Sex shop

I made a decision to purchase a vibrator. This was not a light-headed resolution – quite the opposite – I carefully went through all for and against, I consulted competent people, and did a research.

Once I opened the sex shop door Sphinx got in my way ready to devour, if I don’t answer his riddles:

  • It’s you again…
  • S., at least let me hold it in my hands. I feel ready.
  • I’ll check/…
  • …/I beg you, enough is enough, move out of my way and no one gets hurt, let me dive into that mysterious world of fantasies damned not to come true, allow me to gather those forbidden ripe fruits of Eden!
  • I would love to meet those men, who pushed you into this desperation/…
  • Men?!
  • Let’s be frank, S., vibrator isn’t what you call a décor detail, that women buy to brighten their dull interiors. If that was the case, you, my dear, would work in IKEA, not in a sex shop.
  • Really?
  • Now, move!
  • Linger for a little bit longer, – Sphinx stops me grabbing my hand, – sit down, I will boil the kettle/…
  • …/ you must be kidding.

Sphinx is dead serious: he locks the front door, rotates the sign Open and disappears in the kitchen. I don’t waste my time and quietly get up from the chair, unbutton my coat and slowly head towards the target. What an imbasile, – I think to my-self, – it won’t take me a minute to find out which one is the best and leave without paying

… I stand there in the middle of the room in ecstasy, outside the realm of consciousness: hundreds of vibators of different sizes, shapes, colours, textures, various levels of speed and intensity, and even purposes, blowing gentle breeze of pleasure, made for underwater delights, undercover ones in a shape of lipstick, mobile phones, rubber duck and etc. My eyes start to ripple, walls begin to spin along with the heads of fake penises that are shooting varicoloured confetti. I stretch my hand towards a pink rabbit praying it takes me to the wonderland…

  • Put it back! – commands Sphinx bringing me back to the grim reality.
  • That’s all your fault! – I state aggressively tearing the package out of his hands.
  • What about relationship? – Sphinx tries to stop me holding on to the last straw of sentimental bullshit.
  • Total tosh…
  • How can you say this?
  • It’s a myth, don’t you get it? – I stop feeling disappointed as there are no batteries included, – Where are AAAs? Where?!
  • Coffee will get cold, let’s sit down, and have a chat, – overly attentive as if force-fed with oestrogen suggests Sphinx.
  • Alright, – I follow lulled by his soft voice.

We sip hot black coffee. Sphinx turns in his chair, opens one of the set drawers standing behind his back and takes out a liqueur flask, pours a bit of fluid that smells of 999 balm into a cup.

  • What some? – he asks and pours a tiny bit into my cup without waiting for an answer.
  • What a fuck?
  • Improves potency…
  • I wanted to talk with you about L., she left me.
  • And?
  • And?!
  • It’s not an end of the world, is it?
  • What did I do wrong? – he asks me in breaking voice.

I sit in silence, looking at smiling face of animal shaped condoms, thinking that Sphinx is a embodiment of all features I can not stand in men. There isn’t one thing about him that would attract a woman. He neither has financial stability, nor strong character, he looks like pussy and smells like one. And in addition to that, he drinks medicine (that I can bet was made by his grandmother) to improve his potency.

  • Tell me more about this medicine, – I change the topic.
  • I told you already, herbal infusion that helps to improve potency, smells like 999.
  • Why do women buy vibrators?
  • They do? Because when I asked their faces went red and they began to stutter.
  • They do, pay in cash. – Sphinx zones out for a bit, takes another sip, frowns and asks again, – Why? Apart from the evident.

All of the sudden I feel cold from inside. Seductively lustful and at the same time as if a bit surprised looks of young women and men stare at me from the covers of
Asian Fever, Buttman, Fox, Juggs, Men‘s World, Playboy, Private, Zoo Weekly.

I‘m yet again – lost for words.

  • You won, – I sight for fifty eight time.
  • I knew it! Bring on the tenner and I will see you tomorrow, – waves me off Sphinx triumphantly pulling out a cup half-full of warmish coffee.

Every time I walk down the same old path to the sex shop I see clear mirage of the time to come: I visualise a bright future, which is not overshadowed by a man. My walk is confident and my mind is clear. I remind my-self once again, that modern woman is in no need for a man, maybe just sometimes, and just when she wants someone to lie on top of her. Someone who for about ten minutes would press her to the mattress letting her fantasy run wild, allowing her to become a character from romantic dramas. Each time I open the door I feel sure that this time I will get what I came for and each time I walk out with my head down.

I lay ten pounds in front of Sphinx, who smiles at me showing his gold tooth and for the first time I am aware of his devilish power. The phallus cult, – I remember a title of a column I once read, – and as a matter of fact Sphinx is in charge of hundreds…

I cough and pass the word to my inner feminist:

  • … because if you are not a molly, that desperately needs a man, who can change a lighting bulb, fix the broken tab and carry your shopping bags with dresses and tampons, a man dissolves into a mere smell and already mentioned weight. And that sometimes you need a man, who would hear you out is one of the silliest reasons to pick a man over a vibrator, because men stopped listening. Even my dentist knows more about me than all men I ever dated! And I always blamed my-self as if my hair was too short, my skin too white, my breasts too small, my buttocks too large, my eyebrows – a mess, I did not shave my armpits for two days, I haven’t got a clue what total football means, or who is Angela Merkel. Finally I began to blame my-self for earning more than he does and when I learnt how to change the wheel… – he left me. Therefore, S., please do tell me why do I have to pay my psychoanalyst and depress my friends raving about inexistent love, if I can vibrate all of this crap out with one magic touch?
  • Ah, let it be… which colour would you prefer?
  • Pink.

 

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Marija

"Lengva būtų visa tai pavadinti literatūriniu nudizmu, jei Marijos Djačenko kūryboje nebudėtų skaudus jautrumas tiems, kuriems atrodo, jog savo egzistenciją įmanoma pabrėžti ir susinaikinimu." - ROBERTAS KETURAKIS “It would be easy to call Marija Djačenko’s oeuvre literary nudism, if not the painful sensitivity to those who feel that their existence may be stressed by self destruction.” – ROBERTAS KETURAKIS