I’m Just Sayin’: Do I Look Like A Sex Toy Tester?

As if things in my personal life weren’t stressful and complicated enough already, now my work – which had, so far, safely remained sort of a Switzerland zone in the united states of mind of Mona – just got warped.

Here’s the deal. As a general cardinal rule of thumb, when it comes to clients and PR affairs, I ostensibly, and quite adroitly, make it an imperative point to never ever –as in, under no circumstances – mix pleasure with business. It’s just bad professional ethics and unavoidably a massive catastrophe waiting to happen. And while I do like to tempt the devil –especially when the devil has stunning long dark hair, a fuming hot bod and is wearing a sexy Prada mini dress – I absolutely never play with fire if I can’t quite approximate, with military precision, the probability of having my ass get burned.

Speaking of which, even in such an exact science as mathematics, there invariably is that one unconventional marginal tangent that does pop in at times to raise new hypotheses and singlehandedly fuck up all of your most accurate calculations. In real life, I believe the word I’m looking for is “black-sheep”. In my life, her name is Vicki! For contextual 411 background purposes, all you need to know about Vicki, in a nutshell, is that she is a successful professional sex advisor & relationship therapist who obviously counts among the talented members of my prestigious PR clientele list.

Well, as recently as last week, it came to my horrified attention that either I hadn’t been clear enough about my modus operandi apropos my work ethics and overall company’s philosophy and culture, or that perhaps my memo had not properly been disseminated virally to the entirety of my talent roster. Of course Vicki is claiming the latter as her alibi. Quite frankly, after the exceptional “Oh no she didn’t” stunt she pulled on me, I wold have done the same and opted for denial as a tactical maneuver to smoothly weasel my way out of the boo-boo I created.

What boo-boo you may ask?
Well, let’s just put it this way: Vicki, unabashedly, solicited my handyman (bed) room-service skills to conduct a survey for the current allegedly scientific research she is conducting. What that meant, besides what it exactly sounds like, was that Vicki attempted to recruit my guinea-pig ass to test a couple of brand new sex toys she had just purchased (and ingeniously deducted as a business expense) with the clear strategic mind-goal of extrapolating their respective flaws and virtues.

I would very beaucoup like to know what possessed her to isolate me as a potential eligible candidate for her study. First of all, I’m famously not the manual labor type, and secondly, I’ve extensively advertised my impressive lack of field research. Didn’t she read my column about how I think sex is overrated? But then again, I should have kept in mind that I was dealing with the very protagonist who, about a year ago, almost got me into trouble with her “ménage a trois” shenanigans.

Yep, Vicki is bad news! Yet to her defense, this extravagant, seemingly preposterous, sex toy jamboree was in all actuality masking the interesting study about the variety of orgasms women can supposedly attain.
Yes, Ladies, lesbians and gentlemen, Meg Ryan’s infamous orgasm scene in “When Harry Met Sally” was not so artificial after all. But still, over my dead body would you see me participate in such a study, much less one conducted by a client. I’m not a coward and everyone who has been dangerously exposed to my competitive ego knows quite well that I am not one to habitually turn down a challenge. But seriously, this had DISASTER written all over it.

From the very second Vicki nonchalantly extended the personal invitation, I was literally floored, and as much as I tried to self-consciously look hip and cool, I know I was probably looking more like a stooge. I guess the subsequent blushing out of embarrassment followed by intense fidgeting and uncontrollable stuttering totally gave it away. Oh, and did I mention how my eyes rolled so far in the back of my head – contortionist style – that had I paid close attention I would have probably enjoyed the world premiere panoramic view of my own ass.

“So what do you think?” she said expectantly as she was done giving me the gory details of what these quite intimidating toys charmingly promised to deliver.
Luckily my friend Sunshine, who was standing right next to me when Vicki drop the bomb, had the same dumbfounded facial expression as I (you know the kind that silently says: is she fucking for real?), which reassured me that I was not alone in my indisposition – unless, of course it was just our European connection.

Seriously you should have seen the size, shape and texture of these artifacts (one was a heavy as shit sterling silver hand-shower shaped menacing apparatus) – clearly objects of pure physical torture that were beyond “Midnight Express” scary! I can’t speak for Sunshine, but personally, right then, there was no doubt in my mind that Terminator and his sidekick Rambo were not going to come anywhere near, on or inside me.

That was when I knew I had to be judicious in my choice of words because when Vicki wanted something she had this uncanny compelling ability to turn herself into the most seductively persuasive person on this damned planet.
So I pulled an Oprah and totally sold out –choosing, so to speak, my own ass over my own gender. What can I say? Need I remind you that I don’t march, I don’t join rallies, I don’t do protests, and I always, and I mean ALWAYS, rudely hang up the phone on telemarketers – just because I can. For Christ’s sake, I don’t even vote in my own country (or anywhere else for that matter). So why would you expect my avowed non-activist, un-committed, non-engaged selfish self to take a philanthropist stand for my fellow women’s “Oh my freaking God!” orgasmic cause?

Was I the only one seeing how terribly wrong Vicki’s “let’s play with my toys” plea was? Don’t get me started on the hygienic issues her study posed. If her life is consumed with vaginas being out of order, mine is very much preoccupied with my germ-o-phobia disorder. Surely she didn’t expect us to pass the toys around once the batteries ran out? Next! Hello, we’re not dealing with books here!

Well Ok, maybe that problem could have been solved with a little help of some Clorox or other heavy-duty toxic disinfectants. But the core problem would still remain indefinitely unresolved. Why? Because it’s humanly impossible to play with me, myself and I when the imposing invisible presence of Vicki would be ominously felt not only within the privacy of my walls but as well within the walls of my mind. I don’t know about you, but the last thing I need is a mental image of Vicki popping in my head while I’m doing you know what! Do you know what happens when you leave a picture frame with a photo of your mom resting on the dresser directly facing your bed? You feel her condemning eyes zooming in on you throughout the entire duration of your brave attempt at a sexual performance. That indelible visual is not only distracting, but also beyond disturbing.

Think about it! How accurate and objective would my review be if I were not 100% focused? It’s like having one of those awkward out of body moments when you’re on a massage table and instead of letting your body relax, suddenly your mind, racing at lightning speed, takes over bombarding you with jillions useless thoughts: Ouch! That hurts! What the fuck is this masseuse doing? Why am I paying for this shit? For God’s sake, why is he lingering on my back when I specifically indicated that my neck was in pain? How competent is this guy? I should have asked to see some certifications. This is fucked up! Can I do anything right in my life? Take a deep breath Mona, you need to relax; that’s right, just like that, empty your mind and concentrate on the now; Am I there yet? How about now? Hmm, I wonder if I answered that email at work. Damn! I forgot to call my dentist back to reschedule that root canal procedure; Ouch again! What the hell is he doing? Leave my feet alone! What part of “my neck is hurting” didn’t he get? And how about that bitch at work? Frankly, I didn’t like the way she talked to me earlier. I should have put her back in her place, which reminds me I need to tell my ex to stop texting me; she’s eating up my free minutes for nothing. Oh my God, I’m so tensed. Ouch! I am so tweeting and facebooking his ass once we’re done with this nonsense! Who the fuck does he think he is? Doesn’t he know who the fuck I am? Oh Lord, why did I have the brilliant idea to book myself a massage? And why on earth am I letting this complete moron put his hands all over me? For the last time, I SAID NECK! Grrr, this is such a pain in the ass …No wait! Oops, wrong one! It’s a pain in the neck!

Clearly, I was the least qualified subject to put to the test Vicki’s experiment. Left in my hands (no pun intended), it guaranteed only one outcome: failure.
And it’s not just because of the mediocrity of my credentials in that department, but primarily because, in that case, the rule of the game defeats its own purpose.
Like I said: never mix business with pleasure because just like when you’re mixing your liquor, you’ll end up your face in the toilet later!

Why did Vicki pick me? Must be a case of mistaken identity. Obviously there’s a huge disconnect between how Vicki sees me as and what I really am in reality.
I’m just a publicist for God’s sake!

PR stands for “public relations” not “personal relief”…I’m just sayin’!