Gift Swap Gone Wrong
Posted on December 13, 2007
Filed Under Anxiety, My Better Half, christmas, holiday fun, sex, snark, suburban joys | 7 Comments
The invitation came by e-mail. An E-vite. A Naughty or Nice gift swap. Ladies only. The promise of Pomegranate Martinis and stuffed mushrooms and elegant cocktail napkins. Until that E-vite arrived, I didn’t know how much I’d been missing the annual Scotch Swap we used to attend in Miami, all the raunchy, cheap-o gifts that made us laugh until our sides hurt and spill red wine on the hosts’ carpet.
But this would be different. New friends, mere acquaintances really. A new town. A scented candles or aromatic room mist seemed appropriate. Nice is safe. Nice is the way to go when you’re the new kid on the block, I thought. But My Better Half was disagreeable. He made me feel insecure. “Who wants a Sea Island Grapefruit candle? That’s lame. It’s a Naughty Gift Grab. Bring something spicy,” he said. “Remember the year we brought the Paris Hilton Blow-up Doll with 3 Orifices designed for the recipients pleasure?” He challenged me. I took the bait. I am a sucker. Like a cat fish or a flounder.
What does he know about a ladies-only gift grab? Turns out nothing.
The beaded curtain rattled with impropriety as I swept aside reservations and entered the den of iniquity – the back room of the costume shop. I sifted through cock rings and weekend sex kits and flavored condoms, looking for just the right thing, something unusual, something under twenty-five dollars. And there it was, the Tickling Turtle Strap-on Vibrator. At the time, it just screamed perfect. The woman on the box, all dark hair and nudity, back arched in sweet release as the little green turtle nestled into her crotch. This will be the hit of the evening, I thought, the gift that everyone talks about and gushes over. There will be jokes about loaning it to a friend whose husband is away on business. “A turtle? Why a turtle and not a frog? Why an amphibian at all,” someone will say. This will be hashed out. Women with ruby red drinks and flushed cheeks debating the animal chosen for pleasurable purposes.
I wrapped that turtle in snow white tissue. I tied it up in a cranberry-colored satin bow and glued on little gold stars. On the night of the party, I slipped into the hostess’s living room with the designer tree decked out in stars and shells and slid it in among the other gift-grab packages, undetected. No one saw me do it. And thank god.
I knew I had made a grave mistake when the first grab was made, the gift bag opened to reveal a Starbucks gift card. My stomach dropped to the floor when the next package housed a set of coasters embossed with pictures of Tuscany. It went on like that, imported olive oil, a cook book, bath salts. Not one even slightly Naughty gift beneath the tree. Oh shit, where’s the bathroom, I thought. Is there a window. Can I fit?. I was still searching for the perfect escape from my own bad judgment when the woman wearing the Christmas tree neck scarf and velvet blazer drifted towards the tree, her bangled arm reaching for that cranberry bow, the gold stars twinkling.
And she unwrapped it there, in a room quiet with expectation. She swept the tissue paper aside to reveal the Tickling Turtle. She looked nothing like the woman on the box. She gasped. Her hand opened and the turtle fell to the floor. She jumped back as if she’d been burned. The crowd of curious party goers pressed towards the tree to better understand the insult. I thought the neck scarf/blazer woman might cry. But instead she picked it up, carefully holding it by the corner of the packaging, distancing herself from filthy thoughts of masturbation. She crossed the room and snatched the holiday china set from the clutches of another unlucky gift-grabber, placing the Turtle in this woman’s hands. A fair exchange, vibrator for dessert plates. And it was passed like that, the hot potato, from one party guest to the next until it rested there on the coffee table, the last recipient unable to even claim her gift for shame of association.
I went home with moisturizing lip scrub and thoughts of the Tickling Turtle discarded with the litter of the season or, I like to think, opened in the quiet of a living room. The hostess left to discover the magic of the season, there before the X-mas tree amongst the empty glasses and torn paper and ribbon strewn across the floor. Batteries included.
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