Deconstructing sexual normalcy, deviance

A CO-WORKER OF mine recently invited me to accompany her on a last minute shopping mission.
I didn’t bother to ask where or why, hoping the surprise would yield at the very least an idea for an article.

I guess it would serve as good measure to encourage readers to keep this piece from young eyes, unless you feel like explaining to your children what a riding crop is used for.

If you do not take my advice, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Twenty minutes later, and one-near miss with la policia, we arrived at Fresno’s premier erotic boutique, Suzy’s.

I’m no prude. Anyone who has ever had a class with me knows just how my mind operates.

I’m purposefully foul. But in my defense, it is usually in the name of sensationalism.

It affords me the attention I obviously did not receive enough of as a child.

Never once though did I bring a wall of battery-operated toys (all with disturbingly cute names) to class and shove in it someone’s face.

But there it was — the wall where sparkly turquoise phalluses go to die.

It was as though all of my bawdy humor had come to life and I was unarmed for dealing with the overwhelming hilarity of it all.

There existed every genre and sub-genre of erotica, all ready and willing to be picked up, played with and laughed at.

Whatever flavor you favor, Suzy’s has it.

At first I had trouble breathing. It was all too silly. Really, does anyone out there truly need an inflatable sheep?

I considered it’s usefulness to be limited to graduations, when members of the new alumni would throw it overhead and it would make its way around, surpassing the primitive volleyball in terms of looks and scandal.

My co-worker needed something — anything — for a bachelorette party she was invited to. She wanted to give the bride-to-be “something she’ll use.”

Her response got me thinking. The laws of supply and demand state that people will only manufacture what they can sell and for a profit.

This means, of course, that there are Fresnans amongst us who buy this stuff. Somebody out there must “use” these things, I reasoned.

I was compelled to ask why.

Suddenly, it hit me. I was transgressing into judgment. Had years of late night laughter with Carrie & Co. on “Sex and the City” taught me nothing?

Had I become one of those stereotypical conservative Fresnans, who at the soonest indication of deviance, issue declarations of criticism?

Did I have more in common with the citizens of Clovis than I had previously denied?

All of these rhetorical questions sent my mind racing, straight into a rack of handcuffs.

Maybe it was the feathers and the faux-leather that snapped me out of my Victorian snobbery and made me reconsider how I perceived the feelings of those who courted sheep.

I quickly realized that deviant morality is only deviant when subjectively compared to what defines, or is regarded consensually, as “normal”.

Therein lies the trouble with normalcy.

First, it’s dishonest because most people cannot and will not be entirely open with their feelings.

Second, it’s predicated by the self-righteous who are too insecure to be individuals; they are those who require group cohesiveness to appear as though they fit in with something.

After returning to Suzy’s, my epiphany put everything in a new light.

Finally, nurse costumes and harnesses served a purpose.

Cake tins in varying shapes of the human anatomy would now facilitate unembarrassed baking.

Chocolate condiments now had business being in the kitchen and in the nightstand.

I realized that a person’s sexual underground is too unique to comprehend. Yet, in spite of individual tastes, there is something universal, albeit unspoken, about what each person finds pleasing.

Have the laws of propriety reached a new level of absurdity, or are some things deservedly labeled weird?

This writer favors the former. In fact, having the courage to wear, or to use, or to buy what everyone else would probably put you down for is a sure sign of personal testicular fortitude.

Kudos to the sexually unabashed.

Thank you for not being afraid to be who you are, no matter what those snobs in Clovis think.

So, to all of the inflatable sheep sodomites out there, I salute you.

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