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I went today to a lingerie shop across the street from where I work, to buy some sexy undies for a girlfriend’s bachelorette party. The name of the store? FUK U. Not kidding. What is wrong with people? It’s like, a couple of friends were stoned and they came up with this AWESOME NAME for a store, HA HA HA HA!! And then they stayed stoned for the next few months while they applied for a license, ordered merchandise, incorporated and paid a contractor to remodel the expensive Melrose storefront.
Or maybe… just maybe… there are just people out there who live on a completely different reality plane than I. A plane where a store’s name, FUK U, is – pick one – hilarious, mysterious, a joke on the buyer, a joke on any adult who tries to walk her just-learning-to-read child by the store, or else just plain genius.
Anyhoo – I found some cute panties and started to pay, when my eyes drifted to the far side of the store. There, on shelf after shelf, were… not lingerie. Not underwear. Not teddies.
And sex… contraptions. Things like, straps that you hang in your doorway with holes for both hands and feet (these are for Her; He gets to stand on his two legs – which I know because the very graphic picture on the front of the package told me so). Also, straps for various positions, straps for bondage, “bondage sheets” – which from the picture, told me it just lies under the person, catching all the bodily fluids (ICK), fuzzy handcuffs, and –
Wait a minute. That reminds me!
Of a time – oh, a certain number of years ago, who knows exactly, when I went to Texas for a weekend to celebrate my cousin’s bachelorette with a group of her closest girlfriends and my two sisters. My sisters had designated me the “gag gift buyer” on behalf of all of us, so I had gone to The Pleasure Chest (if you don’t know it, the name pretty much spells it out) to buy as many crazy sex toys $200 could buy.
I bought dildos, edible undies, fuzzy handcuffs, more dildos, vibrators, undies with the crotch cut out and whatever else I could grab without having to ask a salesperson for help. Packed it all in my suitcase, and went to catch my flight.
It was the handcuffs that gave me away. In security, as my bag passed through the baggage check. I had carried all the gifts with me, for fear that a checked bag could get lost and spoil the fun of giving her the gifts at the party.
A small army of airport security guards surrounded me. Never in my life did my face go as hot, or as purple red, as it did at that moment. I could barely breath as I “explained” the contents of my carry-on. Even though this was pre-9/11, they still made me go back and check the handcuffs, which I was able to do by going back to my original gate where I gave them my large luggage. There, the lady who accepted my carry-on bag to be checked, along with her friend, a gay male flight customer service guy, were really interested to know where I got my toys and whether The Pleasure Chest had locations farther south.
Maybe they’d like a store to go up near where they live, called FUK U.
My bags reached their destination, as did I, and we all had a blast that weekend. We drank lots of alcohol, played truth or dare and “I never” (whereby I simultaneously discovered VERY juicy dirt on my cousin and older sister while forever traumatizing my younger sister who was only about 14 years old) and other silly games (like “Pin the Penis on the Poster”), capped off with the gayest male stripper you will ever meet playing “who can get naked faster” with my cousin, and a pregnancy reveal of one of my cousin’s friends.
Seriously – The. Gayest. (The guy stripped for us, then hung out talking to us, waiting for his boyfriend to pick him up.)
All in the name of love & good fun…
Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)