Where Sex Sells
I had driven past College Park’s Comfort Zone about 100 times but knew next to nothing about the small, nondescript store beyond what the “intimate apparel” sign in its window implied.
So my girlfriend and I traveled up Route 1 on Friday to check out the place. It would be a step outside my, say, figurative area of ease.
I pulled up to the storefront with its pink and white awning and walked to the door. A note forbade minors from entering without parent chaperones. I wondered whether a kid had tried to come in alone. I wondered whether kids come in with their parents. I appreciated being over 18.
We stepped inside, and the owner wearing a red university T-shirt asked to see our IDs.
“Is this your first time here?” he asked.
We nodded, and he introduced a few friendly-looking employees and outlined some rules. No photos or recordings in the store to protect clients’ privacy, and be careful around the merchandise for your own safety. In New York City, he explained, undercover police officers had arrested adult store clients who gave a whip test swing.
That revelation was, well, arresting. People were punished for contemplating kinky sex?
Sufficiently cowed, I agreed to the rules. (I did some research after and couldn’t find that specific case, but I did see more than enough to justify wariness.)
Comfort Zone’s website describes the store as a “party supply, novelty and gift headquarters,” and the shop has an ample selection for each category. Among other things, I found:
A shelf of raunchy games. There’s “Risky or Frisky?” (for couples, friends and “very good friends”); the bluntly titled “Go F—!” card game; and a comprehensive array of sex dice in English and Spanish. (I’m always looking to expand my Spanish vocabulary.)
Halloween costumes. My girlfriend had noted that the ensembles in the window display resembled Halloween wear, and inside, we found outfits designed for use on the streets or in the sheets.
A book I bought, Literary Foreplay: A Lexicographer’s Guide to Sex. Kind of a proto-Urban Dictionary, it’s full of ’80s slang and even has a brief commentary on semantics.
Nutrition. Comfort Zone has the penis-shaped pasta people love to share on Reddit and pasta boobs. Dining Services should cook this stuff as a Chef’s Feature during Sex Week.
A sign prohibiting public displays of affection.
Comfort Zone’s basement is home to more intense stuff and a family section, which stocks entertainment such as movies and comic books. I walked downstairs and passed a few incongruous Disney posters to continue my survey. Highlights included:
Blow-up dolls. As with other products in the store, they cater to a broad spectrum of preferences.
Really big dildos. I did not know that there were dildos that big. Some of them literally are anaconda-sized. I feel naive now.
Penis enlarger pumps. Some of them are as big as the dildos. There’s a guidebook, too.
A vast selection of DVDs — the watch-with-the-family kind. And a wall of novels. I thought about picking a few titles but somehow got distracted.
Lots of pleasantly scented incense sticks.
In the end, Comfort Zone lived up to its name. I am not usually a fan of shopping, but my trip to the novelty store was fascinating. But more than that, it was an affirming, sex-positive experience.
Sex and sex-related products often are portrayed as shameful or strange. That perception probably is part of the reason people joke about sex, but it’s also a harmful stigma that divides sexuality into right and wrong. But when the taboo items are in front of you, they don’t seem so weird or mysterious — only different from the societal standard. It was a good reminder, and I’m glad places like Comfort Zone can teach that lesson while also helping people feel good.
