SHORT STORIES: The Dildo Store (NSFW)

“For someone who spends so much time obsessing over sex,” Rita said, “I thought you’d be a little more comfortable inside a sex shop.”

And perhaps I ordinarily would feel a little more enthusiastic about the whole dildo store enterprise had this place not been a funeral home for twenty years, right up until August of last year. Uncle George on my mom’s side of the family was memorialized here. Considering he died of a massive coronary suffered while fucking a pig’s bladder hooked up to a car battery, good ole Uncle George might have found a little bitter irony in that his last way station before the big sleep presently housed a wide assortment of sex dolls and plastic vaginas. Morbid thoughts on what was supposed to be a pleasurable evening with my girlfriend.

The parlor, where two decades worth of mourners grieved for their departed loved ones was now given over to a rainbow array of rabbits, these strange, vibrating, twisting mechanical phalluses appended with unnatural, rabbit-eared clitoral stimulators. It was a Skynet showcase of Terminator cocks that no human, not John Holmes nor John Connor, could hope to compete with. This is how human civilization would end. Not with a whimper, but a moan.

We were spending too much time with the synthetic cocks. When you’re reading for the third time the holistic values of orgiastic release written on the placard next to the T-1000 super cock with life-like artificial skin that will take you back in time to your first climax, it’s time to move on.

I cast uncomfortable glances about the store. The employees were all oddly androgynous middle-aged women dressed in pink nurse’s scrubs as though this place were the prosthetic appendage wing of the hospital, and they looked upon me as their most needy patient. Their inability to make any sort of meaningful eye contact with me made me nervous.

“I thought I told you why I don’t like the dildo store,” I hissed. “When I was twelve years old, my older cousin Christine beat me half dead with her mom’s eighteen inch double-ended dildo. For no good reason. I had fake dick welts across my forehead for two weeks.”
“You poor baby.”
“Hmmm…”

She continued caressing her French-tipped fingers along the ridges of the bright fuscia womb-beater. Was she even truly hearing the words I spoke? The dildo whupping of ‘86 was a pivotal event in my life, an intimate humiliation I’ve shared with very few souls, and she reacted with the lack of compassion normally reserved for the latest comic book movie release or Cub’s loss.

She set the T-2800 kidney tickler down with the sort of sigh of resignation I normally associate with sex sex.

“We’re not here for me,” Rita said. “We’re here for you.”
“For me?”

What could a dildo store possibly contain for me? Besides, of course, the two thousand title catalogue of porno movies currently being picked over by several goofy bastards hopelessly broken on the wheel of chronic masturbation. Maybe she meant to peruse the gallery of sexy costumes draped on mannequins as sexless as the hired help. The business end of a Tory Lane sex doll caught my eye. There’s something creepy about keeping half a polyurethane torso with a pair of poseable legs lying around the bedroom. Only thing I could imagine worse than that would be hording the body parts of actual bottomed-out porn stars. I’m not going to even think about how difficult it would be to trade off with fellow aficionados the bits you’ve grown bored with.

On top of that, Rita claimed to be turned off by televised fornication, felt uncomfortable wearing fishnets, and found sex dolls to be creepy.

She had something else in mind, but what? Why didn’t I slap Fifty Shades of Grey out of her hand when I caught her reading it last week? I knew it couldn’t lead to anything positive. Being a broke ass pimp was as far removed from the playboy billionaire as one could get.

There were the flavored body lotions. Yet, she invariably complained when I dabbed leftover McDonald’s honey mustard sauce on her pussy. Was she considering the strawberry mango nether lip gloss? And did I want my girlfriend’s pussy to taste like a Taco Bell Fruitista?

Rita meandered past the pussy sauces with the diffidence identical to her attitude toward fuck flicks and pocket vaginas.

She stopped again at the section catering to the more sensory adventurous lover. Where once casket samples lined the walls, a hodge podge of whips, manacles, feather twat dusters, riding crops and paddles now ruled the day. I felt a sinking feeling in my groin. I’d only struck women very reluctantly in the past, on the occasions I felt disrespected or threatened, never during the act of coitus.

I picked up a stubby butt plug festooned with a barrage of feathers and examined it carefully, wondering from what unfortunate bird’s ass end were these plucked.

“You like that?” Rita asked.
“I’m just wondering if I stuck this up your ass, if I could legitimately call you a chicken.”
“We’re not here for me,” Rita reminded.

What does that even mean? I stopped just short of asking, fearing my question would be mistaken for interest.

“What about these?” Rita asked, showing me what appeared to be the scimitar dagger equivalent of dildos. The size was not quite as intimidating as the other mechanical tree branches.
“Not bad. Not bad.” I nodded, guardedly.
“Would you use it?”
I shrugged. “If you wanted me to.”
“It’s not what I want; it’s what you want.”
“Well, I’m just as happy to use my cock, you know.”
“On your ass?”
“My ass?”
“It’s a prostate massager. It’s suppose to make your orgasms super powerful. Let’s try it.”
“Uhm…”
“Which one you want?”
“The white one,” I responded a bit too quickly, realizing the only other prostate bumper was a black one.
“They’re exactly the same size,” Rita noted, racially insinuating the black ones were usually bigger.
“Aesthetically, I prefer the white.” I hoped she wouldn’t mention the obvious fact I was dressed head to toe in black.
“White’s harder to clean.”
“Let’s not make this a racial thing.” I took the high ground.
“What? Oh my god, you’re impossible.”

I turned my attention back to the butt plug in my hand, wondering what the potential upside to having feathers sticking out the back might be. Rita slapped me right across the face with a velvety cat o’nine tails. Post Traumatic Dildo Syndrome had me crying out in sheer terror before I even realized what I’d been struck with.

“Oh my god, you all right?” Rita asked, dropping the implement of playful mortification.
“Oh yeah,” I replied coolly, glancing at the asexual dildo peddlers who managed the trick of looking at me and looking away from me simultaneously. “Just got in me in the eye is all.”

It was a classic line of defense she had used on me repeatedly in the past. And she apologized with the same sketchy sincerity I usually mustered.

“Well, do you see anything you like?” She asked.

I looked at the fuzzy handcuffs, penis rings, vibrating clit ticklers, satin blindfolds. Everything when taken together resembled a Muppet’s rape kit.

“Uhm…”
“C’mon, baby,” Rita said, “you seemed excited about coming to the toy store when I mentioned it to you.”
Ohhhh. “I thought you were talking about Toys R’ Us.”

Dostoevsky could not have described the expression on Rita’s face upon hearing this.

“You’re forty years old. Why would I invite you to Toys R’ Us… in the middle of having sex?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was kinda odd, too, but I didn’t want to ruin the mood by asking for an explanation.
And with Guardians of the Galaxy coming out, I thought it might be cool to pick up the twelve inch Rocket Raccoon action figure. Twenty seven points of articulation. Sure to be a collector’s item.”
“Twenty seven points of articulation, huh?”
“Yes!”
“That’s what you want, that’s what we’ll get you, then.”
“Cool.”
“Those twenty seven points of articulation ought to come in real handy when I shove Rocket Raccoon up your dumb ass.”

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