Michael and Mary had won “Class Couple” in high school.  After that, they went to a local college together where Michael was captain of the Ultimate Frisbee team and Mary headed up the Student Activities Group.  Mary was proud of her student activities leadership.  Booking everyone from Tony Basil to the Spin Doctors felt like a coup for a local college, even though the year was 2005.  Her group, the Campus League for Active Participation, also known as the CLAP around school, gave her a plaque saying just that.  The plaque read:

 

Mary Daisey

CLAP’S

LEADER OF THE YEAR

Mary thought the plaque was a sign.  Well, it was a sign in that it hung on a wall, but she meant a larger sign like something from the cosmos.  She thought it was a sign she’d do big things.  After college, Michael got a job with State Farm selling insurance where he sat at a desk wearing a light blue button down and flesh colored khakis.  He would wear that same color combination for the next seven years without going insane.

 

Mary tried to start an online business booking acts at the local town halls throughout the county.  But, all she could snag were regional, Christian, singer-songwriters.  The towns didn’t have much of a budget like the CLAP did back in her college years.

 

One day, after a particularly frustrating afternoon, Mary got drunk.  Mary’s not a drinker, but today she decided to do something out of the ordinary.  You see, she had a near miss by almost booking the 80’s band Midnight Oil to sing 3 hours of the “Beds are Burning” at Fermingham’s 4th of July luncheon.  But, at the last minute their people balked on the deal.  This sent Mary over the edge.  She wanted to take her frustration out on something.  So, she bought a sixer of Fosters at the neighborhood corner store.  She started drinking while playing an MP3 of the Beds are Burning on loop off her laptop.  Soon the liquor ran out and Mary didn’t feel any better.

 

The truth is, she was frustrated.

 

The truth was she wanted to feck the shit out of something.

 

She thought it might help.

 

But, who?  Michael?  He was the obvious choice, since they slept in the same bed together every night.  But, their sex lives were so vanilla.  Every since sophomore year, when Michael took that frisbee to the groin, they had to do it the same way.  Him with his khakis around his ankles (he said they made him feel safe) her in the same college prairie skirt that she wore on the Homecoming float.  (Because he said that’s when she was the prettiest.  Mary would wear the skirt for him, even though she thought he should’ve kept that to himself.)

 

Mary was tired of that skirt.  It had gone from pristine white to dirty, wolf grey and it made her feel the same – blah and dingy.

 

It would be another hour before Michael returned home.  Mary had made her mind up.  Tonight, they were going to try something new.  Vaguely Mary remembered a store on the edge of town right by the interstate that seemed to sell sexy things.  She jumped in the car and took a ride.

 

The Sex Hop was a chalky, blue colored, stand alone, building that you passed just as you entered the highway.  Mary pulled into the parking lot and realized for the first time that the place was supposed to be called, “The Sex Shop,” but somehow the second S had gone dark.

 

Mary entered the store in her dark glasses and took a look around.

 

“Hey, Mary,” said the gent behind the counter.

 

Oh Christ, Mary thought.  Recognized right away.  Mary looked up to see Al.

 

Al was the local hippie.  Rumor had it he was from Portland or Austin or something like that.  Supposedly he used to pal around with Natalie Merchant before she got mad at him for suggesting Michael Stipe was gay.

 

“Hey, Al,” she said.

 

“Looking to spice things up with Michael?” Al asked.

 

Oh, Christ.  Doesn’t he know you’re not supposed to jump right out and say something like that in a Sex Hop?  Doesn’t he know you’re just supposed to let a person browse and let me ask the questions?

 

“Ahhhh,” Mary began.

 

“Let me show you some good starter items,” he said.  “I promise you, we’ll find you something.”

 

Al came out from around the counter and Mary begrudgingly followed him.  He approached a counter full of what looked like appliances.

 

“I call these babies, Paradise,” he said.  “I use a supplier who makes this stuff out of his cabin up in Lake Wah-titcha-twat.  He gets those premium catalogs and then remakes the stuff with household items, so I get it for wholesale.  His cousin’s the unabomber.  Anyway, Paradise is a great starter product.”

 

“It looks like a cake mixer, Al.  What are you supposed to do with it?”

 

“Well, you see the beaters there?”

 

“Ah huh.”

 

“You put it on a low setting and you put his balls in there.”

 

“Jesus!  And this is enjoyable?”

 

“Oh, yeah.  Like the name says…Paradise.”

 

Welcome to Paradise!

 

Mary had her dark glasses up on top of her head pulling her hair back at this point, which is why Al could see her eyes widen.  He shrugged his shoulders and moved on to the next display case figuring that Paradise wasn’t her cup of tea.

 

“How about these?” he asked.

 

“Playing cards, Al?  They look like playing cards.”

 

Flap ‘em, if you got ‘em.

 

“Nah, in the sex industry they’re called flappers, at least that’s what my supplier says.  You take one of the pieces here,” said Al picking up the Queen of Hearts.  “And you stick the short end into a woman’s vertical smile and then you flap it back and forth like you’re fanning yourself.  Every woman who’s ever tried it likes to go through all 52 cards.  It’s a sure fire hit.  They even have a position called Poker Face, which is when a woman sticks a card up there with the end sticking out and then puts her jeans on.  She silently flaps herself all day long, but she’s at work, so she’s gotta keep a Poker Face.  That’s why they call it…Poker Face.”

 

Mary squinted her eyes at Al, which he rightly took as a sign to move on.

 

“What’s that?” asked Mary, as they passed a section that looked like Marilyn Manson’s living room.

 

“Oh, that.  That’s one of our biggest sellers,” said Al as he took a step towards what looked like a menorah complete with long, white candles.  “In the catalog it’s called the Candle-ass-bra.  I guess it’s a play on candelabra.  I think it’s confusing a bit because bra would suggest you use it with someone’s titties, but that ain’t it.  You put it up your man’s behind.  He clenches on each candle there and the product descriptions says this’ll have him calling like a humpback whale within a few minutes.”

 

Mary was quickly losing her shyness.  Feck it, she thought.  Everyone sh*ts.  It’s just my turn to do so publicly.

 

She looked Al right in the eyes and said, “And that one there?” pointing to a row of what looked like flak helmets for a very small head in a snazzy velour box positioned next to a perfectly round, silver ball.

 

“Oh, that there are genital magnets.”

 

“Huh?” she asked.

 

“They’re real connector pieces, if you feel you need a spark to get the fires going.  You put the jimmy hardhat on your man’s tip and the ball up inside your sweet spot and all the hardhat can do is stick to the sweet spot.  It really gets everyone going, whether they want to or not.”

 

“Okay, Al.  Wrap me up one of each.  I want your best sellers.”

 

“Really!” yelped Al.  “That’s wonderful, Mary.  Thanks to you I’ll be able to enjoy a weekend in the Cape after all.”

 

Mary nodded and maxed out her credit card.  The one with the CLAP logo on the front.

 

She packed up the car and headed home to wait on Michael.

 

It was time.  If Mary couldn’t book a big act, then she was damn well going to be one in her own house.

 

“Showtime,” she said to herself and smiled.

 

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If you liked, “Do It Yourself Erotica” and want to hear more, please let me know in the comments section.  As always, I’m grateful that you’re reading.  Sweet Mother is updated close to daily.  If you’d like to subscribe to this blog, you can do so by clicking the “follow” button above.

 

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End-notes:  DIY Erotica was inspired by Speaker 7′s Shades of Hell Re-craps.  If you haven’t read them, you should.  Go here.  And lastly, Canadica is on the way, if you’re a writer and want to get involved, let me know in the comments section – HERE.

 

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Photo credits:  paradise, the-flapper, feature

 

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