When you hear the word “Maryland,” chances are the first thing you think of is “crabs” — something
that can’t be good for the state’s sexual identity. On the surface, Maryland
is about as sexy as a fibroid tumor. In fact, the only proof that anyone there
actually doing it is the fact that roughly 80,000 babies are born within state
But there’s more to Maryland than meets the naked
eye. Just because I had to leave the state to find anyone I wanted to
have sex with, doesn’t mean there aren’t legions fucking happily within
its borders. Maryland is sort of like the nerdy librarian who keeps a drawer
full of poppers, lube and dildos next to her bed — it might just surprise
you once you get to know it. Below I have elaborated on the three best reasons
why Maryland is amongst the sexiest of states.
Reason Number One: Ocean City, Maryland is in Maryland. If
you’re a virgin and want to lose your virginity, it’s simple; go to Ocean City.
More beer is consumed in this tiny Delmarva resort town during the summer than
in all of the other counties in Maryland combined during the rest of the year.
This automatically means there’s more screwing in Ocean City than anywhere else
Maryland, or quite
possibly the world. I know this because I worked
the night shift at a bustling 7-Eleven in Ocean City
for two summers, where I sold massive quantities of condoms on a nightly basis.
When I first began working at said 7-Eleven, I was horrified to notice that there
were no condoms on the shelves. This was because Sally, a Sunday-school teacher
who worked the day shift, had convinced Hoss, the store’s owner, that selling
condoms would lead to teenage promiscuity. I managed to thwart Sally’s holy mission
by obtaining a free bag of condoms from the local Planned Parenthood and selling
apiece under the table. However,
my black-market venture came to an end when Hoss’s business sense outweighed
Sally’s protestations. Condoms were sure to be a best-seller with so many people
drinking and then fucking on the beach.
Later my coworkers and I intentionally irritated Sally by desecrating
the condom display. Above each row, we scrawled a condom size — pee wee,
xx small, x small, and small — a recipe for hilarity until Sally hastily
took it down.
Reason Number Two: Michael Phelps is from Maryland. I’m
sure I wasn’t the only swim-fan damning those full-body Speedos Olympians were
sporting in Athens this summer, as they
never thought of Maryland soccer moms as the world’s predominant
buyers of cock rings and anal beads.
prevented viewers from seeing the entirety of
Michael Phelps’ superb physique unfettered by material — a physique
which announced to the world, “I have a penis the size of a vacuum hose.” Phelps,
a real-life Aquaman, is one of the sexiest men on earth, and the good news
is there’s more where he came from.
Maryland is crawling with hot male
swimmers. In fact, it was during a swim practice in Maryland that I first
touched a penis. It occurred toward the end of practice, as my stroke had
become a flailing mess of tired limbs. As my weakened arm strayed
into the adjacent lane, my hand grazed the Speedo-swathed penis of another
swimmer. To this day, I don’t know whose penis it was, but it gave me quite
a tingle. Today I am surprised I don’t have to pay male prostitutes to
wear Speedos so that I can “accidentally” touch
Reason Number Three: Dildo Parties proliferate within
the Beltway region. On a recent trip home to visit my family, my sister,
who is married with children, invited me to what she dubbed a sex party.
“An orgy?” I asked, confused by her offer.
“No, it’s like a Tupperware party, but they sell sex toys.”
“Oh, so it’s a Schtupperware party.”
I’d never thought of Maryland soccer moms as the world’s predominant
buyers of cock rings and anal beads, but there’s a new trend afoot in suburbia.
I attended the Schtupperware party with the hopes of gaining insight into the
and libidos of the new millennium’s June Cleavers. I did
not, however, plan on purchasing any merchandise, seeing as how I’d already tossed
my favorite vibrator because it was interfering with my art. (When you have writing
to do, it’s best to keep your home’s supply of sex toys to a minimum, unless
you’re writing about masturbating for seven hours a day.) The party’s host graciously
provided wine and finger foods
— including an impressive cheese log and homemade brownies — for
the group of ten thirtysomething women. After introductions, we gathered in the
where the company’s peppy representative began the show.
rule of thumb, wine and shopping don’t mix. I managed to avoid purchasing an
sheep, a boob pacifier, a masturbation kit and the world’s smallest condom,
although I was tempted. However, it seemed, suddenly, that I needed
a tube of “Good Head
Oral Delight Gel,” which promised that extra boost for blowjobs. And I couldn’t
go home without a tube of “Anal Eaze” and a tub of “Bosom
Buddy,” a "tingly, tasty nipple treat."
I live in New York City, where dildo vendors
proliferate. For many of these Maryland women, this was their one chance to load
goods, and load up they did, many carrying two full grocery bags of sex toys
out to their husbands, who gladly and subserviently
drove them to and from the event. Their smiles told me that Maryland wasn’t
merely the threshold of the
Line. It was a virtual Sodom and Gomorrah, one that boasted horny soccer moms,
Michael Phelps and a tiny Delmarva resort town where 7-Eleven condoms, even if
no longer ten cents apiece, are still a best-seller.
Reverend Jen Miller