When my husband and I went to Paris for our anniversary, I planned a week of museums, wine, and romance. I was pleasantly surprised when it turned into pornographic adventure.
I have always been shy about sex, and can’t talk about it without blushing. In an effort to try and break out of my shell with my husband, I have at various points in our relationship bought graphic books on sexual positions, made a laughable attempt at a sexy lap dance, and turned myself into a lingerie-clad present.
Obviously, I am not a show pony in bed, so I decided to make things a little spicier in Paris. Should we have sex at the Eiffel Tower? Fellatio in the gardens at Versailles? No, nothing so bold for this vanilla girl.
On a sunny afternoon in September, my husband and I strolled the streets of Montmarte, hand-in-hand, soaking up the bohemian vibe. We dined at a bistro featured prominently in Impressionist art, and enjoyed more than one glass of wine.
Slowly, soaked in sweet inhibition-reducing alcohol, we meandered toward the Moulin Rouge. I had another glass, or two if I am going to be honest, because what I had planned for my husband was a trip to the Museum of Eroticism. I thought if I were appropriately soused, I would not blush my way through the experience, and it might stimulate a passionate afternoon back at our apartment.
Apparently, there is not enough alcohol to take away my childish reactions to statues of penises and copulating couples. I giggled at the Peruvian pots with well-endowed men, stared agape at the turn of the last century porn playing in a darkened room, and tried to seem impressed by the series of portraits featuring a naked contortionist.
I embarrassed myself in front of my husband as well as the high class connoisseurs of Parisian erotic art.
Determined to make our spark, actually spark, I had a wild idea that would require all of my courage, and one more glass of wine.
Did you know that in the shadow of that great red windmill, sits an establishment created solely for the purveyance of pleasure? Yes, it’s a sex shop.
We entered, and, OH MY GOD. I was agog. There were vibrators that lit up and twirled in a multitude of directions, nubby plastic objects for both ends, plastic stilettos out the wazoo, and enough reading material to fuel a sperm bank for at least 10 years.
I started by searching the clearance racks for a good bargain, and realizing where these things would go, I decided that cost was not an object. I really do not want my lady land traveled by sub-par products.
A long time ago, I read that if you’re buying a dildo, you need to shake hands with it. I put that theory to the test, holding veiny ones, small ones, ones that needed two hands, ones with two heads, with metallic beads, glowing bases, and one that I have no idea what orifice it could reasonably fit into.
Side note: who designs these things? Somewhere, someone who said, “Hey, let’s make a device that has two dongs; one that rotates and one that vibrates. It will also have to be bumpy and glow in the dark.” I don’t get it.
In the end, I chose a vibrator shaped like a nun holding a rabbit and pair of underwear that was supported by two strings of pearls. The cashier thankfully bagged everything up in nondescript packaging, but I still felt so naughty leaving the store. I probably tee-heed my way across the city.
The details of what followed back at our apartment shall be cloaked in mystery, but I will say that my sexual worldview was enhanced three-fold. I may have even folded myself three ways.
I have not entered a shop since, but I do still have my souvenirs from that vacation and every once in awhile, I like to bring them out and recreate an amazing afternoon in Paris.