by RAF KATIGBAK

So I went out to buy a butt plug the other day. Yes, if you must ask, I was looking for something big, and black and latex; and no, it was not for me. It was a gift for a particular conservative female friend who was—as her acquaintances liked to joke—such a tight ass that a piece of coal inserted in her rectum would produce a diamond in a week.

While I had never gone hunting for anything remotely similar to an anal stimulation device—unless you count hitting Canadian Tire for that rechargeable flashlight last camping season (which doesn’t count because it accidentally ended up in my ass)—a preliminary Interweb search provided a sufficient starting point to find that perfect plug.

Since she is a rather conservative, old-fashioned gal, I thought to go traditional, nothing too fancy. The material had to be practical: no marble, no mahogany, no steel or glass; this was a butt plug after all, not a piece of modern furniture. The form also couldn’t be too busy, for fear she would run screaming from her birthday party at the sheer variety and volume of a “Ben Dover Anal Training Kit” or at the sight of more audaciously shaped devices with names like “The Triple Ripple,” the frighteningly to-the-point “Target Practice Giant Crack Attack” or the equally intimidating “3 Bangs For Your Butt Mega Dildo.” Ah yes, the Original Doc Johnson Medium in Classic Black, that’s the one.

Armed with the knowledge, my next choice was to find a place to purchase said ass blaster, which as every Montrealer knows, is extremely easy. In fact, our choices of sex shops are slowly eclipsing our choices of churches, so much so that if Mark Twain were alive today, his famous quote about not being able to “throw a brick in Montreal without breaking a church window” would have morphed into not being able to “throw a brick without knocking over a window display of Fleshlights, inflatable Stefanie Swift dolls and mannequins in split-crotch panties and feathered mardi gras masks.”

So which erotic emporium would it be? How about that mega-store that advertises on late night television? Well, the idea of throwing my friend’s single black butt plug into one of those full sized shopping carts scared the bejesus out of me, so the answer was no, but I told myself the next time I needed a glass coffee table festooned with carved mahogany busts of naked women, I’d be sure to pop by (it’s a conversation piece!). Being a firm supporter of the underdog, I decided instead to visit a local mom ’n’ pop porn shop. These places are less the corporate “Bal-mart” sex warehouses and more an old fashioned-style shop with discrete personal service, an anal apothecary if you will.

So last Sunday evening, the night of her birthday, I strolled into my local suppository repository eager to spend my hard-earned dildo dollars on a jet-black latex rubber gift that, if used properly, will be shoved up her ass. I briskly walked past the display of DVDs advertising “girl-on-girl finger blasting,” “rock-hard blue-veined junket pumpers” and “ASStronauts that blast an O-RING around urANUS” and strolled right into a six-foot steel chain with the words “Section Fermé” hanging from it.

Shocked and confused, I went to go see the man at the front counter, a rather portly gentleman in a black jean shirt and what looked like two small specks of salsa stuck to his dishevelled facial hair.

“Hey, what gives?” I said, thumbing the chained up sign behind me.

“Sorry, we aren’t allowed to keep that section open past 6 p.m. on weekends,” he shrugged. “It’s the law.”

“What law? The ‘No dildos on Sunday after 6 p.m. law?’ When did they pass that? I don’t remember voting...”

“Well, it’s the ‘Loi du magasin détail.’ We’re a retail store, see, so we can’t sell sex items past six on weekends. That means no dongs, schlongs, grandma’s grapes, anal beads, prostate massagers, ball locks, cock rings, ben-wa ball kegel exercisers...”

“...And no butt plugs?”

“No, definitely not.”

“Then why are you open?”

“Well, we’re also a video store, which is governed by different laws.”

“So you mean to say on weekend nights I can rent classics like Tits a Wonderful Life, Das Boob or A Cockwork Orange, but I’m not allowed to also buy something that lets me... I mean a friend... get ‘fully interactive?’”

“Pretty much. Just another party pooped on by the city ordinances.”

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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