Cuz I love those Belgian waffles...

My office is located in one of the few parts of Manhattan in which sex shops are still commonplace. And in the years since Giuliani's reign--er, I mean term in office--their presence in the neighborhood has increased steadily.

In their Giuliani incarnations, I didn't really care about them one way or the other. I mean, they were pretty much frontless, faceless businesses that all but escaped my notice. But now that several years have passed since the reign of terror, more and more of them have once again unveiled display windows with fun and elaborate (if cluttered) collections of their wares.

These I love. I stroll casually by and shamelessly ogle their contents--everyone should have a little sex in their day! Of course, if you've seen one you've pretty much seen them all. But still...

Today, on my way to grab some lunch, something jumped out at me from the midst of one of the usual assortments of lubes, dildoes, condoms, and butt plugs I pass every day, which forced me to stop and do a double-take. Right there, in between the Trojans and the KY (ho-hum), was a product called "Strawberry Ass."

I kid you not. "Strawberry Ass."

Alas, there was absolutely no indication of what this product actually is. Simply a box roughly the size of a "personal massager," with a photo of a buxom blond on the front (ass turned towards the camera, naturally) and the enigmatic words, "Strawberry Ass." Two great things that do not necessarily go great together...

Ah sweet, sweet mystery. (Not to mention sweet, sweet ass.)