This summer I was hired to “review” New York City’s famed SEX AND THE CITY bus tour, which hauls two dozen cooing women, many wearing at least one sequin or bedazzled flower, past SATC hot spots like Jimmy Choo, the bar Aiden owns and…the sex toy shop.
Throughout the ride, chicks shout out whether they’re a Miranda or Charlotte, what the greatest offenses of Mr. Big’s courtship were, and whether Samantha is a slut or a liberated woman.
I knew I’d need a serious wingman—like rocker-turned-Staten-Island mom Phyllis, whose sense of humor is as unyielding as the row of rings she wears like brass knuckles. She showed up with a pink vintage Barbie lunch box with a screw thermos full of vodka & cranberry juice. Say no more.
The stop at The Pleasure Chest was a high point for the hen house…except the two cynical hens smelling faintly of cintron infusion and cheap juice. While others purchased vibrating sex toys in the shapes of barnyard aninmals, we did the only thing we could.