They call my house the "Playgirl Mansion"

Here's how to start a commotion:

Take a group of women, invite them into your living room, and introduce them to the latest products for enhancing their love lives.

On that cool, rainy night, that was exactly what I was doing. Timed to coincide with Monday night football, my Whoopieware party had the house rocking.

"Herb said if I don't stop buying this stuff, I'm going to kill him," Nadine Richards, one of my older guests, remarked. "I said, 'Honey, at least you'll die happy.' "

The younger women shrieked with laughter. She touched her silver bouffant and smiled coyly. "If you want to know the truth, I'm having the time of my life."

The group applauded and cheered.

Katie Randall, a young mother, added: "After the twins were born, I sort of lost interest. I think Clark gave up on me. Then, one day, I found him talking to a cute secretary in his office. I knew then that I had to get my act together. You know that passion fruit body cream that I got last time? Let's just say he ate it up."

There was another round of applause, interspersed with a few hoots. Katie blushed demurely.

 Twenty women had showed up that night and if their laughter was any measure, they were having a great time.

With this being a fairly small town, I knew many of them. Some were regular attendees, but some of them were new, representing a growing following.

Although I'd hosted more than a dozen Whoopieware parties, I never stopped having fun at them. It was a place where women could get together, share some of their most intimate thoughts, and have a good time. Sure, a few were embarrassed or just curious, but most came back for more.

"What surprises have you got for us tonight, Sherry?" one of my regulars asked.

"New toys and teddies," I said. "And later, with refreshments, a video entitled Playtime."

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