The offices of Jimmyjane are
above a boarded-up dive bar in San Francisco's Mission district. There
used to be a sign on a now-unmarked side door, until
employees grew weary of men showing up in a panic on Valentine's Day
thinking they could buy last-minute gifts there. (They can't.) The only
legacy that
remains of the space's original occupant, an underground lesbian
club, is a large fireplace set into the back wall. Porcelain massage
candles and ceramic
stones, neatly displayed on sleek white shelves alongside the
brightly colored vibrators that the company designs, give the space the
serene air of a day
spa.
Ethan Imboden, the company's founder, is 40 and holds an electrical
engineering degree from Johns Hopkins and a master's in industrial
design from
Pratt Institute. He has a thin face and blue eyes, and wears a pair
of small hoop earrings beneath brown hair that is often tousled in some
fashion. The
first time I visited, one April morning, Imboden had on a V-neck
sweater, designer jeans and Converse sneakers with the tongues splayed
out -- an aesthetic
leaning that masks a highly programmatic interior. "I think if you
asked my mother she'd probably say I lined up my teddy bears at right
angles," he told
me. (...)
Ten years ago, walking into the annual sex toy industry show for the first time, Imboden was startled by the objects he encountered. He had developed DNA sequencers for government scientists at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, and more recently he had left a job designing consumer products -- cell phones and electric toothbrushes -- for companies like Motorola and Colgate, work he found dispiriting. "It was imminently clear to me that I was creating a huge amount of landfill," Imboden told me. "I wanted no part of it." He struck out on his own, and found himself approached by a potential client about designing a sex product. (...)
Ethan Imboden, the company's founder, is 40 and holds an electrical
engineering degree from Johns Hopkins and a master's in industrial
design from
Pratt Institute. He has a thin face and blue eyes, and wears a pair
of small hoop earrings beneath brown hair that is often tousled in some
fashion. The
first time I visited, one April morning, Imboden had on a V-neck
sweater, designer jeans and Converse sneakers with the tongues splayed
out -- an aesthetic
leaning that masks a highly programmatic interior. "I think if you
asked my mother she'd probably say I lined up my teddy bears at right
angles," he told
me. (...)Ten years ago, walking into the annual sex toy industry show for the first time, Imboden was startled by the objects he encountered. He had developed DNA sequencers for government scientists at Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, and more recently he had left a job designing consumer products -- cell phones and electric toothbrushes -- for companies like Motorola and Colgate, work he found dispiriting. "It was imminently clear to me that I was creating a huge amount of landfill," Imboden told me. "I wanted no part of it." He struck out on his own, and found himself approached by a potential client about designing a sex product. (...)
Imboden was inspired. "As soon as I saw past the fact that in front of
me happened to be two penises fused together at the base, I realized
that I was
looking at the only category of consumer product that had yet to be
touched by design," Imboden said. "It's as if the only food that had
been available was
in the candy aisle, like Dum Dums and Twizzlers, where it's really
just about a marketing concept and a quick rush and very little emphasis
on nourishment
and real enjoyment. The category had been isolated by the taboo that
surrounded it. I figured, I can transcend that."
At dinner parties in San Francisco, where he lives, Imboden found
that mentioning sex toys unleashed conversations that appeared to have
been only awaiting permission. "Suddenly I was at the nexus of
everybody's thoughts and aspirations of sexuality," he said. "Suddenly
it was OK for anyone
to talk to me about it." It occurred to Imboden that the people who
buy sex toys are not some other group of people. They are among
the half of
all Americans who, according to a recent Indiana University study,
report having used a vibrator. They are people, like those waiting
outside Apple stores
for the newest iPhone model, who typically surround themselves with
brands that reinforce a self-concept. They spend money on quality
products, and care
about the safety of those products. Yet, for the very products they
use most intimately--arguably the ones whose quality and safety people
should care most
about--they were buying gimmicky items of questionable integrity.
It's just that people had never come to expect or demand anything
different--silenced by
society's "shame tax on sexuality," as one sex toy retailer put it
to me. And few alternatives existed.
Jean-Michel Valette, the chairman of Peet's Coffee, who would later
join Jimmyjane's Board of Directors, told me: "I had thought the
opportunities for
really transforming significant consumer categories had all been
done. Starbucks had done it in coffee. Select Comfort had done it in
beds. Boston Beers" --
the makers of Samuel Adams -- "had done it in beer. And here was one
that was right under everyone's nose."
by Andy Isaacson, The Atlantic | Read more:
