101 Songs You Shouldn’t Sing on TV—I Love My Wife/A Date With No Shame

Rated R (language and situations)

I Love My Wife

Author’s Note: Babe and I have been together for over 25 years. The adventure transcribed below took place early in our relationship—back when computers were DOS and VCRs were still in use. This is an excerpt from my non-fiction, as yet unpublished book “Daddy, Why Can’t I Say ‘Ass’?” It also goes with the song parody below, A Date With No Shame (parody of A Horse With No Name). Click on the YouTube link provided and read my lyrics while the song plays.


Babe and I left By Th’ Bucket restaurant after a late dinner of oyster shooters, steamed clams, salad, pasta and garlic bread, and headed home. There’s nothing like a steamed clam in butter and garlic. Throwing social convention out the window, we drank red wine with the meal.

We rode in silence down El Camino Real passing the great American variety of stores, restaurants, car washes, hotels and…

“Pull in here,” Babe said.

“The adult bookstore?”

“I’ve always been curious about those places. What are they like?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I’ve never been inside one. Well, just once, a long time ago,” killing time as a salesperson.

“Aren’t you curious?”

Definitely. I looked at Babe with a new respect and pulled in the driveway. “Sure!” My X- File wife would never have gone into one of those stores.

It was a small place, with no windows and quarter peep shows in the back. The aisles were narrow and packed with videos. Some guys hung out in the shadows by the peep show booths, watching Babe. She ignored them and started looking at the video titles.

Squirt Off. Fuck me Plenty. Swallow my Big, Fat….

Speaking of big fat… I noticed a huge, pink thing in a box and moved to inspect it. Whatever it was, it was circumcised.

“Hmm. What’s a nice, Jewish dildo like you doing in a place like this?” One of the peep-shady guys watched me. (Please back away from the dildo…) “What the hell’s this?” I wondered, looking at a fat, stubby… thing. Butt plug? For diarrhea? Must be. Surely no one would stick one of those up their ass for fun. Maybe it goes with the “Stretch that Ass” video. Other items had straps and harnesses and complicated paraphernalia hanging off them. Must be for engineers and rocket scientists, I determined.

There were all sorts of rubbery-looking apparati one was supposed to insert in their favorite places. A display of batteries stood nearby, ready to keep going, and going…. Perhaps someone stuck some of those in a favorite orifice or two as well, as a substitute for coffee. Use a pair of ‘D’ batteries for those hard to reach places, then sit on a butt plug to push it in.

A guy tending the counter hummed to himself and did some paperwork. I gravitated over to take a look at what was in the display. Lubes, condoms, massage oils, handcuffs…

“How you doing?” The kid said to me.

“Huh? Good, thanks. You?” I’m just browsing.

“Can I show you anything?”

Please don’t. “Uh, no thanks, I’m just…” trying to be nonchalant. “What the hell do you do with those?” I pointed in the case.

“Those are nipple clamps,” he told me, with a broad smile.

“Hmm.” I said, looking at the alligator clips. Ouch. Why would..? Never mind. He kept smiling. I turned back to the display, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“What about that?” I pointed to a gel-like hole with nubs on it, bigger than a silver dollar.

“Cock ring.”

“Oh,” I tried to imagine whatever for. It certainly wasn’t deep enough to fuck.

“This one vibrates,” the young clerk added. The kid looked like he was working his way through college, and spoke to me like he might just as well have been serving me a danish.

“I see…” Not really. I moved past the jelly to the playing cards. These I know. Except I didn’t know that. I cocked my head to figure out what was happening on the back of the card. Christ! You have to be a yoga instructor to do that! No way. I’m exhausted and my neck hurts just looking at it. I straighten up and move over to the adjacent wall of boxed… stuff.

More videos showing lots of leather, with studly guys on the cover. They’re wearing some slick, black hybrid of overalls and alpenhosen, bulging like ballet dancers with potatoes in their shorts.

Oh my god… elephantitis! I snicker. That’s gotta hurt. Then I read the title: Boys Will Be Boys, and moved on to another cover filled with gorgeous women in tight fitting, sexy dresses. They all have big tits and I wonder how many are real. Boys Will Be Girls, the title read. I guess that answers that question, and moved on. I think I’m in the wrong section.

Dildos! Dildos with knobby balls inside them. Dildos that are ‘actual size’ of porn stars. I look for Milton Berle’s, wondering if dildo envy is a viable concept. Vibrators lined up like missiles in every color, ready to heat-seek some pleasure. What’s this, a vibrating egg? I’ll take mine over easy, please. Something called a ‘Bullet,’ and something shaped like a butterfly that’s named after a bug-eating plant… dildos to strap on, put in your purse, or wear all day. Dildos for any hole and dildos with little smiley faces on them. Dildos ‘Pussy Galore’ and ‘Jack Rabbit’ with antennae inappropriate for those under twenty-one. There was a dildo for Valentine’s Day. What better way to say I love you than Here, go fuck yourself. Dan the Conehead dildo winked and blushed. Laurel and Hardy dildos in a boxed set, one fat and one slim. What, no Duke Dildo? The Duke would make a very fetching rubber penis. Surely if Milton Berle could have a sculpture made of his private self… I’m thinking a Presidential set put out by the mint would be a real collectible. (Try the Andrew Johnson!) One dildo doubled as a vibrating candle holder (candle not included), good for waxing afterward. Dildos in every color and nuance; even one for King Kong.

Strap-ons and love dolls and penis enhancers,
Silver-tipped dildos with red and green flashers…
These were only a few of people’s favorite things.

Whips, masks, riding crops, and chains with rubber tips. Clit flickers and booty bumpers, love dolls and disassociated lips and ‘helmet huggers’ and beads you were supposed to shove up your ass and girth pumps for your penis and something called a ‘hot seat’ I wouldn’t want to confuse with a whoppee cushion and a penis with another penis on the other end and a ‘backdoor buddy’ and extenders you attached to your dick so you could bang your partner from the barbecue and… what’s this? A latex pussy? Pocket sized, no less—a carry-on item for that next long flight. Next to it, oh no, can’t be… a ‘magic flesh’ vibrating butt. Just the butt, face down and buns up, cut off at the waist and thighs.

I laughed. “Hey Babe, look at this!” I grabbed the box and turned around, waving it over my head at where I thought she was still reading the video packages. Now there was an older guy there wearing an overcoat, looking at me from under the brim of his low hat “I… Babe?” I put it down with a humiliated grimace and looked around the store. She was by the peep rooms; sort of keeping her distance, but curious. I went and got her.

“What do they do in there?” she wanted to know.

“What do you think?”

“I heard there’s a hole in the wall in those booths,” she chuckled.

I was naive. “What for?”

“I heard people put it in the hole and, next door… someone takes it…”

“OH-h-h-h…” Get horny and stick your dick in the wall, makes perfect sense.

I remembered the first porn movie I went to, Deep Throat. It had just opened and the Santa Monica theatre was packed. I sat there when it was over and looked at my pal Cliff, “Great idea, buddy. Would you mind if I sat here for a while before walking down Santa Monica Boulevard with a boner the size of Florida?”

“Rhode Island, you mean,” he said. Very funny

“Can we get a video?” Babe raised her eyebrows.

“Sure,” I agree, heading that direction. “You pick it.”

“How about ‘Wanda Does the World?’” I suggest.

“I don’t think so.”

“The Bush Pilot?”


“Midgets on Fire?” No answer. “Forrest Hump?”

“What? Lemme see that.”

I walked back toward the counter, where the kid was stirring up dust with a cat o’ nine tails.

“Finding everything you need?” he asked me.

“More than I need,” I told him. “But I didn’t see any dildo Christmas lights.”

“Those are in here.” He pulled a three-inch thick catalog out from under the counter and slapped it down. “Circumcised or au natural?

“No. Thanks anyway. Now I know where to get them,” I add.

Babe finds a video. It’s a collection of sex scenes from different movies. The tiny thumbnail photographs on the back are so microscopically small I’d need a 10x lupe to see anything clearly, but they look active. What I think is someone’s open mouth turns out to be something quite different, so I stop looking and find the price. It’s $39.99. Holy hell, why not add the nine-tenths of a cent, like a gallon of gas, to make it come out (almost) even?

“Forty bucks? Holy shit!” The kid at the counter smiles again. I’d like to rub jelly on his teeth. “Babe?” Where’d she go? I found her by a rack of newspapers, leafing through a tabloid called Swing Sets, and wandered over. The paper looked like sales ads to me. “Any monkey bars or see-saws in there?” I asked, looking over her shoulder.

“What? Not quite… Look at this.”

I thought I was an open-minded man; experienced and fairly learned in the sensual arts. After reading the ad about a couple looking for another couple to ‘swing’ with, and I’m not talking about the ones next to the see-saws, I immediately felt prehistorically old. How do I feel about that? At that moment, I felt like I’d just had a shitload of penises stuck in my face for the last half hour and wanted to bolt.

“What, exactly, does ‘swinging’ include?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Babe replied, and I was pretty certain she didn’t know any more than I did. “Wanna buy this?” The tabloid was a couple bucks, so I said sure, why not. “There’s pictures too,” she added as a sly aside.


Later that night…

Babe has emerged from changing clothes in the one bedroom of our tiny apartment wearing her red flannel shirt. She doesn’t know it, yet, I think, but it’s the shirt that turns me on the most. It’s so… soft, and it’s a button-down. The thought of her naked breasts touching the inside of it never fails to warm my engine. “You look nice,” I tell her as she walks into our tiny apartment kitchen, which, from the bedroom, is no more than eight diminutive Babe-steps away.

She laughs at herself, “What, this? I bought this shirt at a second-hand store in San Francisco about ten years ago. I don’t even know how old this thing is.”

When she’s close enough, I’ll unbutton the top button like I usually do and run a casual finger over the top part of either breast, or both, if possible. I haven’t told her about the effect her red flannel shirt has on me because I don’t want it to be a pre-determined sort of thing. I like the randomness of it. I also like the idea of her knowing already that the red flannel shirt raises my ‘marital right’ flag and wears it when she secretly wishes I’ll ravish her like a ripe plum. When she walks out with it on, all I see is the cape of the Matador. My breath escapes heavily and I stomp a hoof on the carpet, internally snorting and…

I pick up the tabloid and read an ad aloud to Babe, “‘Not into watersports, ‘b’ stroke ‘d’ or kink. No pain. ‘H’ stroke ‘W’ proportionate. No STD’s…’ Could you translate that for me please? What, they don’t want to go to the beach?”

“I think watersports has to do with peeing on people,” Babe clarified.

“Oh, of course. The old ‘golden shower.’ I forgot some people like to do that. Sounds… warm, and… smelly.”

Babe continues, “And ‘b’ and ‘d’ must have something to do with bondage and discipline, or domination.”

“Ah, bondage I should have known. Domination is a little… vague. ‘No pain’ is something I understand, but don’t really get why it has to be stated. I mean, what the fuck, who wants to be in pain?” I was pretty sure I couldn’t carry a hard-on with, say, an alligator clip on my nipple. Babe shrugged and sat down next to me on the small futon we called a couch. She took the tabloid out of my hands and started reading while I looked down her shirt.

“STD’s are sexually transmitted diseases.” Of course, I should have known that, too. “There’s a lot of that going around.” Babe looked at me squarely. I kept looking at the top of her right breast.

“That’s for sure.” I straightened her shirt by pulling down on it a little, and opened the top part up a wee bit more. She looked down at her slowly uncovered cleavage, waiting till I was done arranging her shirt just the way I wanted it. “What else did you find in there?” I pulled some of her curly locks to the side, brushing a fingertip along her neck.

“Huh, what? Oh… let’s see. Let’s look at the photographs.” She turns the page. There’s a couple photographs but the low resolution halftones are completely plugged. “Jesus, they can’t even hold a 65-line screen,” Babe comments, ever the printer, and turns the page. When she looks to the right, she exposes her neck just a smidgen more than I can resist and I make my move to plant a kiss there.

From the very beginning we made an agreement: No tickling. I took a sharp elbow to the stomach when I tried that on Babe early on. Not only that, she promised payback was a bitch and started poking me in the ribs until I had to run from the room. So it was agreed, no tickling. But…

There’s a sensual fulcrum with regards to tickling and arousal. Then there’s the endorphins… When the proper amount of each are employed at the proper time, the effect takes on a heightened, sensual significance. One only has to know where their partner’s current boundary is, and when to back off. So I kiss her neck and run my hand across her stomach. The way she’s sitting, I can squeeze a breast or two while I’m in the neighborhood. The longer I kiss her neck, not moving my head once I get there so it doesn’t tickle, the quicker I have to squeeze at least one breast. In that way, I’m balancing the tickle with the arousal, and saving my teeth from getting knocked out.

There’s a photo of a guy, I think, fishing in a river. He’s got the whole fishing ensemble thing going on; waterproof overalls, vest and floppy hat. “What’s this guy into, rubber and blowfish?” I ask while rearranging Babe’s shirt, opening another button so I can see the inside curve of her crescent moon. She laughs and I run my finger along her soft, warm, inner-right cleavage. “Don’t tell me, he wants to show us his rod, right?”

“Ha-ha! That would be reely funny.” We both laugh.

“You think he’s salmon you’d like to get to know better?”

Babe ignores that and turns the page. “Here’s a couple looking for a ‘discreet relationship, group sex, three or more, miscellaneous fetishes or exhibition and voyeurism.’” She points to the photo. It’s an older couple who both look like truck drivers. I assume the one with the gray beard is the guy.

“Do they describe what ‘miscellaneous fetishes’ are?” I wonder.

Babe puts the paper down. “Wanna watch the video?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” and got up to slip it in. “Want some popcorn?” She didn’t. We kicked back and hit play. The leader fumbled through a squeaky set-up of snow and tracking lines before some type finally came on the screen, then a prim-looking woman in business attire sitting behind a desk. She started to explain some shit about porn in general so I fast-forwarded to the ‘cumming previews.’ A huge pair of breasts jiggled their way into existence and I slowed the tape down so my eyes would stop boggling like a lottery-ball spinner. Bobble-breasts turned out to be an ad for a 900 phone number. Suddenly cum was flying everywhere.

When one guy finished, another took his place and another and another and they all shot their wads close-up and personal. You get all this by phone? “Call this number and you can talk to me, and I’ll make sure you’ll feel like you’re plugging up my nostrils with your chism while I…” chatter like a chipmunk as I hit the fast forward button again. Fifty guys cum in three seconds as the chop-edits fly by. It looks like the fountain show at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas; all that’s missing is the 1812 Overture.

A plain, typed title shows up so I slow it down. It tells us that this is movie No. 472 and cuts to the chase. Some guy in a red Speedo is chasing a narrow-waisted, extremely tall platinum blond in spiked heels around a kitchen block. Following her bouncing breasts on TV is like singing two songs at once. Then it gets interesting. Using some very creative shots of bizarre, distorted reflections in pots and pans hanging overhead (and, for a while, ‘over head,’ if you get my meaning), they were somehow able to tilt the cameras and crossfade into some very tight places. One moment you were looking at a two-quart copper pot, then realize it had turned into a 27-inch vagina and the handle had foreskin. I wanted him to pull out (the cameraman). It was making me dizzy.

We fast-forwarded, and watched, and did some Hmmmm-ing and… “Have you ever tried that?”

I re-focused my eyes on Babe. “Not that I remember.” We watched some more. “How about you, ever try that?”

“Have you ever thought about trying that?”

“There’s no fucking way that upside-down thing is happening,” Babe said at one point.

“Wanna try that?” She put her hand on the inside of my thigh.

My manhood suddenly felt like a teenager again. “How about now? I have a dildo growing in my pocket.”

The point is, that movie had a happy ending. Babe and I learned a lot about each other, and had fun in the process. Several times, in fact. Most importantly, it caused us to talk about our sensual fantasies. Once we did that, we were sharing secrets between ourselves. Armed with those intimate details, we wink at one another from time to time and pass the sly smiles only lovers who know each other too well can pass. She’s still got that red, flannel shirt too.


#17—A Date With No Shame (sung to A Horse With No Name, by America)

Degree of Difficulty: Even potheads can sing this.

(Click on a link below to hear the original, than read along with the new lyrics below.)

The version you’re familiar with: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSAJ0l4OBHM
Alternate, techno/acoustic version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8uHVVq10B8

On the first aisle of the sex shop
I was looking at all the junk
There were batteries and cocks with rings
There were molded beaded things
The first thing I saw was a pussy with fuzz
And this guy with-out brows
The shop was hot and my mouth was dry
But my hair was looking good

I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
He asked me if I was in-to pain.
In the sex shop, you can’t tell people you’re game
Or you might end up as a vibrator name

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las]

After two hours with my horny chum
My face began to turn red
After three hours I wanted a gun
I was wishing that my date was dead
And the story he told of vibrators that glowed
Made me think that he was brain dead

You see I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
I saw dildos built like Great Danes.
In one section were blow-up dolls with a name
Kinda weird when you see one who’s called Elaine

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las]


After nine hours I had to take a pee
I was thinkin I’d flush then flee
There were penis pumps and plugs for rumps
But no-toilet paper for me
You have to be perverted when you’re askin around
For a latex vibrating glove
And it’s not pretty, like a fart with no sound
But I know what I’m speaking of

You see I’ve been through a sex shop with a date with no shame
He picked out a big doll named Lorraine
In the sex shop, you should assume a new name
And there ain’t no one who will clean up the stains

La, la, la,

[repeat la-las] [repeat la-las]
[repeat la-las]
[slight pause, then repeat la-las]
[repeat la-las]
[keep repeating la-las]


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