Last Friday night, I put on my favorite sweater and jeans and headed out to an essential oils party at the late hour of 7 p.m. Now, normally I am in my pajamas with a messy bun, counting down the minutes until my kids go to bed, so on this night, I was looking forward to some adult conversation paired with wine. T0night I would rip it up, mom style.
I had heard some good stuff about essential oils being able to cure all types of things and was excited to educate myself, especially since everyone else seems to know all about the magic these tiny bottles are capable of. The star of the show was the wild orange oil that was drizzled all over some fresh pineapple, I had no idea how much I needed that in my life.
As I arrived I saw some women I knew and a few I didn’t, but one thing was for certain, this was a pretty straight-laced crew. Some were wearing sweater sets and pearls, others were rocking turtlenecks, and I would say the age range was mid-30s to mid-60s, such a nice variety.
Conversation and wine were flowing, and as I secured my seat in the middle of the sectional sofa, I witnessed these ladies practically having orgasms over the wild orange/fresh pineapple combination. I jokingly suggested we should all get together again, only next time we needed to have a sex toy party if they were getting this turned on by fresh fruits smothered in wild oils.
My intention was to get the crowd a bit loose and maybe a little flustered, have a good laugh, move on to how lavender can relax you and discuss all the healing properties of peppermint, and then call it a night.
We did have a good laugh, but some of these ladies were not able to move on and pay attention to the hostess’s presentation. Apparently my comment made them all come unhinged, and I kept getting the side-eye.
At one point, the woman to my left nudged me and whispered, “Are you serious about hosting a sex toy party? I have always wanted to go to one. I really hope you do it. Give me a date. Now, please.”
I was a bit anxious as I noticed all their eager eyes drilling holes into the side of my head, and I felt like a naughty school girl not paying attention in class. Before I knew it, the conversation spiraled out of control.
“Do you try out the toys? You don’t try out the toys, do you?”
“How will I know if I like what I am buying? What if it doesn’t work?” “I have been waiting for this my whole life.” “What should I wear to a sex toy party?” “You will be sending your husband and kids away for the night, right?”
I wasn’t sure if these women were planning on attending a sex toy party or an all-night sex-rave with crazy lighting and strange music. Either way, they were really fucking excited. My comment spoke in jest had ignited a spark, and I knew I had to come through for them. Sweater sets and all, these women needed this, and I said I would deliver.
I hear during one of these parties, you can go into a private room with the personal-pleasure-object distributor and order something for your tickle trunk in private. Perhaps a Vibrating Vinnie, or maybe you need a Mr. Wiggles. They also have rubber dongs that heat up and have massaging fingers (not that I know from experience, but oh my god, please get yourself one), but I am going to break that rule for my party. I want to know what these women are buying. It’s only fair, right? I mean, if they are going to pressure me into having a naughty pleasure party that will (apparently) fulfill all their fantasies, then I’m going to need to see how they are going to be spending their Saturday nights (probably Monday, Wednesday, and Friday nights too, judging by the anxious excitement in their voices).
I am going to go over the top and serve a bunch of penis-shaped food. These ladies will be out of their minds. Did you know you can buy gummy candy that’s shaped like dicks? You know, a bag of dicks in assorted fruit flavors? Who doesn’t want to sink their teeth in a soft, chewy dick? I am getting excited just imagining those suckers on pretty little pink cupcakes. If I am being semi-forced to throw a sex toy party, you bet your ass I want it to be hella classy.
And I better get to the planning. I just got a text from a 61-year-old crazed lady. She sent me the name of a woman who throws the nastiest pleasure party this side of the Mississippi. She wants me to call her now.
So, that night, not only did I learn that frankincense is basically liquid gold and can take care of everything from wrinkles to the common cold, I was clued in on something else: Women like their essential oils, yes, but what they really fucking want is five minutes alone with a bullet.
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