September 21, 2007
Real Chicks & Rubber Dicks
What can I say? I like the idea of a fetching wench adorned with a harness and a rubber dick. I must, in the effort of total accuracy, emphasize “the idea,” for I’ve not yet encountered the reality, though I do hope to rectify that disparity. I think I’d like to be laid open, splayed as a cookbook, and fucked with precision by a chick with a dick. Not to, you know, put too blunt a point on the notion or anything.
Being an impressionable woman with a penchant for collecting imagistic desires like other people collect comic books or dolls or something less creepsome like, say, snow-domes, I garnered this bobbing silicone desire from idle exposure to cable. The night I found it, I wasn’t expecting to find some winsome image that would stick to the Teflon walls of my brain like a messy omelet, but I’m often surprised by what nuggets remain after the sieve of my gray matter has sifted through the dross. Yet, here I am, years later, years after watching some errant episode of HBO’s Real Sex, years after viewing this spliced and diced “reality” tee-vee show on “Girls Who Love Their Strap-Ons and Party in a Club Together,” or something to that effect.
(As it turns out, after Googling the episode, I find that it was first aired in 2000 and that it centered on lesbian goddess Tristan Taormino and her intrepid posse of rubber-dick-loving friends. I find, after reading about the show, that Tristan had hoped it would celebrate female masculinity and give positive images to butch lesbians. I find, however, after searching my memory banks, that what I remember most are happy bopping femme girls with happy bopping big dicks and nary a butch dyke in site, but my memory can be a spurious and shameful editor.)
I can’t see myself donning a harness and dildo. When I imagine it-and I have tried the image on for size and shape and heft and so on-I get that belly-leadening sinking of ridiculousness. Even in my mind, I feel absurd. I imagine peering down between the twin swells of my breasts, across the expanse of my sternum and tummy, down to my pelvis. I imagine the obtuse obtruding of the silicone dick, it hanging there, suspended improbably in space, just above and between my juicy thighs. I imagine seeing my feet, splayed and fat-wide as they are, in the distance at the floor. I imagine all this and I feel like a chump.
Which is not to say, however, that the women I saw in the errant episode, the visuals that have stayed, clinging like limpets to my cranium’s inner sanctum, were ridiculous. They were not. They were sublime and fun, and they were proud, resplendent in their heels and their lipstick and their tank tops or bras and their parti-colored dicks. They were sexy as hell, too, standing with legs akimbo and talking about the power they felt when they harnessed up. They were sexy as hell when they teased other girls’ lips with the tips of their dildos, and those who got on their knees, opened their mouths, and sucked the rubber cocks, they too shimmered with the hellfire sexiness.
It’s hard to say what about the episode I found most sexually poignant. There is the base-line gorgeous visual of the hot chick with the big dick, her eyes going all sparky with the perverse electric pleasure of it. And there is the palpable joy that emanated from all the participants at the party, as if they couldn’t believe that they had a place to come together with other girls with rubber dicks and the girls who love them. There is the light-refracted gender-bendiness of it all, the dizzy, giddy freedom that arises from playing in margins, from toying with those spaces outside the boundaries, from jumping up and down and sucking off the liminal spaces.
And then there’s just my naked realization that I’d like to be fucked by a girl, a girl with a tool, a chick with a dick, rubber or not. A realization I’d never have recognized if I hadn’t seen it with my own acquisitive eyes.
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