|She's not winking. She has|
cinnamon lube in her eye.
For those who have been spared from this shit and have no clue what I'm talking about, I'll give you the CliffNotes version. It's like Tupperware parties, except with fake dicks, instead of burpable plastic containers. Yep, it is as horrible as it sounds.
However, these Passion Party people are not in the business to make this completely skeevy activity seem skeevy... No, they want it to sound fun and sexy. They make it appear like some Sex-and-the-City-esque adventure that will involve drinking cosmos and trying on nipple clamps. But in all actuality, it involves drinking Arbor Mist out of Nascar tumblers in someone's doublewide trailer, while some pushy bitch on commission tries to make you by a 12" double-ended dildo in front of your sister-in-law. And no one needs a 12" double-ended dildo. It's just wasteful.
Now I'm going to say something that may make me sound slightly judgmental, (because before this, I seemed like the beacon acceptance) but I've never actually attended a Passion Party. So in all fairness, my views are based on second-hand accounts, but I don't think I need to go sit in a room with a bunch of my co-workers, while I peruse clitoral stimulation cream, to know that it would be a no-likey situation.
|She couldn't cross her legs tighter.|
So why am I writing this? Well, I'm sick of being asked to these fucking parties. Just because I talk about blowies on the internet, does not mean that I want to watch anyone try on a One Size Fits All thong. I will not go. I'm wise to you, passion party ladies. I don't want to buy a vibrating rubber ducky from you in someonse's living room. Nor, do I want to fake an orgasm When-Harry-Met-Sally-style, while someone whose name I don't remember takes an iPhone video. No Thanks.
Call me a prude, but I like to keep my passion where it belongs... hidden in my nightstand drawer.