But is it just that upper-middle-class stratum of women who are reshaping this economy? The kind with Carrie Bradshaw's disposable income, the ones who take high-end pole-dancing classes and possess the time and mental energy to go on a bull-legged stroll to the kitchen while Chinese meditation balls rattle inside them? Apparently not. California company Party Gals has a fleet of dildo-slinging sweethearts who showcase sex toys from different providers, including Doc Johnson, in your own living room. Think 1950s Tupperware parties, but with the housewives debating the merits of anal sex instead of how to best refrigerate lima beans. Patty Gardner, a former IBM employee with a teenage son, is Party Gals' top saleswoman. She is trim and gregarious with dyed strawberry-blonde hair and an unaffected manner and can talk up the merits of anything from $8 tubes of China Shrink Cream (for women to feel like a virgin for three to five hours) to heavy-duty glass-blown ass wands. We're in Whittier, 60 miles and three worlds away from the suburbs of Los Angeles, packed inside a one-bedroom stucco apartment off the main drag. The hostess, fresh off her shift from a local clothing store, is serving her guests Stater Brothers' ready-made fried chicken and bright instant-mix tequila cocktails. They are a bubbly group of seven women, all in their mid- to late twenties, all Latinas, many with Amy Winehouse–like Bumpits-buttressed bouffants. A few are single, some have long-term boyfriends, one is set to be married this summer (she asks the most questions about which items are edible). These women, like their hostess, are working-class shift employees, daughters of immigrants. They've never been to a party like this before and are excitedly chattering over Gardner's product menus. "I like to go mild to wild," Gardner says, pulling out lotions, lubes, and pheromone-scented body glitter from her grab bag of products. These women are far from virgins, but many of them do not (yet) own sex toys and seem to regard them as acceptable for couple's play rather than solo use. Gardner is hip to this subtlety and tailors her sales pitch to extolling the benefits of each product as a way to help please "yourself and your man." The women pass around squiggling rabbit-eared vibrators and lick edible lube off their wrists. The mood in the room thaws from nervous excitement to focused curiosity. "You should be having orgasms every day," Gardner says in a reassuring tone. "It's a good thing." One young woman admits she's never been penetrated by a vibrator and asks Gardner if it feels like a tampon. Gardner puts down the remote-controlled pair of vibrating panties she's holding up and gently explains that tampons, while also inserted in your vagina, are dried-up wads of bleached cotton whereas her products are meant to be lubed up and used for pleasure. The message seems to get through to the young woman, but the mechanics still seem to baffle her. This was followed by a confused chatter about which hole you actually pee out of. Gardner then brings out a pair of ben wah balls and the ladies start to squirm and woop. "That's what Christian uses on Anastasia in!" one partygoer excitedly tells the group. Gardner sells several pairs to the ladies tittering on the couch. Still, the biggest hit of the night is the blow job–assisting rubber sleeve. Half the party purchases the item; the consensus is that this is the least intimidating, least ego-deflating toy to bring home to their partner. As much as the toy industry, and Doc Johnson itself, has been revolutionized by women's increased comfort with satisfying themselves and with these products in general, ultimately the people who benefit most from this are going to be men. As one cackling party gal put it, grabbing one of the stroker sleeves, "You are not replaceable, and I need help sucking your big dick."