I was the only white man at a ladies-only party. But I didn’t leave empty-handed.
FINDING A PASSION PARTY THAT I COULD attend wasn’t easy. A hostess in Plano had invited me to hers, but she withdrew her bid just days prior to the event because her guests weren’t keen on a man joining them. So I wound up at an early afternoon affair in Lancaster where the women all looked surprised to see me.
They were arriving late, and I felt uncomfortable standing around in the living room, not talking to anyone, so I went out to the front porch and waited with Andrea, the Passion Party consultant. Andrea spoke in a thick German accent and wore a white dress with a plunging neckline. She observed that Passion Parties were very popular in the Bible Belt. When she moved here, about a year ago, there had only been a handful of consultants. Now there were about 40.
“I started because da money is goot,” Andrea said. “And da hours are flexible. But now I really enjoy getting a call from da women afterwards, when dey have da jungle sex.”
Right, then. Passion Parties. For the uninitiated, think Tupperware party. Then replace the Tupperware with lingerie and battery-powered intromittent utensils and every type of lotion, lubricant, oil, unguent, and syrup ever developed in Sweden and at NASA. Call it a Schtupperware Party.
Passion Party headquarters are in Brisbane, California, and the outfit claims to have more than 2,000 consultants like Andrea operating in the United States and Canada. A hostess throws a party because she gets a discount on her purchases based on how much her friends spend on theirs. Unlike a Tupperware party, though, men are generally not allowed.
That was the main reason I felt ill at ease, waiting there on the porch. The other reason was that, except for Andrea, I was the only white person for probably six blocks. As a powerfully handsome man attending a women-only marital-aid flea market, I’d expected to encounter a moderate level of sexual tension. But this unforeseen racial thing absolutely electrified the proceedings. I’m certain the feeling was mutual.
That’s why, when the party finally got underway, our hostess, Shonda, sat me in a chair against the wall, practically in another room, and told me not to move. Then she explained to the dozen women that I was a reporter. One, whom I’ll call Tosha, said, “Girl, you said there wasn’t going to be no men. Now you telling us we going to be in the paper?”
I promised the group: no names, no details that might reveal the location of the love shack in Lancaster or the identities of the dozen ebony-skinned beauties gathered therein to discuss their orgasms and shop for products designed to multiply same. I really did need a cold shower by the time Andrea brought out the heavy artillery.
Standing behind a small display table, she produced one item after another, extolling in great German-accented detail and with specific anatomical references their pleasure-making features. There was da Passion Pudding, da Tasty Tease, and da Waterproof Dancing Dolphin, to name a few.
Andrea had given out bells to the four women who’d previously attended a Passion Party. They were “Jezebels.” Their job was to ring their bell when Andrea discussed a product with which they’d had a satisfying experience, thus helping the “virgins” fill out their order forms. At one point, when Andrea brought out an exotic item that looked like a shoetree from Whoville, Charlissa rang her bell as demurely as possible. The other women fell into each other’s arms, cackling, stomping their feet. One fanned herself with her order form. Charlissa said, “I told you I was a big ol’ freak!”
At length, the women took a break to have some soda and bundt cake, and I figured the time had come for me to make a graceful exit. I thanked Shonda for having me and waved goodbye to the ladies. I wished Andrea continued success with her future endeavors. She gave me Spicy Dice as a parting gift and told me to enjoy them with my wife. The set of three variegated dice suggests combinations of anatomy, erotic act, and household setting. What Andrea didn’t know was that my wife was out of town and that when I got home, those dice would cause me to tear my ACL.
Jungle sex indeed.
