I went to a bachelorette party with my good friend, because it was for her daughter and she wanted company. I was under the impression that they were the similar to wedding showers. I’ve been to one wedding shower in my life and it was quite nice. There was actually a color scheme. Everything down to the plates matched. I was impressed with the planning that went into it. There were balloons and confetti all over, more great treats than you could eat, a big group of family and friends, tons of sensible gifts and a bonus of a really great dog to play with if you got self-conscious because you didn’t know anyone.

Victor was going with his good friend to the bachelor party. I had heard about those and wondered how long into the night Victor would last. (He made it through dinner and then he and his friend left the party to go home to bed.)

We arrived two hours early to help out, but there was nothing for us to do. So we watched one of the groom’s two 90-year old grandmas icing a penis cake. It was big and intricate. Something just seemed out of whack. (90-year old grandma icing a penis cake, you know.)

The theme of the party was “The Penis.”

The plastic silverware ended in penises.

The ice “cubes” came in quite a variety. There were penises with scrotums, naked ladies with huge bosoms, couples frozen in flagrante delecto, and vaginas, (I feel that I should repeat that last one; there were vaginal ice cubes.)

The Party “hats” were paper glasses. The eyepieces were testicles. The nosepiece was a penis. There was a choice of flipping the penis erect or flaccid. People were wearing them both ways.

I thought I had seen the full array of the penis theme of the night and there was nothing more ahead of us but the opening of the gifts and the snacks.

Then a woman came in rolling a crate with drawers and a large case on the top. She was setting up in the corner of the room while the ladies placed chairs in a half circle around her. I thought there might be entertainment, a magician, perhaps.

The mysterious lady asked everyone to sit in a booming voice.

“Has anyone been to a Passion Party before? she boomed, you are all about to find out what a Passion Party is!” She could have been a disc jockey with that voice, or a politician. (Definitely not a magician.)

She started out slowly, passing around aerosol cans of “Irresistible Pheromones” to spray on the sheets at night. There was a tube of “Tighten Up!” There was an advertisement on the side of the tube that promised “It would be like the very first time!” I wondered how that worked.

After the sprays and the powders and the gels, Booming Lady brought out the “appliances.”


“The tip of your nose is the most sensitive spot to test these babies,” she assured us. Politely, each lady placed the vibrating appliances to the tips of their noses as they passed from nose to nose from one seat to the next. Many of the devices seemed almost alive: in addition to vibrating, the apex of some of these also moved around in a circle. I can say for absolute certainty that my nose had never experienced such sensations before.

I’ll tell you about some of these things, but many are just too embarrassing to describe here. There was “The Double Bullet,” (“which equaled twice the fun.”) It had wires with which to pull the two bullets out of wherever you were having twice the fun, when you were finished having, um, twice the fun.

There were “Mini” and “Maxi Bullets,” (“press the button and ring your bell!”) No wires accompanied these items, so I wasn’t sure how one would extract them. Booming Lady didn’t sell an extractor. I looked.

Booming Lady claimed one of her biggest sellers was the “Body Wand,” which never needed batteries, since it had a “cord over six feet long!”

Imagine the lengths you could go.

This one I thought was pretty amazing. It’s called the “Flutter Frenzy” and it is worn under your clothes.

 

I pondered how this one could be used. At work? Would you get your work done efficiently while wearing this? At the movies? Would you pay any attention to the plot? While cooking dinner? Wouldn’t you be in danger of burning something in the kitchen?

There were also tubes that had metal ball bearings inside the jelly plastic. These glowed in the dark, which I thought was an extra special touch, although why a man would want parts of himself to glow in the dark was a mystery to me. I myself have never had any problems locating any part of Victor in the dark. I’m just saying.

It was all quite peculiar insofar as only my friend and I were shocked and embarrassed. Everyone else, including the almost 90-year old grandmas was perfectly at ease with all of this.

After Booming Lady’s demonstration, she asked if anyone had any questions. I asked her if her mother knew what she did for a living. She boomed that her mother did indeed know what she did for a living and was very, very proud of her. (I did not believe her. I’m pretty sure that her mother is under the impression that she sells Avon products.)

The bride-to-be was slated to win a large assortment of goodies from Booming Lady’s bag of tricks, depending on how many items were purchased that very evening. A number of enthusiastic people filed, one at a time, into a private bedroom in order to buy from amongst the products.

I, myself, made the mistake of ordering one item which I thought was so totally ridiculous that it would be a funny thing to show to people. It is called a “Car Pet.” This was an item, which could only be plugged into a car’s 12-volt power source, you know, it used to be called the cigarette lighter. It’s important that you understand that this could not plug into the wall, nor could it run on batteries. Seriously, this item was meant to use in a car! Can you imagine anything more absurd?

 

Oddly, Victor did not think it was in the least bit funny. This really surprised me, since he’s quite raunchy. He says horrendous things in public. Ask anyone! In fact, this purchase of mine made him livid. I had to cancel my order to prevent him from having a stroke or something. It was truly a bummer. I haven’t the slightest idea why it made him so upset. I still think it would be a fabulous conversation-starter at a dinner party. I thought it was hysterical, but I suppose that you have to let the fuddy-duddy partner make the decision about this type of thing.


“I don’t know how to break this to you, but I’m baking the penis cake.”

My wife shook her head, defeated. She knew that morning that there was nothing she could do to stop me. So instead, she made me promise that if the cake wasn’t well-received at the party, I would make a public announcement saying that she had not approved of it.

I agreed.

The brilliant idea had come to me the night before, when I was thinking of what hors d’oeuvres to bring for my friend Jessie’s Inaugural Ball. This hang out, drink and dance party was an excuse for a bunch of graduate and post-graduate students to dress up in formal wear and celebrate the joyous swearing in of Barack Obama.

Looking over recipes in my kitchen, I was struck with what my filthy mind perceived as pure genius: What if I made a chocolate penis cake in honor of the first black president? It would even come with its own tagline: Barack Obama—Breaking our nation’s long history of white dicks in the Oval Office.

It was perfect. But was it so completely politically incorrect that my cohorts would recoil in horror? Would I become a social pariah? The “inappropriate girl” who doesn’t realize that she has grossly offended everyone in the room?

I needed a second opinion. So I emailed my friend Travis.

And I found my first measure of support with him. “Two things come to mind,” he wrote. “1) It would only be a social faux pas if the penis were anything shorter than 12 inches, because let’s face it, Obama ain’t swinging a little dick, and 2) try to avoid having any white icing spewing forth from the tip in a celebratory, I-just-got-a-new-president load.  Otherwise, I think you’d be fine.”

Before bed, I floated the idea past my wife, who would be accompanying me to the party the next night.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “Not if I’m coming with you.”

“But what if I snuck it in and it just ‘showed up’ on the snack table?” I asked.

She raised an eyebrow. “Everyone would know it was you.”

She was right.

In the morning, I called my older sister—who shares my corrupt mind, as do all my siblings—and mentioned my vetoed pastry creation.

“Oh my God! You HAVE to do it,” my sister insisted. “That would totally make the party.”

My second measure of support was all the more justification that I needed. I hung up the phone and went to the store to get cake mix.

Fast forward to the party: When I walked in the door with a large bag in-hand, someone asked, “What’d you bring?”

“Oh. Snacks,” I said, and made a bee-line for the kitchen. I set the cake out on the counter, along with its accompanying “inaugural balls” cupcakes. Then I abandoned ship.

“Did you bring cake?” my friend Sara asked before I could get away.

“What?” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She leaned over the cake pan and gasped. “Oh my God,” Sara said. “This is fabulous.” She picked up the cake and brought it to the living room. The other guests passed it around like communion, changing it from hand to hand and laughing. When it made its way back to the kitchen, it came with friends.”

“This is fucking hilarious.”

“Awesome cake, Laura.”

“Did you have a mold for this? Or how did you make it?”

All night long, I received a stream of compliments. They shook my hand. They hugged me. People I didn’t even know greeted me in a warm embrace. The chocolate fudge phallus cake—extra moist—was a raging success.

I wish the same for our new leader.