*Disclaimer: though this article may start out with relative civility, it will progress into dark humor, sexually explicit, and potentially-offensive rambling.
If you find that you are easily offended, don’t read it. If you have a deliciously wicked sense of humor and enjoy what you read here, give me a shout.
It is New Year’s Eve 2016. Seven hours before I see a brand new year.
I won’t be looking backward. I am well aware of how shitty 2016 was – I was there. I lived it. Hell, I even survived it – that’s the most important factor.
Seeing as I am still here, I look to the next day as though it were any other.
And in the afternoon – bright and crisp and mild for a December in Minnesota – I made the most of my New Year’s Eve day.
It started out in a sex shop.
I’ll get back to that in a second.
Being of Lebanese descent, one of my favorite markets to shop is in “Nord Eas'” Minneapolis – a multi-cultural treasure trove called the Holy Land. Anyone who knows me understands what my “pilgrimage to the Holy Land” is in reference to when it comes to my diverse shopping.
It is one of the very few places in the area where I can find my beloved Lebanese flatbread and succulent treats of Tunisian dates, Turkish figs, dolmades (stuffed grape leaves), tzatziki, hummus, baba ganoush, hand-rolled baklava, and every perceptible part of a lamb, cow, or chicken that can be consumed.
And I mean EVERY part.
But it isn’t just the delicacies that draw me to the massive shop that has expanded over the years to include an impressive restaurant and produce section.
Hailing from not only Minnesota but the Midwest United States in general – that tireless land densely-populated with Danes, Norskies, Swedes, Germans, and Dutch – I have been and will always be a foreigner…an outcast. The brunette, coal-eyed devil lurking among the blue-eyed blonde angels.
Though I am third-generation American-Lebanese (in part), there is no atom of how I look, act, feel, think, or live that is even remotely aligned with the perceptions and lifestyles by which I am surrounded.
Not that I believe that there is really any comfortable spot for me other than in some parallel universe, but I can’t help but wonder what the hell my family was thinking when – at the turn of the previous century – they decided to stake claim to THIS particular territory.
Having done a bit of genealogy and having unwittingly stumbled across documents and pictures all pointing to potential mob involvement on my extended family’s part, I’m inclined to think that they chose this vast plain to more-easily disguise and shade some of their less-than-desirable activity away from prying eyes.
But that’s another story for another time.
At Holy Land, I am THE population. I am among my own people, as it were. It is one of the few places where I truly feel…home. Normal. Attractive. Desired. Welcomed.
I don’t stick out like a turd in a swimming pool…
That’s powerful – massively empowering, as was apparent to me when I noticed the man in the store who couldn’t take his eyes off of me, and smiled every time my gaze caught his.
It wasn’t creepy. It was nice. It was reaffirming.
It was a necessary recharging.
Prior to my Holy Land pilgrimage, I patronized an adult shop.
You see, my most-cherished Adam & Eve component broke…stopped working…wore out…gave up.
Whatever the case may be, I regard my toy box as equally-important as any other mechanical or technical accessory that energizes my everyday life. My stereos, my coffee maker, and – most-integrally – my cars.
These elements in particular form the foundation of my life and they are upon which I have the highest expectations…of power.
My sound systems need to blow my hair back. My coffee pot need brew motor oil that will melt my spoon when I stir its produced contents. My cars are required to knock me back into my seat upon acceleration.
And my vibrators need to be able to have the potential of chipping my back teeth.
What can I say? I’m a hot-blooded, passionate, still <semi> youthful single female with an all-too-vivid imagination…and libido to match.
My vibrator finally giving up the ghost was a no less devastating experience than would have been my car breaking down and leaving me stranded along the side of the road.
Action needed to be taken…and quickly.
Being the overly-indulgent and most-willing slave to every one of my senses, I sought out a boutique I’d not previously explored.
It did not disappoint.
Much as with any other form of technology, adult toys have become more evolved, sophisticated and discerning than ever to meet any and all human tastes. I scoped walls and shelves and racks of videos, clothing, chains, bondage gear, and dildos of every shape and size.
Leather, lace, plastic, vinyl, and metal constructed cock rings, nipple clamps, anal beads, and a vast array of dildos to entice any discrete shopper’s palette.
There were even “testers” hanging on walls next to each unopened package for buyers to measure speed and accuracy of merchandise prior to making final purchases.
As the sole shopper on a New Year’s Eve afternoon in the tiny store, I had the luxury of meandering to my heart’s delight without discomfort of being scrutinized, judged, or stalked.
The lady at the checkout counter was a sweetheart, even going so far as to give me a card redeemable for 30% off my next purchase.
I made sure to tuck that little coupon far away from where I store my business cards.
That could be awkward.
When I arrived home from my day’s excursions and explorations, I dropped my bags on my kitchen counter and busied myself storing away the Kleenex, paper towels, and toilet cleaner that came with the necessary and banal grocery store shopping.
But I couldn’t wait to tear into my telltale little black bag from the toy store that held my decadent little battery-run monsters.
And, yet again, I’ve proven what a master of purchases that I can be.
So I’m set. I’m satisfied. I have purchased my electronics to ring in the new year properly…and those with sufficient power.
That’s just one type of power, an example I make with extreme and queer stories to make a point. The world is brimming with that which provides, serves, proves, and sucks power –
Financial, physical strength, emotional intelligence, mechanical, technological, gravitational, and – as we had our fill of this year – political.
What will be YOUR power in the new year? Define it. Embrace it. Ravish it. Control it. Prove it. Learn it…or eliminate it.
Fucking flaunt it.
Everyone has power – gifts that have been bestowed upon them naturally or by teachers.
Find the tools that give you the power you seek…battery-operated or otherwise.
I wish for you this in the new year: that you harness your power, whatever it may be. That you never let anyone tell you that your power is not strong enough, important enough, or good enough.
It’s your power and yours alone – that in and of itself is enough to make it unique…and powerful.
To all of you reading – happy masturbating.
And have a <POWERFUL> Happy New Year.