Sex Toy Story

Electrified after the sewing machine, fan, teakettle and toaster, but long before the vacuum cleaner, vibrators were marketed directly to women in the early 1900s as home appliances. Manufacturers advertised in magazines such as Needlecraft, Woman's Home Companion and Modern Priscilla with slogans like "vibration is life."

Sex and orgasm were never mentioned, Maines writes. Vibrators were shown being applied to a model's head or back. But any woman could figure it out. One ad: "Swedish movement right in your own home! Just a few minutes use of the wonderful vibrator and the red blood tingles through your veins--the same treatment you would have to pay at least $2 for in a physician's office!" And no need to go into a store to be embarrassed by your purchase. "Aids that every woman appreciates," boasted the copy for a vibrator in the 1918 Sears Roebuck & Co. catalog. "All the pleasures of youth will throb within you."

Ah, the good old days.

They didn't last. When stag films started featuring vibrators in the 1920s, the ads faded from respectable women's publications. No more shopping for sex in the "wish book."

With feminism and the sexual revolution, the vibrator made a comeback in the '70s. There was no doubt this time about its intended use: It was usually shaped like an erect penis, made from lifelike latex, with external nodes for additional stimulation. Today, some models light up, talk ("ooh baby!") or feature rotating ridges, like the Rabbit Pearl model featured on Sex and the City.

Medical treatment for sexual dysfunction sometimes includes the use of vibrators. For women who have difficulty reaching orgasm--some studies show two-thirds of women can't climax through intercourse alone--vibrators can transform frustration into fantasy fulfillment.

In Texas, says BeAnn Sisemore, you can sell a Rabbit Pearl to stick on top of a cake. But selling one to a woman and explaining how to use it is illegal.

Sisemore sits in her office decorated with cherubs and nymphs and Victorian girls in gilded frames. Wearing high heels and a pantsuit with a fur-collared jacket, she's a bulldozer disguised as a girly-girl. She's filed a federal lawsuit on behalf of five other Passion Party reps challenging the Texas statute that got Joanne arrested.

Widowed at 24 and still single in her 50s, Sisemore says she attended one of Joanne's Passion Parties and learned more about her sexuality than she had during marriage and years of dating. "I'm from Mineral Wells," she says. "I was raised a Southern lady. She might do it in the back of a car, but she doesn't make any noise. I never said the word orgasm out loud until I took this case. I had never heard about my G-spot. I didn't know they had a cream that would make you more sensitive."

Sisemore whips out a package of condoms and points out that they are not approved by the FDA for either contraception or protection from sexually transmitted diseases. They're marketed to increase genital stimulation.

"Why aren't they raiding Wal-Mart?" she asks. "What about Bob Dole and Viagra? A woman's device is criminal, but a man's device is a blessing. I think that is bullshit! This is about a woman's right as a person, whether with another person or alone, to be as sexual as she wants to be."

A Righteous Fox

From the beginning, the Webbs were a sensual couple. Some would say too sensual.

When Chris Webb saw the girl with long copper-colored hair greeting people at the Baptist Student Union, he turned to his friend Dan Castro and said, "Now there's a righteous fox."

Nineteen years old and a virgin, Chris was looking for a wife. Despite his commitment to God, Chris knew he was what St. Paul might have called "a burner." (I Corinthians 7:9: "But if they cannot contain, let them marry; for it is better to marry than to burn.") Moses and Abraham had gorgeous and godly wives; Chris believed God would bless him with a "righteous fox."

Chris' buddy eyed the conservatively dressed Joanne. "She just radiated beauty," says Castro, now an attorney in Austin. "All the guys wanted to date her." Then Castro looked at Chris--curly blond hair, 5-foot-6, Coke-bottle eyeglasses--and said, "You don't stand a chance."

After accepting Christ in the fourth grade, Chris was so on fire for God that he was licensed to preach by the age of 16. In 1978, attending the University of Texas at San Antonio on an ROTC scholarship, Chris witnessed on the street, in pool halls, anywhere he could reach people who'd never set foot in a church. He prided himself on being a renegade for God.

Joanne, a Catholic who'd been "born again," liked the Baptist Student Union because it was the most active Christian group on campus. But she had a boyfriend. Besides, Chris was too cocky and flirtatious. Chris considered his beguiling ways a ministry, building up the self-esteem of others--usually women.