
“Like they want me to get laid,” I said.
I felt downright naughty. I mean, here I was, in the middle of a restaurant, and I was in this blissful nirvana-like state—the kind of state that I usually only enter when I am home alone and there is a vibrator between my thighs. I was quite sure that if my girlfriends would just stop talking to me already and let me concentrate for a second or two, I could have three orgasms right there, in the middle of the restaurant, and only me and my balls would be the wiser.
I decided to call them Bert and Ernie.
And I took Bert and Ernie for a stroll around the Village. About an hour later, three things were clear:
1. My panties were soaked with my womanliness.
2. I wanted to bed every penis in the city.
3. The only thing I could possibly think about was my vagina.
This vagina mind was so bad that my girlfriends were getting frustrated with me.
“Pay attention!” one said.
“What happened to you? You used to be smart!” said the other.
“I can’t help it,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking with my vagina! Now I know what it feels like to be a man.”
We went to a restaurant. I was too distracted to even begin to think about ordering. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, telling my girlfriends that things might take a wee bit longer than usual because I was not feeling remotely like the master of my own domain.
Almost as soon as I locked the bathroom door, though, someone started knocking on it.
Bastards! I thought.
I decided to ignore the knocking. I had important business to conduct, and, by the way my vagina felt, I didn’t expect that business to take long at all.
I sat on the potty. I went to work on my clit with my right hand. Oh, that was nice.
There was that knocking again.
“Just a minute!” I yelled.
More knocking.
“Dang it!”
I removed Bert and Ernie, washed them, and wrapped them in a towel. Then I walked back to the table and extinguished my desire with multiple glasses of wine. The following night, however, I let Bert and Ernie have their way with me. The next day, I did the same.
Don’t tell my husband, okay? He might get jealous.
