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| The Zestra Rush--big time. |
2. Also reader Keppiehed was brave enough to try out possibly scary "arousal gel" Zestra (see also: Fire Down Below!!!) on our collective behalves. Here's her report:
First try:
As someone who can't smell or taste, I
needed a partner-in-crime in this venture. Luckily, my best pal N is
used to odd requests, and she didn't blink an eye when I showed up
with a package of arousal oil and asked her to smell me.
“It's not like I want you to shove
your nose in my lady parts,” I reasoned. “Let's just put some on
our hands. I brought enough to share.”
We split the first pack between us. I
even rubbed some behind my ears for good measure. Not wanting to ruin
the validity of the test, I didn't tell her that there'd been some
considerable online smack talk about the odor, or that the package
warned that “the sensation may result in a temporary feeling of
discomfort.” Being a great friend, I allowed her to cheerfully
smear the stuff on, and we waited.
Results were almost instantaneous.
“Oh,” N said, wrinkling her nose. “It … something doesn't
smell right.”
“Be more specific,” I encouraged
her. “This is for posterity. And a sex blog.”
She was shaking her head in disgust.
“It smells like something's burning!”
I was disappointed in her description,
since this had already been used before and was, therefore, boring.
“Anything else?”
She sniffed at her hand. “It's
terrible. It also smells like old people.”
This was encouraging. “How?
Explain.”
“It's like they tried to cover up
the burning plastic with something cloying and floral, like someone
sprayed old lady perfume on a tire fire.”
“Tire fire ...” I tried to
remember the exact phrase for later.
N licked her palm. “I can't believe
anyone would make this for its intended purpose.”
“What does it taste like?” I
asked. I licked my own hand but it was disappointingly free of
tingles or any other sexy sensation.
“Metallic. All I can taste is
metallic. If I don't eat a piece of the kids' leftover Valentine's
candy to get the taste out of my mouth, I am going to throw up,”
she said.
“Well, smell me first. Is it
different on me? Behind my ears?” I asked.
She leaned in. “Nope. The same.”
“How bad is it?”
She thought a moment. “Well, I
probably wouldn't notice it if you were just standing there. But if I
had my nose buried in there it'd be pretty unbearable. I can't
believe they made that.”
I kept flexing my fingers for awhile,
but I didn't feel anything. The only thing that stood out was when I
got home about four hours later my dogs swarmed me. They tried to
lick my fingers and where I'd wiped my hands on my jeans, as if I
gave off the odor of rancid meat. It was unsettling, to say the
least.
Second Try:
Okay, this was the serious one. I was
feeling as if it was going to be a dud, given my first trial
experience, but I had to do this thing right. To be perfectly honest,
I'd never tried a product like this before, so I wasn't sure exactly
what it was supposed to accomplish or how I was supposed to apply it.
The pack gave explicit instructions, assuring me that I was going to
“feel more—effortlessly”
and went on to say that it was guaranteed to “work within minutes
by heightening your sensitivity to touch—for deep, pleasurable
sensations, sexual satisfaction and fulfillment.”
Well,
since I can't smell, the whole grandma/tire fire thing is a good
trade-off for that kind of promise,
. (Please know that if it had dawned on me that it shared its name with a Richard Marx song, it would have most certainly remained, punished and pariah-like, on the shelves.)
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