When Sex Toys Attack
My introduction to sex toys was not a gentle one. It was more the getting-thrown-into-the-deep-end-of-the-pool-by-your-overcompensatingly-masculine-dad-at-2-because–“FLOATIES ARE FOR PUSSIES. NO SON OF MINE IS GONNA SWIM WITH ARM BALLOONS” of sex-toy initiations.
I was 30 and had just moved to Europe. She was cute, quirky, and way into peacoats and berets. Our relationship was all very adorable and Wes Andersony. I imagined our first night together playfully doing stuff to one another accompanied by ’60s French pop on scratchy vinyl in an apartment lit by Christmas lights. No. Nope.
I had cruised through the makeout session and was in familiar foreplay territory with a patient but eager eye cast toward impending sexin’ when, “Holy shit, that’s a huge, green dildo, aaaand a bunch of other stuff, and GOOD GOD WHERE THE FUCK DID THIS COME FROM!?” Internal dialog, of course. I was trying to play it cool, but Jesus Christ, she was like David Copperfield when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear and reappear, except the lady version that used the power of misdirection (boobs) to transform a once roomy bed into an assemblage of things that looked either vaguely or explicitly like sex parts. H. R. Giger would’ve nodded approvingly at some of this stuff. I wanted to politely excuse myself and soft shoe into the nearest passenger plane jet intake.
I didn’t know where to start. I gingerly picked up Hulk Smash Dildo and instadropped it due to its unexpected flubbery texture. My previously enthusiastic penis was all, “Hey guy, Imma let you figure this one out on your lonesome. Bye.” What a shitty friend.
I was intimidated. I tried to use a thing in a way I figured was in the ballpark of its function and was immediately and mercifully stopped. We made eye contact. I whimpered. Rather than elbow-drop my ego, she suggested we rewind and discuss. This was necessary. I had questions.
“Does this stuff make my penis numb?”
“Is that a bunny?”
“This looks like Max from Flight of the Navigator.”
“Is that for butts?”
“Should I put this on your butt?”
“Does the Koosh Ball side go in your vagina?”
“Can this not be for my butt?”
She was patient and assuaged most of my fears. On-the-job training is really the best way to improve at most things, and I was fortunate enough to have her enthusiastic help, which informed even better experiences with my future partners.
Most, anyway. The time a neon-purple double dong was suggestively waggled at me was pretty disturbing, but they can’t all be home-run experiences. Ha. Heh. Sex. Jesus.
—DUSTIN HUCKS