Like liquor stores and post offices, there's never a good sex shop around when you need one.

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Around eleven, my coworker Thao and I stumbled out of Dave's Aqua Lounge on Gandy after being casually molested by a large man named Nacho.

We were headed for the sex shop down the street, BedTyme Stories. I had a $5 gift card with which to get something that would complement the raspberry Arbor Mist I bought my fiancée for Valentine's Day. I doubted $5 would buy much more than a dick shaped lollipop, but I was banking on some Valentine's Day discounts.

Considering that it is far less creepy to walk into a sex shop with an attractive woman, I recruited Thao. Having recently received a personal massager as a gift, and promptly wore it out, she was interested in finding a toy that could accommodate her. She was doubtful, however, claiming she preferred natural sex. Maybe it's just me, but I've never met a woman who didn't think sex was enhanced by modern vibration technology.

"You're just not using the right dildo techniques," I said. "You have to jiggle it, like how a DJ scratches a record, except over and over."

"I'm telling you, I used it every which way I could think of. I still prefer the real thing."

I stood corrected. Maybe it was just that the women I slept with needed robotic toys to enhance the pleasure of my sexual gymnastics.

Pink neon lights lined the building where BedTyme Stories used to be, but the windows were boarded up. The sign now advertised Vegas Showgirls. I turned into the lot anyway. Police cruisers were parked everywhere. At first I thought the place was hosting a cop convention, but then I saw a tall dancer escorted into a paddy wagon. We decided to try somewhere else.

I was convinced that a street like Gandy, which contained a slew of rowdy dive bars, would have another sex shop. But, the closest thing to an adult store we found was the Goodwill donation bin filled with used underwear and bathrobes. I was surprised Thao's cell phone didn't have an application for locating the nearest X-rated store. She phoned her pregnant friend who knew about these things. The friend assured us that the nearest place was XTC on 34th Ave.

We drove across town only to discover that XTC closed in fifteen minutes at midnight. Normally when I go to a sex shop, I plan to spend a few hours, pursuing the aisles and comparing production notes on the back of five hour videos. I was under the assumption that all sex shops were open through the night, that the neon lights were a beacon for four a.m. wanderers.

As a bargain shopper, I was immediately drawn to the clearance bin overloaded with crumpled VHS cases, boxes of expired condoms, and sample packs of lube. Never buy sample packs of anything at a sex shop. The sample pack is simply a company's way of expunging products no one wants, like pickle flavored lube or bachelorette party favors featuring underwear models with mullets.

My attention shifted to a box filled with what looked like sack lunches. "Gift Bags," appeared on one side of the sacks which were greasy with some leaky lubrication or spermicide. On the other side was a warning: "We do not guarantee the quality of any products contained in this bag." Perhaps the "gift" part was an accidental pregnancy or a dose of VD.

We handled the dildos the way medieval soldiers might test swords. You can tell a lot about people by the type of dildo they choose. Thao was partial to the veiny, flesh tone fuckers. I preferred the ones that looked like miniature rocket ships or laser guns. I felt less threatened by a vibrating, robot cock if it looked like a toy light saber. I also didn't like the idea of stumbling home drunk one night and finding what appeared to be a severed penis in my fiancée's underwear drawer.

Most of the products were your standard fare: vibrating cock rings that die after twenty minutes of use or creepy flashlight vaginas. But, a few items distinguished themselves: a giant hand shaped to perform "the Shocker," rubber fists molded in various positions, and a 28-inch-double-sided-dong called "The Rascal." What sick fuck dubbed this monster "The Rascal?" This was a name given to the motorized scooters handicapped people ride, not a rubber anaconda that looked like it would strangle you the instant you took it out of the plastic. No bachelor party performer could sound sexy introducing this double sided donkey dick to her audience as "The Rascal." It needed a name like, "Gigantor," "Dongzilla," or "Rambo."

Of all the gifts I considered buying for my fiancée, my interests were piqued by the blowup dolls. Blowup dolls have changed a lot since I received one from my parents at 18. Companies have embraced the absurdity of humping pool floaties. There were blow up dolls of midgets, pregnant women, sheep, and a cow that mooed when Thao picked up the box. In shock, she dropped it, provoking another moo.

"It's perfect!"

"How is it perfect?" Thao asked.

"It's like buying your Valentine a stuffed animal, except one you can have sex with."

She told me I was an idiot. No woman would want an inflatable cow that mooed when you humped it. I

checked the price tag. It was over fifty bucks.

"You're probably right," I said. "Do you think popcorn flavored lube will enhance the flavor of Arbor Mist?"