Things to do in Maryland

from ThinkingDavinci - Sunday, December 05, 2004
accessed 4938 times

When you hear the word "Maryland," chances are the first thing you think of is "crabs" — something that can't be good for the state's sexual identity. On the surface, Maryland is about as sexy as a fibroid tumor. In fact, the only proof that anyone there is actually doing it is the fact that roughly 80,000 babies are born within state lines each year.

But there's more to Maryland than meets the naked eye. Just because I had to leave the state to find anyone I wanted to have sex with, doesn't mean there aren't legions fucking happily within its borders. Maryland is sort of like the nerdy librarian who keeps a drawer full of poppers, lube and dildos next to her bed — it might just surprise you once you get to know it. Below I have elaborated on the three best reasons why Maryland is amongst the sexiest of states.

Reason Number One: Ocean City, Maryland is in Maryland. If you're a virgin and want to lose your virginity, it's simple; go to Ocean City. More beer is consumed in this tiny Delmarva resort town during the summer than in all of the other counties in Maryland combined during the rest of the year. This automatically means there's more screwing in Ocean City than anywhere else in Maryland, or quite possibly the world. I know this because I worked the night shift at a bustling 7-Eleven in Ocean City for two summers, where I sold massive quantities of condoms on a nightly basis.

When I first began working at said 7-Eleven, I was horrified to notice that there were no condoms on the shelves. This was because Sally, a Sunday-school teacher who worked the day shift, had convinced Hoss, the store's owner, that selling condoms would lead to teenage promiscuity. I managed to thwart Sally's holy mission by obtaining a free bag of condoms from the local Planned Parenthood and selling them for ten cents apiece under the table. However, my black-market venture came to an end when Hoss's business sense outweighed Sally's protestations. Condoms were sure to be a best-seller with so many people drinking and then fucking on the beach. Later my coworkers and I intentionally irritated Sally by desecrating the condom display. Above each row, we scrawled a condom size — pee wee, xxx small, xx small, x small, and small — a recipe for hilarity until Sally hastily took it down.

Reason Number Two: Michael Phelps is from Maryland. I'm sure I wasn't the only swim-fan damning those full-body Speedos Olympians were sporting in Athens this summer, as they prevented viewers from seeing the entirety of Michael Phelps' superb physique unfettered by material — a physique which announced to the world, "I have a penis the size of a vacuum hose." Phelps, a real-life Aquaman, is one of the sexiest men on earth, and the good news is there's more where he came from.

Maryland is crawling with hot male swimmers. In fact, it was during a swim practice in Maryland that I first touched a penis. It occurred toward the end of practice, as my stroke had become a flailing mess of tired limbs. As my weakened arm strayed into the adjacent lane, my hand grazed the Speedo-swathed penis of another swimmer. To this day, I don't know whose penis it was, but it gave me quite a tingle. Today I am surprised I don't have to pay male prostitutes to wear Speedos so that I can "accidentally" touch them.

Reason Number Three: Dildo Parties proliferate within the Beltway region. On a recent trip home to visit my family, my sister, who is married with children, invited me to what she dubbed a sex party.

"An orgy?" I asked, confused by her offer.
"No, it's like a Tupperware party, but they sell sex toys."
"Oh, so it's a Schtupperware party."
"Exactly."

I'd never thought of Maryland soccer moms as the world's predominant buyers of cock rings and anal beads, but there's a new trend afoot in suburbia. I attended the Schtupperware party with the hopes of gaining insight into the minds and libidos of the new millennium's June Cleavers. I did not, however, plan on purchasing any merchandise, seeing as how I'd already tossed my favorite vibrator because it was interfering with my art. (When you have writing to do, it's best to keep your home's supply of sex toys to a minimum, unless you're writing about masturbating for seven hours a day.) The party's host graciously provided wine and finger foods — including an impressive cheese log and homemade brownies — for the group of ten thirtysomething women. After introductions, we gathered in the living room, where the company's peppy representative began the show.

As a rule of thumb, wine and shopping don't mix. I managed to avoid purchasing an inflatable sheep, a boob pacifier, a masturbation kit and the world's smallest condom, although I was tempted. However, it seemed, suddenly, that I needed a tube of "Good Head Oral Delight Gel," which promised that extra boost for blowjobs. And I couldn't go home without a tube of "Anal Eaze" and a tub of "Bosom Buddy," a "tingly, tasty nipple treat."

I live in New York City, where dildo vendors proliferate. For many of these Maryland women, this was their one chance to load up on goods, and load up they did, many carrying two full grocery bags of sex toys out to their husbands, who gladly and subserviently drove them to and from the event. Their smiles told me that Maryland wasn't merely the threshold of the Mason-Dixon Line. It was a virtual Sodom and Gomorrah, one that boasted horny soccer moms, Michael Phelps and a tiny Delmarva resort town where 7-Eleven condoms, even if no longer ten cents apiece, are still a best-seller.