“It’s called the Butt Plug Challenge,” says the cashier. Purple silicone, eighteen inches tall, at least, as big around at its widest as my thigh.

“Surely not,” I say back. “People don’t actually do…that with…that.”

She looks at me sagely, nods.

Her name tag says Bucklynn. She looks like Charlie Bucket, watermelon-shaped, with two frizzy pigtails.

“I saw a video of this woman afterwards. Ay-nus-” she says it like that, in two chunks, and I like how weighty it sounds, reverent, behind her ping pong paddle teeth- “all billowy, turned out like a collapsed parachute.”

My teeth feel loose in their sockets. I could do that, I think, turn myself inside out for love.

It’s unwieldier that it looks, bottom heavy, but I wrestle it onto the counter without checking the price on its base.

“Just this,” I say.

“There’s a waiver.” She slides a paper across the counter. Ticks off the highlights on her fingers. “Make sure you have a spotter.”

I swallow thickly. Imagine the guy from my gym, nipples peeking around the edges of his tank top. Imagine Bucklynn in a referee-striped polo with a whistle.

“Must be like shitting an anvil,” Bucklynn says, with that faraway look people sometimes get imagining a more glamorous life. The shop smells like under-refrigerated dairy. “I’d like to try it someday.”

I hold my breath while she swipes my card.

“What time do you get off?” I ask, and take care to hold my brows perfectly still. She narrows her eyes at me, then at the Butt Plug Challenge, then back.

“I have a boyfriend,” she says, hands me my receipt.

None of the brown paper bags are big enough, so I bear hug it while I shimmy sideways out the front door. The silicone tugs at the hairs on my forearm. In the parking lot, I wedge it into the passenger seat. It looks more imposing in gray cotton daylight.

Imagine me, victorious, full up of purple like Violet Beauregard. After. The fetal position in Bucklynn- Jeremy- anybody’s arms in the light of the television, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on the screen.