He promptly led me to the battery-operated device aisle, where he pointed out an impressive variety of shapes and sizes. He noted the advantages of each: bigger, faster, and more lifelike. After providing thorough explanations of all the top sellers, he paused and watched me in anticipation, apparently awaiting my choice.
I hesitated, and finally pointed, randomly, at one. “Well, this one looks nice.”
“Good choice. I think you’ll like this.”
He handed it to me. I shoved it under my arm without noting its cost or any of its special features. We moved on to an aisle of men’s toys.
Ladies: If the dating pool seems shallower these days, it’s likely because we’ve been rendered obsolete.
I’d anticipated seeing a number of devices used for simulating the most traditional sexual activity, which many women my age probably first discovered through the missionary position. What I didn’t imagine were the other choices. My new clerk friend explained the most popular item. It resembled a flashlight, but with a tip resembling pursed lips. The package advertised that the “Fleshlight” accommodated any size, provided realistic physical sensations, and was a real pleaser.
I didn’t have to rely on the manufacturer’s marketing blurbs. While I tried to avoid eye contact with the store clerk as I scrutinized the Fleshlight, a customer behind us chimed in.
“Yeah, those are great! I have two of those!”
Well, then. It appeared variety truly was the spice of life, even when it came to artificial body parts.
With my shopping finished, I decided my visit wouldn’t be complete without viewing a peep show. I’d seen porn flicks before; no biggie. (Pun intended.) They have their time and place. The ideal place for me, however, would probably not be a small back room in this sketchy turnpike-exit sex shop.
I soon determined it was unlikely that I’d ever manage to “get in the mood” here. Especially once I spied the cut-out holes in the adjoining walls of my tiny booth.
So horrified yet so transfixed by these “glory holes,” I watched only snippets of the movie. For all I know, the particular peep show I chose through a random punch of a button might have been an Academy Award winner in the oft-neglected porn category, but I can’t say it provided a climactic ending to my visit.
I left that day with a wealth of information and experience. In fact, my only remaining question when I headed home was, would my receipts for a peep show, a candy bra, and a pretty pink “Wonder Bullet” be sufficient for me to write this off as “writing-related research”?
Regardless, now that I was a semi-professional sex store shopper, I was equipped to share what I learned in my crash course.
I learned that rabbits, butterflies, elephants, dolphins, beavers, and hummingbirds apparently were not just characters in a Disney cartoon.
I discovered the top-of-the-line female sex toys came with rechargeable batteries and a remote control and were guaranteed to last ten years. One of them even did all the work for you. The clerk called it a “nice, lazy little toy.” Apparently you just sat back and watched it do its thing, while it brought you great pleasure. Much like a Slinky, I guessed.
If you are particularly choosy, you should be sure to look for the items marked “Pleasantly Scented.” And, if you are the patriotic sort, you’ll be glad to know you can find one bearing the proud label, “Made in America!”
Just like McDonald’s, where the drive-through cashier asks if you’d like fries with your burger, adult bookstore clerks are trained to be equally helpful. As you hand over your purchase, they will ask if you’d like batteries or some lube with it. I declined both.
Sadly, I learned you cannot return an item, even if you discover it to be the wrong size.
In addition, that outdoor sign boasting 25-cent videos? It likely has not been changed in decades. A peep show will now cost you a minimum of five dollars—or ten dollars if you are paying by credit card. I suggest you bring cash. Needing to leave the booth and cross the store floor, twice, to ask for assistance with your credit card might push your comfort zone even farther than you imagined. In addition, operating the video player or using the doorknob in the booth might be more sanitary if you wear gloves—or maybe a hazmat suit.
And be forewarned: If you get creeped out by the glory holes in the walls of your booth, suspect the ominous movement in an adjoining booth is growing inches closer, and decide to make a quick exit, you will not get your money refunded.
But rest assured you won’t miss much if you do decide to leave the movie prematurely.
I have a hunch they all have a happy ending.
Chapter 5:
PIZZA PIE IN THE SKY
Coming off a thirty-pound weight loss, I knew only one reasonable way to follow it up—with a pizza-eating contest.
I excelled at eating, and the adventure of participating in such a thrilling—albeit intimidating—experience had landed this endeavor on my list early on. So when Caper’s Restaurant and Bar advertised just such a challenge, I was in. Goodbye, low-carb diet! Hello, elastic-waist pants!
I pushed aside my dieting guilt and justified this as a necessary evil for my project. Besides, endless pieces of pizza.
Heading into this for the food and the fodder for a new experience didn’t mean I wasn’t serious about waddling away as a winner. So, like any true athlete, I went into training. I sat myself down and spent ten minutes Googling “pizza eating contest hints.”
The various search results were conflicting: Arrive with an empty stomach or eat normally beforehand? Dunk the pizza crusts in water or avoid any form of liquid at all? Puke before you gorge or puke afterward?
I seized upon those ideas I deemed most promising. I would eat a protein-rich meal five hours beforehand. Once the contest started, I would fold each slice of pizza, gobbling the cheesy innards first and saving the crusts for last. I’d avoid any liquid except the occasionally necessary sip of water. And, I found this final suggestion particularly helpful: “When you begin to feel slightly full: stand up and wiggle your hips from side to side for five to ten seconds. This makes the food go down your esophagus faster and squashes it up in your stomach.”
Given my two recent belly dancing lessons, I was practically a professional hip-wiggler. My win was nearly guaranteed.
I discouraged friends from coming out to watch. After all, dribbling tomato sauce down my chin might be best endured in front of total strangers. When my mom and her friend, Suzanne, showed up anyway, I was secretly pleased. A small fan section could help cheer me on to pizza pie victory.
Besides, I learned long ago that it was helpful to have your mother along for any experience that might end badly. When you’re young, you can cling to her and cry. When you’re older, you can simply find some way to blame her. If I ended up vomiting in the barf bucket that the kind folks at Caper’s had placed behind me, you could be damn sure it would somehow be my mother’s fault.
I arrived fifteen minutes before game time. Experience had taught me that idle time in a bar might result in excess beer or shots of Sex on the Beach. To preserve the space in my stomach, I would not be drinking a drop of alcohol that evening. My priorities were clear.
Once I was seated at the table of dishonor, I glanced around and sized up my competition. Just five of us: me and four near-boys. One clearly had been keeping the bartender busy all afternoon. I doubted he could even maneuver a pizza slice into his mouth. Another appeared either as hammered as the first or at least not as focused on the task as I was. I smiled smugly and straightened in my chair.
The emcee announced the start of the contest. As the crowd’s eyes turned upon us, the reality of the moment hit me.
I had worked my ass off (literally) these last several months, trying to get in shape. I still had a way to go. Would this spurt of gluttony set me back on my weight-loss plan for weeks to come? Although I hated to admit it, I also wondered if people in the audience would judge me. After all, I was an overweight, middle-aged woman, not a fit and t
rim young buck who appeared able to afford such gorging like the rest of the contestants. The idea of stuffing my face in front of an audience gave me heartburn before I took a single bite.
Still, now that I was older, I’d begun to stress less about what others thought about me. And I’d learned that sometimes it was OK to take a detour from your ultimate destination, as long as you felt confident and strong enough to get back on course. I told myself that tonight I’d be a carb-devouring and fun-loving version of Wonder Woman.
We each had our very own cheese pizza set in front of us. My choice would have been anchovies for us all. I was probably the only miniscule-fish aficionado, and I would have welcomed any edge at all. But a medium cheese pizza it was.
We were instructed to tackle this first pizza and then order as much more as we could stomach—in ten minutes.
Ten minutes? I didn’t remember reading that in the rules. I hoped for a half hour or so. Being a tortoise-speed eater, I feared I had little chance of victory. But, sweet baby Jesus, this was pizza! I hadn’t allowed myself to even sniff a pizza in months. Surely, I could rise—like a nice pizza dough—to the occasion.
The countdown began.
I shoved folded pizza slices in my mouth and masticated like a toothless cow. I repeated my mantra in my head: “I can eat pizza like nobody’s business, or my name’s not Stanfa.”
Sadly, my own Sicilian blood didn’t carry the same punch as Rocky Balboa’s. By the time I chewed halfway through my first pie, every other contestant was already diving into his second. By my sixth crammed-down piece, I didn’t taste—let alone savor—a single bite. This wasn’t dining. This was culinary slave labor.
Still, I refused to admit defeat. Following my original plan, I continued to gag down all the cheesy insides, leaving the doughy crusts for last.
And then I heard the emcee give the three-minute warning. I hazily eyed the six thick outer crusts remaining on my plate. I began shoveling them into my mouth, one after another. A logical move, although not a pretty one.
A photographer paused in front of me, as I was mid-chew. I waved him away and attempted to frown at him, but my chipmunk cheeks could barely budge. All I managed was a slit-eyed glare. I tried to mutter, “Go away,” which translated only as a forceful “uh-uh-uh” uttered through my stuffed-open lips.
He grinned and snapped a couple of shots, right as a blob of half-chewed dough dropped from my mouth.
Seconds later, the emcee called “time.” I forced the last crust into the remaining millimeter of space in my mouth.
And, a full five minutes later, after everyone had congratulated the winner—who managed to wolf down an entire pie and a half—I was still chewing. And chewing. And chewing…
I didn’t win the contest, the trophy, or the free pizza for a year. Perhaps I conveniently saved myself from that.
The agony of defeat was short-lived. I might have come in last place, but I left that evening knowing I’d tried something new. I survived the anxiety of potentially being judged by dozens of strangers. And, I’d enjoyed some damn good pizza—well, at least until I didn’t enjoy it at all.
While I waddled out the door, “The Eye of the Tiger” Rocky theme rang in my head. Yes, I’d been a contender. And, although I would never be Rocky, I eventually would be Rocksy. (See my college mascot chapter for details about that.)
As an added bonus, I felt confident my diet would get right back on track. I figured I wouldn’t be tempted by a frigging pizza again for the rest of my life. Or, as it happened, for nearly two weeks.
Even Wonder Woman had her weakness.
Chapter 6:
CHURCH HOPPING
As I perused my list of accomplished and upcoming new ventures, I noted an emphasis on several of the Seven Deadly Sins, specifically pride (with a hint of sloth, gluttony, and lust). If a higher power was keeping track, this seemed an appropriate time to redeem myself with a spiritual experience.
At this midpoint in my life, however, my only spiritual or religious belief was not knowing what I believed.
I wasn’t always agnostic. I was baptized and raised Catholic, including eight years of Catholic school. As I grew older though, I began contemplating and questioning not only my own lifelong faith but also organized religion as a whole.
Maybe this uncertainty was a result of knowing so little about most religious foundations, traditions, and services. I decided a logical step toward spiritual discovery was to visit, over several weeks, a variety of churches and temples outside my upbringing.
It seemed inconceivable that, by my fifties, I had never visited a synagogue, not even for a bar mitzvah. I’d recently discussed Judaism with my coworker, Allie, who kept kosher and sent her two young children to a Jewish preschool and summer camp. Raised in Miami with New York City roots, she was now entrenched in Toledo’s Jewish community. Although I probably could have wandered into any temple on a Saturday, Allie touched base with her rabbi, who gave my mother and me his blessing to attend a Shabbat service and bar mitzvah.
In my next life, if I happen to come back as a Jewish boy, I hope I possess half the confidence, poise, and remarkable memory that thirteen-year-old Asher demonstrated that day. I smiled as I observed him sing, recite sections of the Torah, and provide warm insights into his young life.
While we felt awed and honored, even as anonymous observers, to be a part of his ceremony, my mom and I were often befuddled and overwhelmed—particularly by the Hebrew language. As I followed along in the printed English program, these translated words touched me most:
“And we shall beat our swords into ploughshares and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.”
The Jewish faith appeared rich in tradition. Scripture and family played important parts in the service. While my mom and I agreed it was the most beautiful religious celebration we’d ever attended, I wondered if I didn’t feel engaged enough to fully experience it.
It wasn’t just the Hebrew language that made us feel out of place. The service involved little interaction among the congregation. I had always been an inhibited churchgoer. I preferred to keep to myself in my pew, so I was initially relieved by the fact that no one shook my hand or introduced himself. Yet I was also oddly disappointed by that.
Except for the Christian belief in the role of Jesus, much of the Jewish religion and the services I attended really wasn’t such a far cry from the Catholic Church to which I was accustomed. Hinduism, I soon discovered, was markedly different.
A week after my mother and I attended the synagogue, we joined a service at a Hindu temple. We’d researched the Hindu religion and admired the little we knew: its reputation for tolerance and tranquility, as well as its focuses on karma and rebirth. The service itself, however, proved less enlightening than we hoped.
With the exception of the last fifteen minutes, the two-hour service consisted entirely of chanting in Hindi, to the accompaniment of a keyboard and occasional tambourine. No translation was provided in the prayer books. At the previous week’s synagogue visit, we could follow along with some of the Hebrew through English interpretations. Here, we were lost in translation.
It was impossible to focus on or find enlightenment in something I couldn’t begin to comprehend. While the chanting was pleasant and melodic, even keeping my eyes open was a battle I failed to win. Perhaps my experience was hindered by the fact that this occurred on day seven of my week without caffeine. (See forthcoming story about that.)
While I felt slightly awkward and out of place at the synagogue, here I felt totally out of touch. I never understood what was happening or what was being said during the service, which was not only uncomfortable but unsettling.
I wondered if this was why we continue to cling to the status quo in our life. Even if the familiar—a job, a relationship, or a religion—no longer provides contentment or gratification, it’s somehow less stressful than the unknown. What we know almost always
seems less intimidating or frightening than what we’ve never experienced.
Still, as I looked around and saw how content and at peace the small Hindu congregation seemed, I had to wonder if I was missing out on something wonderful. If I had been able to interpret some of the words and meaning behind the songs, it’s possible that morning might have been more satisfying.
The last experience of my month of spiritual exploration proved to be the most rewarding.
Friendship Baptist Church, where I’d been invited by my coworker, Yves, was the only Christian place of worship I visited in this pursuit. The basic beliefs of this Full Gospel Baptist Church appeared similar to the other Christian churches—mostly Catholic or Lutheran—that I’d visited throughout my life. The service, however, was oh, so different.
My friend, Cindy, and I were among a total of six white people in that morning’s congregation of about five hundred. I cringed as I took my seat. Not only would I feel like an outsider through my bumbling participation in an unfamiliar service, I would also stick out simply through the color of my skin.
Awkward as I initially felt, the racial difference soon appeared irrelevant. Within minutes, we were welcomed through handshakes, smiles, and warm words. We never felt like we didn’t belong: racially, religiously, or otherwise. That proved important because, just like my other church experiences, my goal was seeking information, introspection, and also a sense of community. In order to truly feel a part of their celebration, I had to feel I was fully accepted. And here, I did.
We happened to visit on a morning when five people received an “apostolic anointing” to become ordained ministers. The service consisted largely of these individuals providing personal, powerful, and animated outlooks on spiritual issues.
The congregation responded to these monologues with standing ovations and applause, as well as shouts of “Amen,” “Tell it,” and “That’s right, brother!” As someone who was distressed when the Catholic Church began requesting hand-holding during the Lord’s Prayer, this level of pew-side participation pushed my personal boundaries by far.
Finding My Badass Self Page 3