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A bunch of us gathered around the host’s kitchen island to nibble on chicken wings at the last play-party I attended. Someone had invited an at-home toy party hostess to the event; I noticed the company name printed on her bag and exclaimed, “Oh, I have some of your lube!”
“You do?” she asked, excited that someone knew of the products. “Which one?
“I’m not sure,” I said, and rummaged around in my bag to find the tiny bottle. “Let me get it.”
A loud woman in her 40s piped up. “You carry lube in your purse?” The tone of her voice told me that if her beer bottle had been empty instead of half-full, she’d have pointed and laughed at me.
I paused a long moment before answering. “Of course. Especially on a night when I’m fairly certain I’ll be playing. Doesn’t everyone bring lube to these things?”
“I produce my own lube,” said the nearly-drunk woman proudly. “I don’t need any fake lube.”
Cheeky monkey, I thought. “Bet you don’t do much buttsex. Or fisting,” I added, watching in amusement as the beer bottles and chicken wings froze on their way to people’s mouths.
“Ew, never!” said my new nemesis. “I don’t want to get all loose and stretched out.”
“Fisting doesn’t stretch you out. Neither does buttsex,” I protested, but she’d turned back to her beer and her boyfriend, secure in her little buttsex-less, unfisted, non-fake-lube world.
She has no idea what she’s missing.



