GOOD VIBRATIONS

Rachel Johnson visits a feminist sex

shop in Antwerp and leaves shaken but not stirred

`SO are you going to the PTA coffee morning, then?' I was asked at the school gates last Friday morning. I wasn't, but at least this time I had a copper-bottomed excuse. 'Sony, but I've got an important appointment at a sex shop in Antwerp,' I informed Philip's mother, and we both whinnied with laughter.

Oh dear. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. According to Ann Cuyvers and Ingrid Neuyens, the two ladies who run Antwerp's Erotische Verbeelding, women should be buying sex toys with the same routine preci- sion with which they perform other daily chores, such as taking the dog to the vet or stocking up on kitchen roll. To this end, they have opened a large, airy shop at num- bers 10 to 12 Ijzerenwaag, in the bourgeois heart of bourgeois Antwerp. Hitherto bet- ter known for its diamonds, guildhouses and 'directional' clothing designers, the city now boasts the only emporium in Europe to purvey politically correct sex aids to the middle classes.

When I mentioned to friends that I was cutting the PTA meeting to go to a sex shop run by women for women, several decided that they wanted to join me. After all, it did sound like the girlie outing to end all girlie outings, with sex, shopping and giggling all rolled into one. I ended up taking a highly scientific control group: a 43-year-old moth- er of six, and my nubile 25-year-old au pair girl. I told also-rans that, if they wished, they could telephone me to place their orders once I was in the shop.

Our aim was to road-test the shop's mis- sion statement: sex shops do not — pace Ann Summers — cater to women, and most erotic toys, with their lurid packaging and design, are fashioned from a man's point of view. Erotische Verbeelding is an antidote to all that, a place where women can wander in, browse through catalogues, chat to the all-female shop assistants, and pick up some fur-lined handcuffs or lin- gerie which comes in Sophie Dahl as well as Kate Moss sizes.

We found the shop quite easily. A basque-clad mannequin stood in the win- dow with a jar of tall feathers; quotations from Shakespeare, JFK and Thomas Mann were stencilled all over the plate glass.

Inside it was fragrant and welcoming. Two women wearing Hampstead clothes (swirly velvet tops and scarves, tailored black trousers) were dusting what looked at first glance like large mahogany chess-pieces and other glass objets d'art. Ann Cuyvers, former actress, married mother and co- owner, soon put us straight.

`These are dildos, handcarved, ja? Beau- tiful. We like to sell erotic objects that you would not be ashamed to leave on your bedside table for your cleaner or child to see,' she said, smoothing her velvet shirt over her pregnant belly.

`They come in real wood, marble, glass or acrylic. Here, touch,' she invited. I found myself fondling a baguette-sized wooden dildo and murmuring its praises along with the other five women in the shop. 'We get our products from all over the world. That is our secret — if you knew where we found them you would not come to buy here, ja!'

At that moment a customer came into the shop — a young woman who looked like a primary-school teacher, wearing a neat, buttoned jacket and tweed skirt — so I was left to browse for a while. The wares were, indeed, sourced from all over the world, and it was apparent from looking at a product exactly where it came from.

There was the ethnic, Kama Sutra range of candles, massage oils and body dusts, with accompanying Therapy Kit and print- • ed warnings — 'No Nutritional Value', Tor External Use Only', 'Not a Toy', `Keep Away from Children', etc. — Cali- fornian, of course. There were delectable confections of Vessous mangeables' that's edible undies to you — in cappucci- `They're after the floating voters!' no and strawberry flavours, from France, bien stir.

Germany's contribution was a catholic range of dildos, from those made by a woman's co-operative in bright colours and witty shapes (the red 'Devil' dildo, the blue `Flipper' dolphin) to the precision-engi- neered. These cutting-edge sex aids came in boxes with a little peep-hole into which you could stick your pinky and feel the life- like texture of the silicone member (New LoveClone Skin! Adapts to Body Tempera- ture!). Not only did they boast the very lat- est in finishes, but also included lots of extras such as five-speed gearboxes and cruise-control. In fact, they were probably made in Munich by BMW.

And where do you think that Naughty Bits — assorted willies, burns and nipples in luxury chocolate — and a box of Silly Willies, best before October 2000, came from, amid this cornucopia of sophistica- tion? I'm afraid so. They were made in England.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the primary-school teacher had, after much discussion, settled on a purchase. It was an unfeasibly large bright-blue dildo, which was being gift-wrapped by the young female shop-assistant while they chatted easily.

Crikey! Here was my proof that the shop was plugging a niche (sorry) in the market, even though it was, in theory, breaking the law by selling pornography and vibrators between 11 a.m. and 6 p.m. Its mission statement, I could now see, was as freshly made and on the money as a Pret Manger sandwich.

`So, did you make your excuses and leave?' I hear you demanding.

Well, since you ask, for the purposes of research I asked Ann Cuyvers for a recom- mendation. Her face lit up as she produced a shoebox-sized item called The Eroscilla- tor. The assistant took out the contraption and showed me its whistles and bells. I read the box with interest.

`First appareil to be conceived exclusively for the excitement of female parts,' was what was written on the side. The words `Can be used in the bath' were emblazoned alongside a beaming mugshot of America's leading sexologist, Dr Ruth Westheimer. I looked at all this for a long while, smiled regretfully, and said I'd think about it.

Karolina, my treasured au pair girl, spent a long time looking at the lingerie. She was amused by a pronged, belt-like device called the `voorbinddildo en een harnas', but seemed unimpressed. But the shop scored a direct hit with the mother of six, who raced around the shelves plucking down this and that with all the excitement of a child in a sweetshop. As she piled things on to the counter, my mobile phone rang. It was a girlfriend who had wanted to join us. After tittering awhile with her and answer- ing her questions, I rang 'off and told Ann Cuyvers to start wrapping The Eroscillator after all.

For my friend, ja?