I ate something called Sex Dust and it was wild from start to finish

I am a sucker.

I will buy anything with: a) cute packaging, b) a celebrity endorsement, c) a vaguely sexual and/or cosmic name. So it was the ultimate no-brainer that I'd be clamoring to try this metaphysical, Gwyneth-approved, kooky-ass powder called Sex Dust that promised (in not so many words) to turn me into a Hobbit-shaped Sasha Grey in like, 10 minutes or less.

Sex Dust is an iteration of well…dusts, I guess created by yet another Glamorous Kook of Los Angeles, one Amanda Chantal Bacon. She's one of those women who wears like Grecian cloths for dresses and implores you to <em>decompress</em> while regarding herself as spiritual but not religious so needless to say she's my Kombucha Messiah.

Her dusts, which can be mixed into her signature Moon Juice recipes, all promise a different result: Brain Dust, Beauty Dust, Sex Dust, etc. The latter in particular promised some interesting things on the label, chief among them energy for in and out of the bedroom, and as a perpetually tired person, I figured fuck it. Get it? Fuck it?

The dust in question look like a dollar store hot chocolate powder but is ~actually~ a concoction of rare herbs and other earthlike materials including Epimedium,Cistanche, Ho Shou Wu, Shilajit, Cacao, Maca and Schisandra. If that first ingredient sounds familiar to you, it's because you're a perv (same) who's familiar with something called Horny Goat Weed — you know, that sexual stimulant they sell at the gas station?

Horny Goat Weed, as one might expect, is supposed to make you horny in an all-natural way. In the interest of full-disclosure, I have consumed Horny Goat Weed before but it was given to me without my knowledge by my GBF, Zade, on the night we had planned for me to lose my virginity (not to my GBF, to my real BF) but it either didn't work or I was too distracted by my newfound womanhood/the Dark Knight DVD playing in the background to notice.

Sex Dust, it seemed, was my high-brow do-over.

I lured my Gentleman Friend to my apartment under the guise of regular sex and the DVD screening of his choice (he picked Taxi Driver which also put me in the mood for weird reasons I'm still trying to work through) and then revealed that he was going to be the control group in an impromptu sexual experiment.

After pouring a full-packet of the dust into a mug of cold water (you could also pour it into a smoothie or juice but I'm not a Rockefeller, OK?), I decided to just go to town and pound it like a cheap beer.

I wanted to fucking die. Never in my life have I tasted something so fucking disgusting. It tasted like dirt-covered ass (I assume — I'm an ass-eating holdout). It was horrible, it was a microwaved cup of mud. Gagging, tears came into my eyes and I literally wept through the rest of the cup like a baby getting a booster shot. Death was welcome, but alas, I was not so lucky.

What happened next very well might have been placebo effect, but my lower half (read: vagina) started to feel what could only be described as buzzed. Like it had really tried to get its money's worth at a $40 bottomless brunch. Like it had been trying to pregame a Tinder date. Like it had to give a toast at a rehearsal dinner but it was a lil shy about public speaking.

In other words, my vagina felt drunk. It was great!

Sex was, as it usually is when you're a little drunk, amazing. I felt buzzy and energized and it was easier to cross the finish line, which is the exact euphemism for come every women's media would use here. That's where the energy stopped, though. My energy level is pretty dependent of what food I ate that day and how much exercise I did, and the dust didn't really affect that. Sex? Yay. Day? Meh.

Was fun sex worth the microwaved-dirt taste though? A drunk vagina was good, but I could always, y'know, get drunk.