Confessions of A Naughty Girl

I Was Sort Of On Hiatus, But I Did Buy A New Toy From A Tranny Redhead

All right, okay, I know that I can't fool all y'all into believing that my multiple posts in the past 24 hours should compensate for the lack of posts this past week. But what can I say? It was a long weekend, and I was busy. Over the course of the past week, I have battled a barrage of questions, concerns, and speculation. I even had a reader tell me tonight, point-blank, that my blog was "dying...dying a slow death". So fine, allow me to break down my weekend for you:

I slept...a lot. I slept at least a good 16 out of every 24 hours of each weekend day.

I watched Patches O'Houlihan school it in "Dodgeball" on DVD. (again)

I cleaned my apartment, in honor of parental arrival tomorrow, from top to bottom.

I engaged in crack-whore activity, aka watching the first few episodes of "Alias: Season One" on DVD.

I went to the Braves/Phillies game on Friday night, courtesy of free tickets from Fox SportsNet. (Thank you, advertising industry. I owe you one.)

And I bought a replacement adult toy from a transsexual redhead.

Yes, you heard me correctly. I was hesitant to post this story, but since I have been hit with the dramatics of my blog "dying a slow death", I thought I'd throw this out there and send an electroshock current right to your respective crotches. (And yes, I really did just say the word "crotches".)

Saturday afternoon, 4:07 pm. I had just awoken from one of my many naps and was bored, to say the least. Seemingly out of nowhere, my faithful toy, Humpty Dumpty, died. Just up and died. Frustrated and irate, I applied a little technological diagnostics and troubleshooting, and determined that the problem was overusage and old age. So I did what any self-respecting, independent woman would do, and Googled my nearest adult entertainment center. (This, by the way, made me sad. I used to have a designated toy store in Chicago, on Broadway and Diversey, but Toto, I'm not in Chicago anymore. So sad.)

So, Woman With Needs that I am, I drive myself up and down Cheshire Bridge at 5 pm on a Saturday afternoon looking for action. For those of you unfamiliar with the Cheshire Bridge Road in metro Atlanta, it's a very main road that will take you from Buckhead to Midtown, but due to lack of funds and poor urban planning, is coincidentally host to a variety of hetero and gay strip clubs, adult stores, and seedy areas built for loitering by the sketchy. All of which continues to beg my question of why they don't just have an "adult toy" section at Target, since they seem to have every other f*cking section in that store.

Anyway, I finally find a place with a big banner outside that says, "Adult Entertainment". Red flag number one: the store had an adjacent, darkened motel. Red flag number two - as I pull in, I see a fake, blonde-haired woman, with a negligee and a faux-fur jacket tightly pulled around her waist, with mascara and eyeliner smeared, emerging from one of the "hotel rooms" and walking to her Chevy Impala (no joke). I then realize that "entertainment" does not include self-gratification. I am, in fact, in front of a whorehouse. Pretty sweet.

I peel out of the parking lot as fast as possible, and drive farther up the road until I see another sketchy sign, "Uptown Novelty". There are no other cars in the parking lot. So I strategically plan - much like Ron Mexico, I am going to waltz in there with confidence, head right to my destination, get what I need, use an alias if necessary, and hopefully get out of there without being scratchy. (Ron Mexico failed at the last one, but I was going to aim high.)

I walk in, and a nice redheaded woman with a long ponytail smiles at me. I quickly glance, smile, and head straight for the goods. On my way to my destination, I took note of a giant, human-sized arm (from the elbow up) that looked like Rick Moranis accidentally blew up a giant Ken doll arm in yet another poor "Honey I Blew Up..." sequel. It was encased in plastic, with a label at the top: The Fist. "Bend me, mold me, make me yours!" Ahhhh...yet another successful marketing case study from the porn marketing execs. (And by the way, I must say that if I ever, EVER found one of those Ken arms in a friend or boyfriend's closet, you would never hear from me again. Sorry, but that's sick. Add that to the dealbreaker list, would you?)

I pick out a comparable toy (poor selection, none of which Humpty's cousins were a part of), and make my way to the front. And once I am there, I notice that my friendly redheaded clerk also has long, painted-pink fingernails, a face full of Wet and Wild makeup, a five o'clock shadow, and a penis. Excellent. In his deep, throaty man voice, he asked if I needed him to test out the batteries. Gee, really? Please pull my new toy out of the box, maul it with your grubby Malibu Pink Lee Press Ons, and put it back in the box for me, ready to use? Could this experience possibly get any better? I politely declined, paid, and got the hell out of there.

The worst part of this story is that my replacement is nowhere near as effective or cute as Humpty Dumpty.

Slow blog death, eh?

posted by KA @ 12:35 AM