Southern charm is a spell I can weave all-to-well; however, it hasn't always paid the bills, nor did it help me get through college in less than five years, but it is an item I like to have in my holster should the need present itself. Selling sex toys was just that need.
A few years ago I had the honor of being a bridesmaid. No, I did not wear a dress (not that I didn't think about it). I stood with the bridal party during the wedding as I was a dear friend of the bride. That wedding is another story. It was at one of the many pre-wedding functions that I was advised by one of my fellow bridesmaids to leave dental office management behind, and move into the exciting field of sex toy parties. Her thought was that if I could sell dentistry, I could certainly sell sex, and wouldn't that be far more entertaining? While my cohort meant well, she should have said, "Oh, you would be fantastic at hosting x-rated Tupperware parties for sexually frustrated straight women on the verge of a divorce, or menopause. You'll also be forced to deal with oversexed single women who find the mere mention of AA batteries to be an aphrodisiac; and you should be prepared to repeatedly say phrases like, 'It's important to remember that a moist vagina is a happy vagina.', and ask such questions like, 'Do you know where your clitoris is? Does your man know where your clitoris is?' It wasn't that I had a problem with using such language, I was worried that I wouldn't seem like the expert I needed to be when it came to the female anatomy. I'm a gay man with a short attention span. How was I going to convince the straight masses that I knew anything at all about proper clitoral stimulation, multiple orgasms, or titty fucking? Luckily, the thought of public speaking drives me to succeed, so into research mode I dove.
I spent the next week Googling vaginas and Yahooing clitorises until my eyes bled, then I found a wealth of reading material both on the magic of the female anatomy, and these parties I was going to be hosting. I eventually came across a company by the name of Sass-say Pah-tays. A small company out of Minnesota that was doing bang-up business (yes, I did just type that) in the Mid-West, and were looking to bring their pah-tay to the West Coast. Feeling well-educated on the topic, I asked, "Who better to moisten that slippery highway of sexually frustrated housewives other than myself?" So, I placed a call. The woman that answered the phone was so excited she tossed her cheese curds, and went about telling me what a fantastic company Sass-say was to work for, and given that I was their first male sales consultant, I would definitely go far. All I needed to do was buy over $1,000 worth of product and promotional items, which were mine to keep (lovely) and I would be on my way to making buckets of cash. I like buckets...they're deep.
I received my first shipment of demo-goods within a week, and I was also assigned a mentor. Her name was Debbie. She came complete with a Minnesota accent, and a can-do attitude. I imagined that she wore rhinestone encrusted seasonal sweaters (including the Christmas ones that blinked), a multi-layered bob with blonde highlights, and she always smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip Nestle Toll House Cookies®. I knew that Debbie would always be the picture of church-going suburbia even when she was swinging a cordless, battery powered, 12 inch, clear red vibrator made to look like a ferocious, clitoral twisting rabbit. She was a giver.
Debbie and I only spoke once, but the one conversation we had lasted over two hours. She said she didn't know a man could talk so much. I said, "Well, I didn't know a woman could talk 'vibrators' the way others talk 'crochet'." She giggled and snorted simultaneously. At the time, I didn't know why she found that comment so funny. I was being an ass, but she seemed to think I was as funny as Jay Leno. Her words, not mine.
In our conversation, Debbie disclosed that Sass-say Pah-tays had not only saved her bank account, but her marriage as well. Who knew that some strawberry flavored silicone, and fuzzy handcuffs, could save the institution of marriage? Such a simple recipe for success. After listening to her testimony, I told her my pathetic story about feeling trapped as a dental office manager, and that I saw Sass-say as an opportunity to escape, and in the process make people feel good about themselves. She snorted at that, too. Before we said our goodbye's she confessed that she loved me. It was odd. I never called her again.
Over the course of the next few weeks I corresponded with Debbie via e-mail (because I felt safer) about the many uses of the Sass-say products, and tips on how to sell myself. Poor Debbie, she had such a hard time with selling me. I guess the lack of breasts and a vagina really threw her. Her advice was either out of a Hallmark card, "Just be yourself. Oh, and serve up a hot dish." or out of Hustler magazine, "You should wear something tight, and definitely serve up a hot dish." For those who may not know, a hot dish is Minnesotan for casserole. I decided that I would go with just being myself. Wearing something tight was a trend I rarely embraced, and it certainly wasn't embraced in someone's living room while I chatted up the advantages of personal lubricants.
My first party went well as it was a combination of gay boys and a few women that I knew. Everyone was well-behaved (within the parameters of the law), and they were kind enough to purchase a few items. The second party was an interesting bunch. This get-together consisted of practically every straight woman I knew in Seattle, and even though it was a Wednesday night, it was a rowdy night. I kept waiting for the mechanical bull to appear. They were a rabid pack of horny, martini drinking, hopeful-would-be-sluts out to heat up their love life. They were fantastic! I loved them. They laughed at all my jokes, they contributed many of their own, and they bought nearly everything I had to offer. Many were prepared to refer me on to their friends. It could not have gone better, although I would have preferred less ass grabbing.
My third party was a bit awkward as I only knew a few people, and the majority of guests were recovering alcoholics. Not that there is anything wrong with recovering alcoholics, it's just that they don't drink, and I do. What would we talk about? Just knowing I couldn't have a drink made my liver twitch. While this party was free of booze, it went really well. The crowd was lively, and no one grabbed my ass, and my math skills had greatly improved. Sober is a good thing...sometimes.
I was only three events into my new business, and I was impressed with the amount of money and connections I was making. As long as the referrals kept coming in, I was set to do well; however, there was one thing that would get in my way. My penis.
Part of Sass-say's guarantee was that they would refer potential customers to me as they came available in my territory. Plenty did, but these were women who didn't know me, and they were not prepared to receive a call from a man saying, "Hello! My name is Robert and I am your Seattle area Sass-say consultant. I would like to set up a time to talk about hosting a party for you and your friends..." What these women were actually hearing was, "Hi. I'm a big, scary man who wants to come into your home, stand in your living room and tell you about how hot, heavy, and sweaty you're gonna get using my vibrators." Understandably, this did not lead to very many referrals. I contacted Debbie who said she would let the company know, and get back to me. Their solution? Publish the next newsletter (The Sass-Say Beaver) with a detailed biographical article about me, and advise the call center to provide potential customers reassurances that I was not a certified sex offender. Additionally, Sass-say requested that I provide a brief autobiography, and submit it for review in time for the next Beaver publishing.
A few days later I received a call from Debbie, and with boundaries firmly established, I was actually looking forward to another lively discussion; however, she sounded distant, and cold. She informed me that the gals at Sass-say weren't comfortable with my submission to the Sass-say Beaver. Debbie said that it involved too many references to homosexuality, and given that their customer base was primarily located in a more conservative part of the country, it would be best if I re-wrote the piece to reflect that demographic. I asked Debbie if she had read the article? She replied that she had, and she added that she was not in agreement with her co-workers, but I would need to change the article anyway.
"Oh, goodness. I know it doesn't seem right, sweetheart."
"It doesn't seem right? There is no seem-ing here, Debbie. You're telling me that this company that sells battery powered, vibrating butt-plugs wants me to remove a small, hilarious, paragraph about me being gay? What, women who coat their husband's cock with Kama Sutra Chocolate Body Paint can't handle me mentioning my long-term, stable, relationship with my guy?"
"Well, we are a conservative bunch over in these parts."
"Well, I'm not going to change it."
"Oh, goodness. Okay, but that means that we can't run the article. Don't you want us to help you be successful?" She was slipping into annoying sales mode.
"No. What I want is for your superiors to take a trip outside the woods, and realize that the world isn't strictly comprised of white, Christian, heterosexuals.
"Oh my goodness! Well, there's no need to get so upset, sweetheart."
"I have every right to be upset, and the fact that you can't understand why I'm upset just proves that I have no place working with you, or your company."
"Well, if that's the way you feel, sweetheart." She sounded like my Mama, only sober.
"I am not your sweetheart." I hissed. I then hung up the phone, and promptly poured myself a Manhattan. Gin wouldn't do. This occasion called for bourbon.
A few months later we were packing to move to our new home, and I came across the tricks of my old trade. Some people enjoy looking at old photographs, letters, and mementos while they ready for a new home. Me? I was enjoying sifting through my library of dildos, vibrators, and cock rings until I came across my top seller - the Jack Rabbit. Jack is a vibrator with a little bunny on the shaft that wiggles its little ears at such a high speed it can cause loss of consciousness. I gathered up Jack, and the other toys, and with the help of a few drag queens, organized a swap meet. Within a couple of hours the remaining items left my home under the care of such celebrities as Ming Rio Hondo, Ida Slappedher, and Muffin Williamsburg. It was a good day.
That evening Mama called to regale me with tales of her hatred for Democrats, and her love for George W. Bush.
"He's just so mis-understood. He can't please everybody."
I changed the subject, "Mama have you ever used a Jack Rabbit?'
"No, sugar...that's what poor people eat."
A few years ago I had the honor of being a bridesmaid. No, I did not wear a dress (not that I didn't think about it). I stood with the bridal party during the wedding as I was a dear friend of the bride. That wedding is another story. It was at one of the many pre-wedding functions that I was advised by one of my fellow bridesmaids to leave dental office management behind, and move into the exciting field of sex toy parties. Her thought was that if I could sell dentistry, I could certainly sell sex, and wouldn't that be far more entertaining? While my cohort meant well, she should have said, "Oh, you would be fantastic at hosting x-rated Tupperware parties for sexually frustrated straight women on the verge of a divorce, or menopause. You'll also be forced to deal with oversexed single women who find the mere mention of AA batteries to be an aphrodisiac; and you should be prepared to repeatedly say phrases like, 'It's important to remember that a moist vagina is a happy vagina.', and ask such questions like, 'Do you know where your clitoris is? Does your man know where your clitoris is?' It wasn't that I had a problem with using such language, I was worried that I wouldn't seem like the expert I needed to be when it came to the female anatomy. I'm a gay man with a short attention span. How was I going to convince the straight masses that I knew anything at all about proper clitoral stimulation, multiple orgasms, or titty fucking? Luckily, the thought of public speaking drives me to succeed, so into research mode I dove.
I spent the next week Googling vaginas and Yahooing clitorises until my eyes bled, then I found a wealth of reading material both on the magic of the female anatomy, and these parties I was going to be hosting. I eventually came across a company by the name of Sass-say Pah-tays. A small company out of Minnesota that was doing bang-up business (yes, I did just type that) in the Mid-West, and were looking to bring their pah-tay to the West Coast. Feeling well-educated on the topic, I asked, "Who better to moisten that slippery highway of sexually frustrated housewives other than myself?" So, I placed a call. The woman that answered the phone was so excited she tossed her cheese curds, and went about telling me what a fantastic company Sass-say was to work for, and given that I was their first male sales consultant, I would definitely go far. All I needed to do was buy over $1,000 worth of product and promotional items, which were mine to keep (lovely) and I would be on my way to making buckets of cash. I like buckets...they're deep.
I received my first shipment of demo-goods within a week, and I was also assigned a mentor. Her name was Debbie. She came complete with a Minnesota accent, and a can-do attitude. I imagined that she wore rhinestone encrusted seasonal sweaters (including the Christmas ones that blinked), a multi-layered bob with blonde highlights, and she always smelled like freshly baked chocolate chip Nestle Toll House Cookies®. I knew that Debbie would always be the picture of church-going suburbia even when she was swinging a cordless, battery powered, 12 inch, clear red vibrator made to look like a ferocious, clitoral twisting rabbit. She was a giver.
Debbie and I only spoke once, but the one conversation we had lasted over two hours. She said she didn't know a man could talk so much. I said, "Well, I didn't know a woman could talk 'vibrators' the way others talk 'crochet'." She giggled and snorted simultaneously. At the time, I didn't know why she found that comment so funny. I was being an ass, but she seemed to think I was as funny as Jay Leno. Her words, not mine.
In our conversation, Debbie disclosed that Sass-say Pah-tays had not only saved her bank account, but her marriage as well. Who knew that some strawberry flavored silicone, and fuzzy handcuffs, could save the institution of marriage? Such a simple recipe for success. After listening to her testimony, I told her my pathetic story about feeling trapped as a dental office manager, and that I saw Sass-say as an opportunity to escape, and in the process make people feel good about themselves. She snorted at that, too. Before we said our goodbye's she confessed that she loved me. It was odd. I never called her again.
Over the course of the next few weeks I corresponded with Debbie via e-mail (because I felt safer) about the many uses of the Sass-say products, and tips on how to sell myself. Poor Debbie, she had such a hard time with selling me. I guess the lack of breasts and a vagina really threw her. Her advice was either out of a Hallmark card, "Just be yourself. Oh, and serve up a hot dish." or out of Hustler magazine, "You should wear something tight, and definitely serve up a hot dish." For those who may not know, a hot dish is Minnesotan for casserole. I decided that I would go with just being myself. Wearing something tight was a trend I rarely embraced, and it certainly wasn't embraced in someone's living room while I chatted up the advantages of personal lubricants.
My first party went well as it was a combination of gay boys and a few women that I knew. Everyone was well-behaved (within the parameters of the law), and they were kind enough to purchase a few items. The second party was an interesting bunch. This get-together consisted of practically every straight woman I knew in Seattle, and even though it was a Wednesday night, it was a rowdy night. I kept waiting for the mechanical bull to appear. They were a rabid pack of horny, martini drinking, hopeful-would-be-sluts out to heat up their love life. They were fantastic! I loved them. They laughed at all my jokes, they contributed many of their own, and they bought nearly everything I had to offer. Many were prepared to refer me on to their friends. It could not have gone better, although I would have preferred less ass grabbing.
My third party was a bit awkward as I only knew a few people, and the majority of guests were recovering alcoholics. Not that there is anything wrong with recovering alcoholics, it's just that they don't drink, and I do. What would we talk about? Just knowing I couldn't have a drink made my liver twitch. While this party was free of booze, it went really well. The crowd was lively, and no one grabbed my ass, and my math skills had greatly improved. Sober is a good thing...sometimes.
I was only three events into my new business, and I was impressed with the amount of money and connections I was making. As long as the referrals kept coming in, I was set to do well; however, there was one thing that would get in my way. My penis.
Part of Sass-say's guarantee was that they would refer potential customers to me as they came available in my territory. Plenty did, but these were women who didn't know me, and they were not prepared to receive a call from a man saying, "Hello! My name is Robert and I am your Seattle area Sass-say consultant. I would like to set up a time to talk about hosting a party for you and your friends..." What these women were actually hearing was, "Hi. I'm a big, scary man who wants to come into your home, stand in your living room and tell you about how hot, heavy, and sweaty you're gonna get using my vibrators." Understandably, this did not lead to very many referrals. I contacted Debbie who said she would let the company know, and get back to me. Their solution? Publish the next newsletter (The Sass-Say Beaver) with a detailed biographical article about me, and advise the call center to provide potential customers reassurances that I was not a certified sex offender. Additionally, Sass-say requested that I provide a brief autobiography, and submit it for review in time for the next Beaver publishing.
A few days later I received a call from Debbie, and with boundaries firmly established, I was actually looking forward to another lively discussion; however, she sounded distant, and cold. She informed me that the gals at Sass-say weren't comfortable with my submission to the Sass-say Beaver. Debbie said that it involved too many references to homosexuality, and given that their customer base was primarily located in a more conservative part of the country, it would be best if I re-wrote the piece to reflect that demographic. I asked Debbie if she had read the article? She replied that she had, and she added that she was not in agreement with her co-workers, but I would need to change the article anyway.
"Oh, goodness. I know it doesn't seem right, sweetheart."
"It doesn't seem right? There is no seem-ing here, Debbie. You're telling me that this company that sells battery powered, vibrating butt-plugs wants me to remove a small, hilarious, paragraph about me being gay? What, women who coat their husband's cock with Kama Sutra Chocolate Body Paint can't handle me mentioning my long-term, stable, relationship with my guy?"
"Well, we are a conservative bunch over in these parts."
"Well, I'm not going to change it."
"Oh, goodness. Okay, but that means that we can't run the article. Don't you want us to help you be successful?" She was slipping into annoying sales mode.
"No. What I want is for your superiors to take a trip outside the woods, and realize that the world isn't strictly comprised of white, Christian, heterosexuals.
"Oh my goodness! Well, there's no need to get so upset, sweetheart."
"I have every right to be upset, and the fact that you can't understand why I'm upset just proves that I have no place working with you, or your company."
"Well, if that's the way you feel, sweetheart." She sounded like my Mama, only sober.
"I am not your sweetheart." I hissed. I then hung up the phone, and promptly poured myself a Manhattan. Gin wouldn't do. This occasion called for bourbon.
A few months later we were packing to move to our new home, and I came across the tricks of my old trade. Some people enjoy looking at old photographs, letters, and mementos while they ready for a new home. Me? I was enjoying sifting through my library of dildos, vibrators, and cock rings until I came across my top seller - the Jack Rabbit. Jack is a vibrator with a little bunny on the shaft that wiggles its little ears at such a high speed it can cause loss of consciousness. I gathered up Jack, and the other toys, and with the help of a few drag queens, organized a swap meet. Within a couple of hours the remaining items left my home under the care of such celebrities as Ming Rio Hondo, Ida Slappedher, and Muffin Williamsburg. It was a good day.
That evening Mama called to regale me with tales of her hatred for Democrats, and her love for George W. Bush.
"He's just so mis-understood. He can't please everybody."
I changed the subject, "Mama have you ever used a Jack Rabbit?'
"No, sugar...that's what poor people eat."
I laughed so hard at this! Good times! Those sex parties are sooo cliche!
ReplyDeletestill laughing as I feel I know most of the cast. can't wit until Johnny Dep acts out that scene. xo
ReplyDelete