Bridget’s Love Eggs by Emily Smart
So: it was Bridget’s birthday do last Saturday night, and I was in something of a quandary when it came to buying her a present. Bridget is what one would call a lady. I met her through Posh Clare, which should already tell you everything you need to know about her. She is refined, well spoken (for a Kiwi) and can often be heard telling me ‘Emily, don’t be so vulgar.’ A beauteous creature: I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her ‘face on’ and outrageously high and expensive shoes. Even the invitation was classy. It arrived in the post complete with a wax seal with her name on it. I did wonder if it had come special delivery from Dick Turpin.
By late Saturday afternoon, I still hadn’t bought a present and was having a cuppa with Kate and her neighbour Clara (I’ve had three stiff dicks already, who’s up for another drink?) They suggested I pop to one of those shops which are full to the brim of over-priced things you would never buy and get a candle or some luxury hand wash. Honestly, nothing exemplifies the gift of desperation more than a scented candle. My daughter and I walked in and ran out sans purchase.
Carry on up the Khyber
The clock was ticking away, and the pre-dinner drinks at Bridget’s house were kicking off at 6.30 pm. With a flash of inspiration and more than a hint of sauciness, I decided to visit the new sex shop which has recently opened near to where I live. Having been past the windows on many occasions and seen signs for everything from pills and potions through to lubes and lotions, I was more than a little bit inquisitive. The daughter wanted to accompany me which I thought was probably not only inappropriate but also illegal, so I locked her in the car (don’t panic the windows were open a wee bit) and left her playing with her device, while I went to look at, well, let’s just say, some other devices.
I don’t know whether you’ve ever been in a sex shop, but is does require chutzpah and nerve to make it through the front door – or in this case to the underground basement car park and in through the back entrance (ooh, matron). Talking of which the shop is actually located at 222 Khyber Pass (I shit you not). I took a deep breath, rehearsed the line ‘It’s not for me, it’s a friend’s birthday’ and made my way into Gigi’s Adult Store.
Sex for sale
Holy mother of God, I’ve never seen so much sex paraphernalia in my whole life. They sell everything from anal beads to penis shaped straws for hen parties and quite a lot in between which isn’t suitable to be written about here. The two women behind the counter barely looked up as I shouted a loud, rather over-confident hello. I walked quickly past the S&M section and made my way to the cheap tat for a girl’s night out, feeling that ‘grow your own willies’ was a safer bet than chains and whips.
What struck me was not only the breadth of the range of goods on offer, but also the hefty price tags. Sex, it would seem, is an expensive business. Not to be deterred, I found the bargain bin – nothing’s too good for the lovely Bridget. I couldn’t decide between sex dice, bondage underwear (there wasn’t enough material to make a handkerchief) or two pink balls attached to a plastic hoop. I went for the latter, trying to work out if batteries were required.
Whilst browsing at the vast array of vibrators, strap-ons and dildos on the way to the till, another customer entered the shop. We avoided all eye contact, but I couldn’t help but have a good nosey at him from behind the butt plugs. Who comes to these types of stores? What do they buy? How much do they spend? I was fascinated.
Bit of a balls up
I presented the pink balls to the cashier who immediately asked if I needed lubrication as well. It was a hard one to call. I didn’t want to make assumptions on Bridget’s behalf and I didn’t want the woman thinking about my bits. I was tempted to ask for a pint, but instead muttered ‘No you’re alright thanks’, paid sheepishly, took my black plastic bag of balls and whizzed out of the door.
The upshot? Bridget loved her balls – although asked me the next day if the instruction manual was missing – all the girls at the bash had a giggle, and the evening was enjoyable and silly. We went to a local restaurant and had far too much to eat and drink. Just as we were leaving, another couple walked in, and would you Adam and Eve it, it was only the bloke I’d seen in the sex shop!
They do say Auckland is a village. Fuelled on by one glass too many of vino collapso, I approached the pair and announced to the chap how coincidental it was that I had seen him in the sex shop that afternoon. His response, ‘No you didn’t, I was at home all day.’ Of course anyone else would have apologised and walked away; not so this drunken loudmouth. ‘It was you,’ I said, ‘I’d recognise those earrings anywhere.’
Taxi for Smart, and maybe not so many happy returns to Gigi’s.
So funny. When my now husband and I first met, and his birthday was near, I decided to pop in to the sex shop just near work in Newmarket and grab a few things. Took a deep breathe (actually more of a pant as was up a flight of stairs) and, like you, announced myself with a rather too loud “hullo” to the staff. Anyway, after my purchases were paid for and deposited in a discrete brown carry bag I skipped down the stairs and along Broadway (back in the day when it used to be crowded with shoppers) feeling very pleased with myself. It was only when I sat back down at my desk that I realised the flip side of my plain brown carry bag had their logo emblazoned in bright pink and I’d been more brave than I intended to be by swinging it almost in the faces of the 100 or so people I’d passed.
As your mother (that’s me), you still never fail to amaze/disgust/astonish me. It’s your father’s side of the family I blame!