Duke, Horizontal

It’s happened again. There’s a low yet distinctive vibrating hum that greets you at the door. The retail staff welcomes you aggressively, offering more advice and assistance than would be standard at a high-end department store. Perfuming the air is a chemically created sweetness, appropriate among the aisles of synthetically made and colorfully adorned products. Pleather and silk and fishnet are the fabrics of choice. And then there are the shelves of pornography, row upon row of corny titles and illustrative displays of the human anatomy. Your fingers reach out to investigate an unfamiliar piece of merchandise, only to retract after realizing it’s an appendage. That’s when I finally have to wonder, “How did I end up at Maxxx again?”

Given my place of residence along LaSalle, Maxxx (personally pronounced Max-X-X-X) may be considered just my friendly neighborhood adult emporium, like the Cheers or Central Perk of novelty sex shops. My mother clearly did not appreciate Maxxx’s small-town charm when she remarked that I lived in a “sketchy” area during a recent drive past the location. In the season of giving, however, it’s certainly a worthy stop for potential gag gifts. That being said, I seem to only visit Maxxx in the company of friends with a specific purchasing purpose. Maxxx has become the solution to a host of personal problems, taking retail therapy in a whole new direction.

On one occasion, I accompanied my friends to Maxxx during the later hours of the night (conveniently, Maxxx is usually open until midnight. I assume this is for emergencies, although for what specific kind of emergencies I would rather not imagine). As one of the few in the group lacking an obvious reason to be there, I took to questioning the staff about the merchandise to fill the loud awkward silences, although in hindsight this probably crated more awkwardness as we were told about the best-selling vibrators. By the end of this discussion, we left armed with pamphlets describing Maxxx-sponsored sex education events and offering privately hosted “parties” for small groups. Not surprisingly, such events did not make the sorority sisterhood calendar.

Somehow back again at a later date, one friend went to Maxxx in search of condoms for an abnormally endowed significant other. Who knew there was a level beyond Magnum? Given that acquiring said supplies had cost more effort and uncomfortable questions than a standard condom purchase, my dear best friend was less than thrilled when a few went missing before she had opened the box for her own use. As it turned out, her roommate’s late night hook-up had gone searching through the bathroom for condoms, but could not comprehend why one would possess such an excessively sized brand. Rather than concluding that her recent squeeze was anatomically blessed by nature (or that she liked to make elongated water balloons), he figured she must have been hoping for a sexual encounter with Sasquatch. Actually.

For better or worse, I always seem to end up back at Maxxx. I’m continually baffled by the reality of my return, and yet the pattern repeats, despite the fact that I never seem to buy anything. As the only Duke sex columnist, it’s probably appropriate that I incidentally frequent the only convenient Durham sex shop. At this time of year, it’s certainly less crowded and more welcoming than the mall. And those on the “naughty” list are bound to walk away with more than coal.

Brooke Hartley is a Trinity senior.