I Tried Sex Dust, Had Two Orgasms And Transformed Into Horny Spider-Woman
It may smell like dead man's farts, but it packs an unholy punch.
Let me begin by telling you what Sex Dust is not. It isn't the name of a glam rock post-punk band from the '70s. It's also not a potent street drug infiltrating our schools and corrupting America's youth. And it isn't the aromatic cloud that wafts around me, pulling men from all walks of life toward my magical vagina like a siren's song.
Sex Dust is the invention of Amanda Chantal Bacon, founder of Moon Juice, a boutique juicery based in Los Angeles whose list of celebrity clientele includes Gwenyth Paltrow and sprite-like forest nymph, Shailene Woodley. It's a labeled as a "warming-potion" for both sexes, meant to heighten your senses in the bedroom and everywhere else.
It's had the beauty community buzzing for obvious reasons: It's an aphrodisiac that will also turn the consumer into some low-rent version of Spider-Man.
Though I'm more of a Batman-girl, I was ready to sample what the dust had to offer.
When the small jar arrived at my place of employment, I made my co-workers deeply uncomfortable by eating the packing peanuts from the box (they were cornstarch based and not very filling). I continued unsettling those around me by reading the instructions on the dust, which included putting a heaping tablespoon into "nut milk."
Frankly, that's on Moon Juice. You can't sell an aphrodisiac that requires nut milk and NOT expect even the most savvy consumer to snicker like a zitty, teenage boy who has never known the touch of a woman.
I put off taking it for a little while for logistical reasons: my bedfellow was out of town and I could think of nothing more depressing than writing a solemn review of how the dust ramped up my relationship with my Hitachi Magic Wand.
Finally, when the work week was behind me and my bedfellow returned, I found myself at dinner with my best lady friends.
We were enjoying margaritas and each other's company when my bedfellow texted to confirm our plans for later that evening. I wasn't sure the evening would end in coitus, but since the dust was supposed to enhance my mood generally, I went for it.
Since there was no nut milk to be had at the Mexican restaurant, I poured a heaping tablespoon into my frozen margarita. I made a real mess at the table.
The name doesn't lie — it IS very dusty. My friend Lorna, who's sensible, put some of the dust in her glass of water, sparing her alcohol of the Sex Dust's dusty taint. We each agreed that I had made the better concoction.
The dust itself smelled like the fart of an old man who subsists on a diet of chocolate bars and lives in a hole in someone's backyard. The taste was actually much better, in fact, fairly mild.
As we got up to go our separate ways, Lorna and I checked in with each other. We both felt buzzed, though admittedly that could have been the tequila.
That said, I was suddenly very aware of my nipples and Lorna, who planned to go home and go right to bed, had instead sent out a "wyd?" text to her own bedfellow. The sexiness, it was go.
"I feel like I took cold medicine and then had some drinks," I said to my bedfellow, Dom, when we met up. He furrowed his brow.
"So you feel nauseated?"
I thought about it. "No, just ... weird." That weirdness only escalated as Dom, his friends and I painted the town red that evening. By 2 AM, I was pooped and sex dust or not, ready to go home.
When I made it to my building, I discovered that my roommate had put the chain on the door thinking I'd be at Dom's that night. When I couldn't wake her up, I climbed out to the roof, down the fire escape and into the window of our kitchen.
The Sex Dust hadn't made me orgasm but no one could argue with the fact that my Spidey skills were very much on fleek.
The following day, I knew I had to get laid. I got into the zone, tried to shake my hangover, did some errands, went to the gym, and then stopped at the grocery store for the suggested nut milk. I was going to do this right.
Unfortunately, while waiting in the checkout line I spotted one of those bottled Starbucks Frappuccino drinks and was struck by inspiration. Twenty minutes later while holding my nose, I gagged down the foul herbal milkshake and waited for horniness to strike.
I'm a naturally libidinous person with an active sex life. In the past my high-sex drive has been a problem in relationships. That's not the case with Dom; we're pretty well-matched. We have good sex. After a trip to the bone zone, flying high on Sex Dust, we assessed what effect the dust might have had on our coitus.
"I mean, our sex is good anyway," I mused, giving Dom the opportunity to mentally high-five himself. "I orgasmed twice, which isn't irregular for me." Again with the mental high-fiving, I'm sure.
Ultimately, the dust had about the same impact on me as two glasses of champagne. I felt tingly and hyper-aware, and also I could shoot webs from my wrists and was strangely compelled to fight crime.
I want to say it's not worth the $60 price-tag but over the span of two days I had great sex and literally scaled the walls of my apartment building, so clearly it did something.
Rebecca Jane Stokes is a writer living in Brooklyn, New York with her cats, Batman and Margot. She's the Senior Editor of Pop Culture at Newsweek with a passion for lifestyle, geek news, and true crime.