I realize I haven’t told you much about the prince, otherwise known as the boyfriend. I’m saving details for later, but I will share this. He’s younger, by almost 20 years, 19 to be exact.
That’s significant because it explains why, when he went running out of the house for a solution to my vaginal dryness/personal lubrication problem, the following went through my mind: I hope he does not bring back, a) hot fudge topping, b) whipped cream, c) ice cream, and d) bananas. I know what that boy will do for a hot fudge sundae.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen and crossed my fingers, hopeful that he’d at least of the presence of mind to ask a fellow shopper for a recommendation. I had my doubts.
A few minutes later, the front door opened with a bang, and the prince came bounding in, startling me. He handed me a plastic grocery bag. I stared at it, frozen in place. It dawned on me that this wasn’t exactly a good sign: going to the grocery store for a personal lubricant was kind of like picking up a bottle of wine at the Circle K en route to a fancy dinner party. Or so it seemed at the time.
“Open it,” he said waving the bag excitedly in front of me.
Cautiously, I looked inside. There was a long rectangular blue and white box, the grocery receipt tangled around it. I stared at him. “You got deodorant?” I said confused.
“Deodorant?” blurted the prince. “What are you talking about?” He reached in for the box and pulled out an elliptical-shaped bottle with a bright blue cap.
“Carra-Gee-Nie?” I said trying to pronounce the name on the label as he held it up to my face.
“No, it’s carra-gee-nan,” the prince sounded out. “It’s from ocean plants. Here, give me your hand.” He flicked off the cap with his thumb and squirted a thick clear liquid into my palm.
“Ohhhh, silky smooth!” I purred rubbing it around. “It feels just like, well, me.”
Suddenly a suspicion exploded in my head. “How do you know about this stuff?” I glared at him.
The prince started laughing. “Relax,” he said. “I was in the can and saw a funny ad for it in one of your women’s magazines.”
“Really?” I said. “What’d it say?”