Last week I read an essay about a woman who discovered a naughty sex toy while sorting through her elderly, recently deceased aunt’s belongings. It was a humorous little piece, but it left me with a curious wondering: how did this little old lady get her hands on such a delightful item?

Now, we live in the age of erotic electronica.  Or should that be electronic erotica? Forgive me, I’m writing this with a glass of wine tonight. The truth of the matter is that nowadays a sweet matron can discreetly get her groove on with a click of the mouse. No, I don’t mean by clicking her own mouse, you nasty perv, I mean she can order her toys online. But how, I wonder, did Nice Girls get their hands on these pleasantries years ago, before the comfort of shopping from your own home? Sure, they probably had the mail order alternative, but even then they would have needed access to a filthy catalog most likely used by truckers and Catholic priests.

These are thoughts that crept into my head over the weekend. I had a lot of time to think about it, as I spent most of Saturday and Sunday working on projects at home. I’ve concluded that Nice Girls must also frequent the occasional Adult Store to get their Bedtime Buddies.

Years ago–it seems like another lifetime, really–my boyfriend and I were driving down the highway and I commented on the numerous billboards advertising an Adult Store. My boyfriend suggested we stop and check it out at the next exit. I laughed and said jokingly, “yeah, sure.” My boyfriend hit the accelerator and within minutes I found myself standing in the parking lot of The Lion’s Den Adult Superstore.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I told him, and he persuaded me to go in with him and take a peek.

I glanced around nervously. “What if someone sees us?”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, “It’ll be fun.” I let him lead me inside.

Frankly, my first experience there scared me. It might as well have been the Devil’s Lair for all I knew. Butt plugs? Sex swings? I wandered around the aisles, a maze of smut. I wanted to turn around and leave ASAP. “Nice Girls,” I informed my boyfriend as we got back onto the highway, “do not go into Sex Stores.”

Flash-forward to the present. I’m vacuuming out my car, lost in my thoughts. I grab the ribbed hose and rub it against the material on my backseat absently. So where do Nice Girls go for their kicks? I wondered, pumping more quarters into the slot at the gas station. Is it all just online merchandise? Or do they also frequent the Adult shops? Is it really more discreet to order from home or to drive into the next town and buy from the store?

You might wonder why I’m considering all this. To be honest, I don’t really know. It’s just when I think of sex toys, I think of a really kinky, pervy, out there sort of people. Not Nice Girls. But I have a growing hunch that sex toy use among the Nice Girl (as in your average, ordinary twenty to ninety year old woman) is more common than one might imagine. And I want to know how they’re getting their clean little hands on these dirty fun toys.

I decided to do some research. Purely for the sake of Science and some sort of barely-existent Journalistic Integrity, of course. First, I went online in search of popular Adult Store sites. I haven’t frequented a Sex Store since that cherry popped on a highway with my boyfriend years ago. Years later, I am older, wiser and more experienced–still with no clue what a French Tickler may be.

I perused the sites and clicked on their ordering policies. I found that the protected sites–one must always use protection!–were discreet, with options to allow or block email updates and order status. However, nowhere could I locate any kind of guarantee that the package would not be labeled with the store’s name when delivered. This could be plenty embarrassing if you work during the day and aren’t home to receive the package in person. Also, your signature verifying that you are of age is also required upon receipt of delivery, which also poses a problem to those frisky working girls out there.

I determined that while online ordering appears easier, it still has a risk of exposure and embarrassment to the Nice Girl who doesn’t want her business made public like a trench coated flasher in a metropolitan area.

This is where I thought my research would end. After all, the alternative would be actually going to an Adult Store to weigh the shame ratio against the potential delivery embarrassment risk in online ordering.

On my way home from work tonight, I was thinking about all the Nice Girl tasks I meant to complete this evening, such as grocery shopping, walking my dogs, and tucking into bed with a nice Charlie Sheen sitcom on the TV. But as I was driving, my purely journalistic curiosity got the best of me and I veered to the North side of town toward what the locals refer to as the Taj Mahal.

The Taj Mahal is a gigantic eyesore on the edge of town, a multi-storied, multi-Sexplex complete with flashing Vegas-style lights, two strip clubs and The Love Boutique. I’d never been there, and previously had no intentions of ever going there. But I had to know.

I turned into the parking lot, which during rush hour on a Monday evening proved to be fairly sparse. I sat in my car for a moment, feeling utterly humiliated. This is the worst part, I told myself, the fear that someone might see you going in or leaving. Once you’re inside, there’s no need to be embarrassed. They see all kinds of people here. No one is going to judge you.

I slid way down in my seat and waited until  the traffic on the main road cleared. Then I got out of my car and walked quickly inside.

Upon entering The Love Boutique, I was greeted by an enormous quantity of costumes to my left, and the cashier to my right. The cashier, unfortunately, looked just like the one I’d seen from my first juncture into a Sex Shop: oily ponytail, pock-marked face, kind of makes you want to go home and shower in scalding water for hours. I’m sure not all Adult Store employees look this way. Just the ones in my limited experience.

I’m sure this guy has seen everything, and heard every excuse in the book. I put my head up and faked some confidence. “Hi,” I said to him and smiled, fighting every urge to give him some kind of excuse, some reason that I–a Nice Girl–would be in a place like this. I want to give an embarrassed laugh, roll my eyes and tell him I’m getting a gag gift for a bachelorette party. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to validate it. Instead, I close my mouth, nod at him and go straight to the Role Playing Area.

Oh, the costumes. I rummaged through your typical schoolgirl outfit, cheerleader costumes. I saw some French Maids, Super Woman, Nurse and Princess Leia disguises. There were wigs and kinked-up shoes. More disturbing was the Snow White costume. Now I’m a Disney Girl, I love my princesses, but not in the bedroom, fellas. There’s something very impure about porking Snow White, though admittedly not as bad as the Seven Dwarfs I suppose. Which I think may have been a category in the DVD section. I’m not all that sure since I wasn’t brave enough to go beyond categories listed as “Face Sitting” and “Midget Grandmas.”

I then braved the Toy Area. I faced a floor-to-ceiling display of anal plugs, strap-ons, vibrators and something called Magic Eight Balls, which were two balls on a chain with packaging that guarantees pleasure to the G-Spot. I don’t know how that works. I don’t want to know how that works.

I wandered down an aisle that contained “Playful Anal Intruders (With Cage),” “Six Inch Floppy Balls,” and a mysterious black box simply titled “The Accommodator.” With a near reverent awe I studied an end cap filled with Delay Creams, XXXtra-large cock rings, and a package called “Long Dong Silver,” complete with a strap-on penis, eye patch and hook. When squeezed the penis would say, “Arr! Ahoy, Matey!”

Actually, I made that last part up. But it would be pretty f**king hilarious, if you ask me.

Eventually, I made my way out of the store and back to my car. I slid down in my seat and waited until the traffic cleared, then I quickly pulled out of the parking lot and back to being a Nice Girl.

The truth is, it’s all embarrassing. Going to the store, ordering online–no matter what, you risk being caught. And the truth is, we shouldn’t be embarrassed. Sex shops, strip clubs, porn mags, books and DVDs–they exist because there’s a demand for them. And Sweet Elderly Auntie in the essay I read is proof that it’s not just pervy truckers and priests who are purchasing this merchandise. Sex is a natural act. We shouldn’t be ashamed of our human desires, even if they do involve anal plugs and strap-ons.

We should be more ashamed to walk into a McDonald’s and order a Big Mac. And really, don’t knock a sex swing ’til you’ve tried it. Not that a Nice Girl would know anything about that.