Sex Test Drive: the "F--k of the Month" Club

These sex kits are kind of like "The Game" except that at the end, Sean Penn eats Michael Douglas out so good that they're compelled to write a testimonial on the Internet.

Sep 7, 2012 at 9:00am | Leave a comment


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Step into my boudoir. Kidding, don't, there's laundry everywhere.

I've always been obsessed with the sex lives of people in long-term, monogamous relationships.

How often do you do it? Does it get boring? Do you have a special day you do it and if so, do you have to get kinda drunk first? One time I read this Michael Cunningham novel about the sex life of a long-married couple, and it's always haunted me because it's depressingly routine and he describes the taste of the wife's vagina as "shrimpy." Haunted, I tell you.

So when the nice people at Déjàmor offered to send me a sample kit of their "Love in a Box" sex care packages, I jumped at the chance to see how the other side bones.

Déjàmor (a Frenchy tee-hee portmanteau that sounds like telenovela or something that killed Gandalf, depending) is a service that sends monthly kits to couples that they call "recipes to rekindle your love life." The bang-of-the month kits include a box for each half of the couple, which I guess come in gay or straight or lesbian, although they sent me the hetero one.

Me and my shadow got a box marked "For Her Eyes Only" and one marked for "His." Each box contains an erotic task, to be begun separately and completed in a not-at-all-weird pas de deux in the bedroom. These sex kits are kind of like "The Game" except that at the end, Sean Penn eats Michael Douglas out so good that they both write a product testimonial about it on the Internet. In theory, anyhow.

I'm sorry if you were misled by the headline of this post into thinking that I would be delivered a different partner by mail each month. Like, maybe you hoped I'd be getting a muscular Jamaican neurologist (August) or a skinny musician with one of those super curvy penises that are like crazystraws for your vagina (September). You and me both, buddy.

Since I've been a boring sexual relationship with myself for afewmonthsnow (look, it's been a busy summer), I decided to open both boxes. But since I'm a lady, I started with the FOR HER.

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What's in the box? What's in the boooooooox? Okay, well. In the lady half, I found a length of mauve lace and a couple of little cards, like the kind you might trident into a hospital sympathy bouquet.

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The attached booklet reminded me, "Too often men cut to the chase by tearing off the clothing." Well, so far, so good. Keep going, booklet. Sext me a little. "Not this time," it continued. "Follow these few steps and you'll love watching him squirm as he tries to get into your pants."

Well! I mean, I'll be seducing myself here, Dejamor, but considering my affinity for drinking jug wine in overalls, sometimes I do have trouble getting in and out of my own drawers. So what do I do, here?

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Hahahahahahahhahaha, like I ever fuck a guy with a job that involves a briefcase. Nice try.

But the lace, Mrs. Bennett, I beg of you. What of the lace?

"Grab your sexy lace in the box and place it where he'll find it. Pin the other card to the lace with the note 'Bring me tonight.'" Helpfully, the cards are blank so feel free to write, "Bring me tonight. Along with eight pounds of nougat. You big throbbing salad of fuck." (Or like, however you and your LTR SO talk dirty. Think I'm doing that right, there, but not sure.)

Next, the box wants you to tie him up with the lace (???) and demand that he take off your clothes.

Hm. Well. So it wants him to undress you... without ... his hands? I guess this will work great, if your husband is one of those people with stumps who learned to paint beautiful frescoes with his mouth. But unless you're wearing tear-away track pants, I don't see this going well. Like, I hope you don't wear stovepipe jeans or anything you don't want torn asunder by your husband's teeth while he's intractably bound by the concertina wire of some flimsy lace.

The last step is my favorite.

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Without further help? Wait, how did he get my clothes off? I guess he went full-goat and ate them, but I'll never know because there's not an illustration! They're really pushing us right into the deep end, here. At least there's a helpful picture of what sex looks like.

The best part is that it comes with "suggested notes" in case you're so in love you don't even know how to write a sentence to the person you care about explaining that you'd like his penis inside you after he's done with a long day of getting high behind Staples toting around that briefcase.

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Hold on guys, I will finish this post in a sec, gotta go rehydrate after that card simultaneously made me cry until I laughed and deluged my jorts in anticipatory girl rain.

Do we DARE open the box FOR HIM? Is some kind of alarm going to go off? Maybe there are some kind of secret man club notes in there! Or worse: instructions for how to deal with a woman who makes you use a fuck-of-the-month kit.

Oh boy. This is just like that movie, "The Box." I hope there's a picture of a menacing Frank Langella in it, but I'm already prrrrrrretty hot by now.

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Hey, the guy box has a lot more in it than the girl box. (Metaphor.)

Awesome. Well, it looks like fake rose petals, bubble bath and a blank message in a test tube. What do you think we're going to do with these? My guess is eat the rose petals for strength and blow a load the tube so you can last longer later when you lovingly put the stick to her after chewing her clothes off. Who knows what the fuck the bubble bath is for. Lube, maybe?

For the moment, let's roll Victor/Victoria style and pretend I'm also the dude. Let's say, for fun, that I'm a swarthy stud named Julian whose busty blogger wife doesn't know that she'll soon be on the business end of a boxful of the lay of her life. So what are the instructions?

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"Pure thoughtfulness?" Fuck you in the teeth, For Him Box, you unparalleled prick tease. If I want to be hit in the emotional G-spot I'll watch "Parenthood" during my moon time.

Okay, fine. Let's assume it improves from here. What is Julian/Julieanne supposed to do now?

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Oh, no. My bath tub is kind of gross. I use a body wash with oatmeal in it. There's kind of a cereal ring I don't really want to luxuriate in. When is the fucking?

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I said "the fucking" !

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THE TRAIL OF ROSE PETALS LEADS TO THE BED FOR A NAP. I WISH THEY LED OFF A CLIFF ONTO ANOTHER BED SPRINKLED WITH WOLVES.

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THE WHOLE THING ENDS IN A LIGHT BREAKFAST. LET ME REITERATE: LIGHT BREAKFAST.

"We're sure you can take it from there" ? Yes, hopefully into some kind of equally joyless murder suicide scenario.

Both the his and hers kits come with one half of a card that has been hellishly serrated in two and rendered bizarrely sharp, ostensibly for handily slicing up melon for a filthy light breakfast of depraved Not Fucking.

Let's see what happens when we combine the parts of this unholy valentine, okay? I mean, why not, we're obviously not getting laid.

OWWWW FUCK.

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Blood! Blood everywhere!

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Well, I guess I learned that men want to arrange silk flowers and gnaw at your clothing, while women want to sleep, eat breakfast and have you ram their spiritual cervixes with your heart-penis. Then I guess everybody sits on a love seat and talks about their joy on the Internet? Trepan me with gently with a buttplug.

Maybe the other kits are less insulting. Maybe there's one where the "For Her" box contains the controls to that jaw-snapping machine from the "SAW" movies, which I naughtily put on him while he sleeps for his big briefcase job. And maybe the "For Him" box contains another directive to access my emotional core, but this time, it's by kidnapping me and driving me to a seedy Tampa beach motel, where he gets a room on the top floor and wheelbarrows me to edge of a balcony and hangs me over the edge, still doing me roughly from behind while I wave the remote to the jaw machine just out of his reach. We can feel each other's hate mounting in a blinding sirocco of pleasure and death-fear until we both realize yesyesyesohgod we don't actually want to perish at one another's hands ughhhhhhhhhhOHGOD and have a life-affirming simultaneous terror orgasm. Then, a light breakfast.

Maybe! I'm willing to give these guys the benefit of the doubt.

I don't know if this is how couples keep things "spicy," and if so, I am deeply sorry, as I'd rather have somebody lick my wind-chapped nipples after eating Naga Jolokia (alias "the ghost chili," the hottest pepper known to man). In fact, that one's yours, Déjàmor. I'm not even sure I like sex anymore after going through this. Hell, you may even have ruined cardboard boxes.

Well, kids, I hope that all of you in monogamous relationships are able to keep things "fresh" without somebody floating a thoughtful message in your filthy bathtub or biting holes in your favorite sweater while tied up in a hank of Michael's Craft Store dumpster rickrack. Julian out.