Nothing Says "Happy Valentines' Day" like Sex Toys

'Twas the Sunday night before Valentines' Day, and Babeland, Manhattan's resident upscale trendy sex shop, was having its bi-annual cocktail party (the other one coincides with Pride Week). I heard about this party through my friend Alyson (a devout Christian, no less), who, in turn, heard about it through a friend of hers.

Alyson: "Free Drinks".

PJJ: "That's all I need to hear."

No never-mind that we'll be munching Lays and swilling hard cider next to a forest of silicone penises (penii?) with festive monikers like "Lil' Spur" and "Lonestar", and books entitled "Anal Sex For Buttophobes".

As far as sex shops go, Babeland is a far cry from the proverbial truck stop on the far side of town, a common setting in snuff porn films and bad horror novels. Babeland's got 2 locations: Soho and Lower East Side, so, if your boss owns a dildo, chances are (s)he bought it here. This is sex for yuppies, hipsters, young lesbian couples working in advertising, bankers and pharma salesmen, attorneys, P.R. associates, Columbia grad students, bored housewives from Darien, Swedish ex-pats and, well, everyone who considers themselves not dirty enough for 8th Avenue. In a nutshell (or, shall I say "nutsack"), Babeland does for masturbating what Sushi Samba did for edamame.

The DJ was spinning catchy, if not overly obvious tunes (e.g. "Let's Talk About Sex") and the crowd, aside from the solitary elderly man in a suit, was relatively normal, if not skewed towards GLBT. Our Babeland hosts (Caroline, especially) were friendly and eager to answer any of our questions, even (read: especially) our stupidest, and by the end of the night I almost felt that purchasing a vibrator would be simply a matter of course, similar to how Midwestern tourists feel about those "I Love New York" shirts. But not quite.

I will be back. Maybe, one day, I will gain the courage to make a purchase.

Bend it like Bikram

The first rule of Bikram Yoga is never to eat within an hour of starting class. The second rule of Bikram Yoga is that, during the 90-minute session, you cannot leave the room (which is heated to 105+ degrees). The third rule of Bikram Yoga is, no matter how much of a physical badass you think you are, expect to get your ass kicked during your first few classes.

I take my rented yoga mat and position myself in front of two former sorority queens (blonde hair, brown roots, perky tits and typical white-girl asses) and behind one female bodybuilder. A balding, middle-aged (but muscular) man ambles into the room wearing nothing but skin-colored spandex shorts.

If this is the chosen form of exercise for semen-guzzling, tabloid-reading sorority types and weekend-warrior musclemen, it's no problem. Mistake #1.

I can run a 3-hour marathon, can outlast Westpoint-trained army officers at hill intervals, billed 333 hours in the month of June, and downed half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire before an economics final that I set the curve in. I've won international adventure races, and jump out of planes for fun. I can do Bikram Yoga. Mistake #2. The Yoga gods definitely view hubris as the most punishable of sins.

It's 40 minutes into the class and I'm sitting down on my towel, vision blurred, head loopy, disoriented and sweating like a pedophile in the early learning centre. I don't even make it through the 45-minute "standing position" session. The gossipy fuck-and-chucks behind me are bending and twisting like they've done this out of the womb, and the saggy-stomached girl in front of me is contorting herself into all sorts of ungodly positions. Most humbling of all is the fact that these average sorts are on their feet, and I am on my ass.

So, why will I be back? Because the day after the class (and after one of the soundest sleeps of my life), I looked in the mirror and saw something I hadn't seen in the past 3 years. Youth. My face had this rosy, pinkish glow akin to that of children playing tag at recess instead of the grayish-white pallor of, well, a 20something "career woman" who could easily pass for 32 (at least according to an ex of mine who is now dating a Columbia undergrad resembling Claudia Schiffer with larger breasts). I will return to the studio, and risk humiliation and humbling to turn the clock back a few precious years.

More New York Shout-Outs

I occasionally like to do these shout-outs to give credit to people/places/things in New York that I feel particularly worthy of patronage. For example:

Russian Vodka Room: This place is not to be confused with the Russian Tea Room, or the Russian Samovar (which is across the street). Situated in the theater district on 55th St. between 8th and Broadway, the Russian Vodka Room serves a rainbow of home-brewed flavored vodkas (cranberry vodka being a particular standout) and authentic Russian food (try the caviar and blini, and the rocquefort cheese-and-pear salad). Happy hour, which is 4 to 7 daily, gets you $3 vodka shots and $4 cosmos.

Spring Awakening: Finally, Broadway without jazz hands. They herald this show as the next "Rent". Both are raw rock musicals marketing toward a distinctly 18-29 crowd, but the similarities end there. Spring Awakening's theme is teenage angst. Think "My So Called Life" set to punk music set in a provincial German town, say, 150 years ago. For some reason, this bizarre juxtaposition works. While the strength of the message in Spring Awakening is occasionally marred by lyrics that could have been written by Avril Levigne, the majority of the book is sumptuous, raw, melancholy and uplifting - often at the same time. It's not a particularly subtle show, and the "isms" the the teen characters explore (from social- to nihil- to hedon- to sadomasoch-) are sometimes glossed over with too facile a brush, but it's a good way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

Eatery: I mentioned this earlier, but this brunch spot on 55th and 9th (or somewhere around there) warrants a second mention. Get the mac & cheese.

Kemia: Better restaurant than club. Get the burger. Yes, you heard me right. I'm not only admitting that I enjoyed a hamburger at an establishment other than D.B. Bistro, but am recommending that others order it, even when there are more "sophisticated" dishes on the menu. I know it's a middle-eastern joint and you think the couscous with the lamb might be better. It is delightful. But the Kemia Burger is the thing to get here.

Overlook: For a real burger (read: those that don't cost $20), go here. We randomly fell into this bar while meandering around midtown after a friend's concert one night. I got the blue cheese cajun burger (rare, of course) and it was surprisingly fresh and satisfying for something that only cost about $7.50.

Download Now:
-The entirety of the "Spring Awakening" soundtrack.
-Electric Blue (Mars & Mystre)
-Before I Fall To Pieces (Razorlight)
-Dakota (Stereophonics)
-Pretty much anything by Imogen Heap
-Red Barchetta (Rush)
-You Know My Name (Chris Cornell) (i.e. Casino Royale theme song)
-Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits)