Warning: This is an R-rated posting. If you are offended by words like "cock," "dong," "pecker" and "sheep," read no further. Frankly, I don't like these words much myself. But there's no getting around them in describing this inaugural mission.

As acts of bravery and adventure go, this one was anticlimatic.

Last night, I spent about an hour in a sex shop, walking out with two items - one for a friend (I swear) and another for whomever in my circle next celebrates a birthday.

Technically, I accomplished my goal. Unfortunately, I did not feel a moment of embarrassment, a twinge of titillation or even the urge to giggle.

Here is where I likely went wrong:

I chose the store with the biggest ad in the Yellow Pages. But it's in the most well-heeled part of town, and a conservative one at that. A north-end sex shop can only get so bold. I should have expected what I got - an artfully decorated boutique-style shoppe with pretty lingerie displayed in the windows, and a small "18 and over" room properly placed in the back of the store.

I should have headed south to the obviously seedy First Amendment, a store that proudly identifies its offerings with a sign displaying a vampy woman and a big, dark, triple X.

The clerk at the north end boutique said kids commonly accompany their parents into the front room - a fantasy area of high, feathered heels, translucent pajamas, curious costumes and edible treats that look and smell like candy. By contrast, I suspect taking a child to First Amendment would be grounds for a child abuse arrest.

Alas, a bad choice I realized as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Nevertheless, I did the best I could with it.

There were two people in the store when I arrived: a customer - a curvy 40'ish blonde woman - and an incredibly young-looking, make-up-free clerk whose glowing skin and shiny, long red hair said nothing more sexual than wholesome, All American Girl.

I looked at the costumes, none of which seemed original or much different than those on Wal-Mart's Halloween racks. These came only with different price tags. $72 for a Catholic school girl get-up. I could buy knee socks, a short plaid skirt and round-collared white blouse at Goodwill for less than $10. The want-to-be-bad-but-I-fear-I'm-doomed-to-hell-if-I-do-it look was something only an ex-Catholic could carry off; that, for me, came free with my past.

I checked out the heels, ideal for the upcoming brunettes-go-blonde day, taking a particular shine to the five-inch, glittery-pink stilettos with a Playboy bunny stamped into the heel. Much as I like heels, I knew these babies would toss me to the floor in five seconds or less. A flat-on-her-ass 41-year-old woman in a short skirt is pitiful, not sexy.

I stepped into the back room, and smiled. I had entered Silicone Valley. Vibrators in shades of pink, blue, red and flesh tones hung from two of the three walls. Each had a name: Butch, Cosmo and Hank. One let's-get-down-to-business model called itself simply: "Eight-inch Dong!" (Can "dong" really be trademarked?)

X-rated DVDs took the remaining wall. In the middle were rotating stands of toys that baffled, amused and intrigued. I stared for some time at The Pecker Leash, which included a small, black leather collar attached to a chain. The photo demonstrated its use. I shall not describe it. I found a Do-It-Yourself Adult Movie Kit next to a Horny Little Devil Kit, tucked beside the Idiot's Guide to Tantric Sex and several penis pumps, one of which instructed it was "for when you just want to pump it up!"

Fortunately, I had a semi-legitimate reason to be there. An out-of-town friend with no access to such stores asked if I could find vibrating "eggs" during my expedition. Her penniless boyfriend wanted her to have them but, she confessed, she had no idea what they were. Nothing in the back room looked much like an egg to me. I would have to ask.

In cowardly fashion, I waited until the sole customer left before approaching the clerk I was certain carried a fake I.D. She nodded at my request for "eggs," and led me back to the 18-plus room. She crouched next to a display of the most un-egg-like items in the store. They appeared to be small vibrators, designed to work in concert with other erotic toys or solo.

"They all have slightly different features," she said, examining the packages.

"What does your friend do in the mountains?" Before I could answer, she drew my attention to a mid-priced model. "Now this one has an extra device that can be used as a cock ring."

I nodded knowingly, but in truth, am still uncertain what that is.

"She sells real estate," I said.

"I just love it up there. Does she ski all the time?" she askd, plucking another item off the carousel.

"Here's a travel size." She held up a vibrator disguised as a lipstick tube. "I think this is just the cutest."

I shook my head. "That shade just doesn't work for me.

"She doesn't ski much anymore. Once you live up there a while, skiing loses it appeal. And the winters .. brutal," I said.

"Oh, I bet they are," she said. "And there aren't any adult stores up there. That would suck.

"Smell these! They just arrived the other day. Finally, they make them flavored for women. They smell like candy. Pocket sized, and resealable! You can get a good five, 10 uses out of these little guys."

I smelled each color. The strawberry smelled like strawberry. The rest, not so good.

Back at the cash register, she opened the "egg."

"We battery test all our items before they leave the store because, obviously, we don't take returns."

I heard a low hum and saw the package shudder. "This one's just fine," she said.

I took a final look around the store. Something for Laura was one thing. To make this assignment legit, I felt obligated to buy something for myself, too. My eyes brushed by the Inflatable Party Sheep, the testicle-shaped cake molds and rubber-tipped nipple clamps. I chose, finally, the Pecker Cake Toppers, 12 flesh-toned decorations including a heart and the numbers 1 through 10, all depicted with penises bent into shapes that would make the manliest of men sob in pain.

The clerk wrapped them in gold-and-silver tissue paper, and sealed it with a gold store sticker. She placed them just-so in a gold bag with stiff ropey handles.

I felt cheated. Where was the crinkled grocery bag about which I'd fantasized? The hand-written sign stating "Cash only!" Where-oh-where was the pierced, tattoed, wife-beater-wearing male clerk with gravelly voice and eyes that undressed? And why did I leave feeling like I'd just completed an everyday business transaction? Striding away with head held high instead of slinking out with my collar pulled tight around my face?

I admit, I've fallen short. Disappointed myself and stepped through this first month of 2006 without sweaty palms or a scandalous story.

I swear I will do better in the months to follow. Meanwhile, I think the fact that I've at least completed one quest is reason enough for a cake - topped, of course, with an assortment of pliable, plastic penises.