Tupperware

They all sat there pretending to be ladettes passing tacky underwear around the circle. The chubby blonde girl with too much enthusiasm was hosting the party - the one who sold me my house. Robs invited me to make up the numbers and I went despite knowing I would hate it. With the risk of sounding like a chastity belt wearing prude, the only people I can conceivably see wearing any of the Ann Summers' range have limited acting abilities and get filmed whilst waiting for a mysterious Norwegian plumber to call by. I mean to say most of their thongs would look like a piece of plastic stuck round a bloated bird half drowning in sea water. We sat drinking red wine out of plastic cups and eating inexplicable amounts of crisps so that when the vibrators got passed to you, your hands were already too busy to hold it against your nose. If it wasn't for the neon pink and flashing lights (apparently they guide you in the dark), some of them could be mistaken for weapons used by sexually suppressed redneck police to rough up criminals. As soon as one person got up to leave the awkward gathering of strangers, we dived for the exit. “I felt like I couldn't breathe in there,” Robs said as we ran for the safety of the car.
“So you don't try things on then?” my house mate asked when he returned from work to find me turning the lounge into a jungle of randomly selected and recently purchased plants. “No, not at this party thank god,” I said. It was the sort of evening where you wish you could get back that two hours of your life and put it to better use. “Oh,” he said visibly disappointed at my description of the girly meet. “Sounds more like a Tupperware party.”