Sex Toy Tales: Tales

It takes an extremely confident man, no matter how flattering the request, to stand naked on a garbage bag spread wall to wall in a tiny bathroom, holding a cardboard cylinder of pinkish white goo over his erection. We had only 60 seconds to mix the casting powder with ice water, stir it to a frosting-like consistency, and then make the insertion, careful not to let his penis touch the cardboard sides. He must not shrink or move for 90 seconds or the finished mold will be distorted.

“God, it's cold,” he says, “Please kiss me some more.”

I roll his nipple between my teeth and tongue, slide spidery fingers up the insides of his thighs, turn my bikini-clad backside to the mirror as I bend to wipe up casting material that has landed in fat drops on the tops of his feet.

We are well into the first phase of instructions for our “Make Your Own Dildo” kit.

It was a present to myself, mail-ordered from the catalog that guaranteed. “Medical grade silicone, safe and easy to clean.” Hmmmm. To an experienced user, this was a convincing pitch. I sent my sometime lover an invitation for a Valentine rendezvous.

“Immortalize yourself,” I wrote. “Rock stars, models and porn kings have had their members cast. Why not provide something to keep me company in between our trysts?”

My intimate friend is a great sport who adores puns. “I'm up with that,” he answered. “How about Saturday for our cast party? No more pro-castination.”

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. “You're not going to pun any more, are you?”

“No…Let's cast our fate to the winds.” He had one more in him.

As the sand drains quickly through the timer, I crank up the music. Missy Elliot is sassy as she sings: “A toy/ every girl must have a toy/ the way it makes you feeeeeeeel…”

“It's gotta be ready by now,” he says, and I notice that spilled casting mix has already gelled on the black plastic. “OK,” I agree, and slowly draw the perfectly firm mold away. Stuck in the top edge is one curled hair. I pull it out with a tweezers. “Let's not leave behind any identifying DNA.”

With the time-critical part of the operation over, we are finally able to laugh.

While he showers, I mix tinting and setting agent into the bottle labeled dildo-grade silicone. As I pour a thin, careful stream into the mold, tap tap tapping it against the countertop to release bubbles of air, I think of courtesans of the ancient east. Their array of jade-sculptured sex toys can be found in museum exhibits and in works of art across cultures. For me, the ingenious and beautiful objects are proof that women have been “doing it for themselves” for thousands of years.

Missy E's voice continues to weave through the hip-hop beat: “Don't need no help in pleasin' me… And when you leave/ don't slam the door/ 'cuz you mess up my concentration.” Her voice is defiant; you know she's going to be allright.

But will I? If the goofy experiment succeeds, will the twin cock really be able to keep me company? Our joint project needs to coalesce for several hours before the mold can be peeled away, so I set it smartly at attention on the dresser top. I have a drawer full of vibrators and other sexual gadgets, but I've never asked my lover if he feels competitive.

“Well, no doubt it will follow your dick-tates without a peep of protest,” he says. “But the dildo can't talk, or whistle a tune, so I have some advantage.”

I confess that if the toy feels too life-like, I might miss him even more. Although we've been close for years, he is never as available as I'd like him to be.

“Oh, just give it a name,” he suggests, “and put another notch on your garter belt.”

When he notices tears starting in my eyes, he smiles an apology and hugs me to his chest. My show of vulnerability must have sparked him deeply because our sexual connection is fierce after that. He sucks my vulva lips through purple lace, then tears my panties off as if they were rags. His hair falls forward onto my belly which quivers and jumps from the way his fingers play me. When I rise to sit astride him, moving like a cowgirl on her barrel-racing pony, he goads me to give him everything, and says he will watch, with eyes wide open. When he pulls me to the edge of the bed, it is real flesh inside my flesh, seeking, then finding the perfect conversation.

That happened months ago, before all I had left was marble white and accurate, right down to the snaking vein on its topside and a tiny pucker of skin beneath. It does not tip over when I give it a friendly pat; it springs on its base in a graceful uptilt. I feel affection for it, and imagine that it remembers the adventure of its creation and the lovemaking it witnessed that day.

Is it an art object? “Just” a sex toy? Either way, I know it will remain nameless.