Coming Soon - Tuesday's Toys

All of the romance authors own toys.

It started with one teeny, tiny little Slumber Party. I attended by myself, and arrived late. The hostess sat me next to...her great grandma.

The woman was about a hundred and looked like most little old ladies. Hair tied into a knot. Knee highs on with a dress. But the weird thing was, she shimmied when she spoke, the skin on her face jiggling, the wrinkles twisting and turning like a puzzle.

“We'll start our night off by introducing The Quiver,” the demonstrator said. “Not only does it rotate, it vibrates. It shakes, it shimmies while it rotates. Nothing like it on Earth.”

“Ggget, that ooone, dddearie,” the old mummy said. “I oooown sssseveral.”

I smiled politely, thinking it was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen. It had pokies sticking out all over it, and twisted extensions that made it look like a cactus.

I half expected all, um, gizmos, to resemble amputated penises. Perhaps with a more exciting color and, of course, size. That's a given.

But this thing? Granny was crazy.

Then the demonstrator gave us a little contest. Write as many synonyms in 90 seconds as you could for the word penis.

It was no contest. I had three times the amount of the next highest person. All the women in the room looked at me suspiciously, as if it was possible to cheat.

Hello? I am an erotica writer. I've called the blasted manhood everything under the sun.

And the prize? Fifty percent off...The Quiver.

I gave in to fate. Bought the ugly thing (call it research) and...had my own party. A party filled with other romance writers. And like females do, I passed the advice from the wise old woman to the person sitting next to me.

“The Quiver,” I whispered.

She had the same look of disbelief I once had in my own eyes.

I winked. “Trust me.”

She called me the next day. “Wow. Wow. Wow.” She seemed stuck for words here. I politely waited for the rest of her story. “Obviously invented by a woman for a woman,” she went on.

I laughed. “I have to agree. Who would have guessed?”

One thing led to another. But the problem with every single one of your girlfriends owning the same toy? They were all called The Quiver. She'd talk about hers, I'd mix it up with mine.

“That's it,” I said one day. “I'm naming mine. He's Kyle.” Oh, oops. There's a guy at work named Kyle. Ick. “Scratch that. He's named...” Kevin? No, I dated a Kevin once. That's creepy, to call your dismembered pet after an ex boyfriend. So that also ruled out Shawn. Andy. Brian. Brandon. Randy. Ron.

Geez.

“Ryan.” The name jumped at me out of the blue. I didn't work with any Ryans, I'd never dated any Ryans, I didn't go to school with any Ryans.

“Okay,” my friend said. “But what about mine?”

“You have to pick a name you don't associate it with,” I advised. “Cause if you call him Bobby, and then get mad at the real Bobby, the poor Quiver takes the heat.”

“Suggestions?”

“How about,” I frantically searched through the recesses of my mind. I was in the middle of writing Demonic Kisses. My hero's name was...

“Ace.”

“Ace it is. I'm calling Helen and Monica to see if they've named their boys, too.”

Monica was the last hold out. “I can't believe you two named your vibrators,” she said, as if it was the most appalling thing she'd ever heard. The prude.

Oh. My. God. Suddenly it occurs to me why that little old great-grandma quivered uncontrollably.

Tomorrow I must make a pact with my girlfriends to shorten our sessions before we hit our nineties.

But it's been months now, and today I texted Monica to see if she'd write me a review for my blog, Tuesday's Toys.

She agreed.

So naturally, I pressed my luck. “And,” I continued in the text, “Did you ever name yours?”

“I didn't,” she texted back. “Although OH MY GOD seems appropriate.”