Dildo Misadventures & Other things funny to Others
Last week, my mom came to visit me. This is a rare occurrence in my life; living for seventeen years in Gotham, I’ve had the pleasure of a visit from either of my parents exactly five times. Needless to say, the matriarchal visit necessitates some house-cleaning on my part, not the least of which is my gathering the sex toys from hither and yon, slipping any number of them into the many velvet and velveteen bags I have, stashing the roiling velvet-shrouded silicone, stainless steel, and plastic mess of them in a large bag and shoving that large bag into the hoary-deep recess under my bed.
My mom left on Sunday, the day of the wedding that wasn’t mine. The next day, or maybe the day after, I pulled the bag of toys and whatnot out from under my bed and put a few of said toys to their designated uses. After I’d reluctantly and begrudgingly come, I washed the toys, slipped the two of them—a sprightly new vibrator and a much beloved extra-large silicone dildo of color—into a small bag and dropped the small bag into the big bag that rested at the end of, no longer underneath, my bed.
On Thursday, I returned home from my long day out working my part-time job and saw that the scarlet velvet bag containing the extra-large dildo of color sitting on the floor, squat in the middle of my bedroom. Odd place for it, I thought, as I tossed it into the big bag of toys still gaping at the foot of my bed, and then I went about my evening.
And yet, the dildo out of place troubled me. It became a kind of Edgar Allen Poe tell-tale heart, beating, beating, beating a silent tattoo from the cushiony softness of its red velvet bag. I ate, I washed up, I watched some Buffy, I walked my dog, and still the dildo silently throbbed in my consciousness, the memory of it lying there disquietingly in the center of my floor glowing improbably like a great phallus-shaped blob of uranium dioxide. It troubled me, this tell-tale dildo.
Then it came to me in a hideous realization; an appalling vision swam before my eyes, as if I had been suddenly afflicted with prescience. I saw my dog, home alone. I saw him perk up his ears, jump from the couch, turn around several times. I saw him freeze in happy anticipation. I saw a tiny thought cross his small, furry brain. I saw him run into my bedroom, and I saw him rout out the crimson bag with the dildo of color. I saw him take it in his mouth, and I saw him standing at the door, vibrating with excitement, dog-happy and prepared with a toy, waiting in complete readiness to delightedly, exuberantly and passionately greet his dogwalker, Marvin,
Then I saw Marvin. I saw him being greeted by my fervently happy dog, the red bag in his mouth. I saw Marvin see the bag. I saw Marvin see the dildo popping out of the bag. I saw Marvin’s realization dawn into horror. I saw him bend over and pick up the toy and its bag. I saw his tentative fingers and I saw his look of resignation crossed with…something. Revulsion? Fascination? (It’s dark in my mind’s eye; the lighting is not good.) I saw him try not to touch the toy as he shook it gingerly back into its crimson bag, and I felt appreciation for Marvin’s pure professionalism as he undoubtedly tossed the whole sexual kit and caboodle in the general vicinity of my bedroom.
Now. Let’s say that Marvin didn’t see the dildo. Let’s suggest for one moment that there was some small mercy for me, and the extra-large dildo of color actually remained swathed in its chaste velveteen cocoon. There is still no way that Marvin touched the bag without knowing that it was a dildo. Nothing else feels like a dildo, except for a dick, and Marvin, for all of his debatable unfamiliarity with dildos, definitely has a dick. It’s not much of a win, really, for me to imagine that Marvin didn’t see the dildo; he no unquestionably felt the dildo, and here, as in other cases, touch is all you, or I, or Marvin, need.
Which leaves me in an awkward position. Sure, I can say nothing, and I probably will. But the one thing that makes this all yet more problematic is that not only is my dildo a dildo of color, but my dogwalker is also a human of color. Which means that if my dogwalker saw the dildo, then he thinks that I have a thing for dick of a certain size, girth, and discernibly, if unrealistically, dark hue. And the thing is that I do not have a thing for dick of any particular hue—dick, as long as it’s a good size, of any color is fine with me. Red, yellow, black and white, all cock is precious in my sight.
No, the person who has a thing for dick of color would be Donny, my boyfriend/fiancé/X. He’s the one with the racial fetish, not me, and it’s because of him that when I purchased the much-beloved extra-large silicone dildo, I chose one in color. I only wanted to indulge my lover’s quasi-ethically-problematic race fetish, being that I don’t have one myself.
But just try telling that to Marvin. Or better yet, don’t.
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