Close your eyes, take several slow, deep breaths, and allow your mind to transport you to a sun-soaked blacktop in Northern California, 1998. Sharp rays shoot through every hole of the ozone layer, saturating the yellow grass, olive drab portable siding, and rolling slopes of trash. A small child sprints past in a pink streak, intent on a single purpose: exposing the treasure core of the sole Fruitopia soda machine located behind her elementary school.
A dollar in change later, she grasps her prize—a glowing fuchsia elixir labeled “Raspberry Kiwi Karma”—and unscrews the cap to reveal the sparkling punch bowl of fruit mash flavor within. True fans of discontinued Canadian treats will remember this particular type as a potent combination of overripe-berry-sweet-meets-twisted-kiwi-tart that managed to always taste warm like a glove compartment no matter how chilled by the soda machine hum.
This child, now a grown ass person 21 years later, is trying to go down on her girlfriend during her lunch break on a hot June afternoon. She reaches for her usual preferred brand of water-based lube, Sliquid. Finding it empty, but remaining undeterred, she reaches further, to the laughably sport-water-bottle-sized spray bottle of ostensibly flavorless lube found at her office in a box of free products sent by sex toy company Adam & Eve.
She squirts some lube onto her girlfriend and slithers down to begin what she thought was about to be a moment of pleasure for all involved, only to be HORRIFIED by the combo platter sense explosion within this lube, a jagged smattering of what could only be taste notes pulled from a wild night at the Jelly Belly Bargain Outlet.
Worst of all, its base flavor was exactly like the Raspberry-Kiwi Karma of her childhood, but sheathed in hot dumpster plastic and reeking of somehow even more chemical additives.
Not to break with form but dear readers, I ask you: what the fuck? Who among you wants to taste the rank, throat-coating bile of a night after too many Unicorn Jizz shots when you fuck someone? Is it our fault the sex toy industry thinks this low of us, of our palates? Can I blame this on Marcy Playground, forever stamped with the duet of “Sex and Candy”? Are you the kind of person who enjoys edible panties, and thinks the pinnacle of sex is being able to bring wearable Fruit Roll-Ups into the bedroom? I don’t kink-shame or judge, but I’m truly curious about this: are fruit and candy-flavored sex objects a tool of enjoyment or repression? Did our reluctance to taste the naturally occurring flavors of sex enable this industry of taste bud brutality, or is this a more insidious level of carry-over Christianity, in which every piece of sin must be awash in strawberry syrup to make it confessable or worthy of contrition? I’m not lying when I say this lube made me do an actual spit-take on my girlfriend’s clit, and I would like some answers.