STE Crystal Plus 200FG Mineral Oil
Penreco Drakeol 34 Technical Grade Mineral Oil
Vicks Vapo Rub
Should I do it?
GP 78 FDA Grade TPE Resin
I sit outside in my car in the parking lot of the Cargos Hardware and Sporting Goods, fiddling with the notes I scribbled on the back of an old envelope. Scratching my scruffy black beard. Shall I do it?
PVC Polyvinyl Cholide embedded with phthalades
If only they'd had YouTube when I was a kid, I could have saved myself so much grief.
Polyvinyl silicone acetate.
Mmmmm. I can feel it down there now.
Sextoyscientist.com. A Hobby Hut for the lonely tadpole tosser.
I’ll do it.
I am going to make myself a sex toy.
Some kind of pipe.
We made this possible for you, for all of you. The corporations and scientists just wanted the Internet for storing files and cutting deals.
We changed that.
They gave the twenty first century its technology. We gave the technology its destiny. We humiliated few. We, chicken chokers, have been the hidden force behind the progress of civilization. Not emperors. Not merchants. Not the Illuminati. Not the Priory of Sion.
We, the meat beaters. The despised.
We brought it to you. Technology. The printing press. Home electricity. We had steam powered dildoes and electrical vibrator wands going before the electric light bulb was ever a twinkle in Edison’s eye. Millennium of medicinal research, not for a cure for cancer, but searching for the most irresistible aphrodisiac. We took the Internet away from the military and put it in your home.
Bulletins Boards to find each other, like horny fireflies lighting their asses in the dark for a mate. Usenet newsgroups to boast and brag and weep. JPG photo compression for our nude treasures. High speed broadband to share it fast and wantonly. Search engines to find it easier. Encryption to hide our shame. The World Wide Web to pass around our stash. Online stores and the security systems to guard our purchases from our neighbors. VHS over Betamax. DVDs over VHS. Blue ray over Hi Def. Private video downloading. Digital reading material. Who made it happen? Who sank their money in it?
Who loves ya baby?
The game technology you play with on Christmas morning. Decided by the whims of pork pullers. Not the military. Not international commerce. Not academic insititutes.
The yogurt yankers, we’re the ones who decide the path of consumer technology. We invented the sex toy before we invented the wheel.
What in the world is Marine Epoxy?
My journey to this Cargo’s Hardware and Sporting Goods Supply parking lot began with my wife's feet.
She works as a saleswoman in a big department store at the Mall. She's on her feet, sometimes for long hours and comes home tired. That puts a damper on a lot of things, but she always appreciates a good foot rub. I do that for her every night with a gob of Ben Gay. Ben Gay has its limitations. There are places you can never go with Ben Gay. I went to Walmart to get a new tube and an escalation of epiphany began in the aspirin aisle. Why Ben Gay? Why not massage oil? Start at the toes and work your way up. Its possible on a good night. We boner buffers are nothing if not hopeful.
Massage oil was in the area prudently labeled "Family Planning", which family planning involved fruit flavored rubbers that glow in the dark and cherry flavored lubes. But there was also something new. KY has moved its brand image away from astringently packaged lubrications suitable for prostate exams and more towards gaudy bedroom fireworks. Now there's something called "Intense". Female Stimulation Gel.
Female Stimulation Gel.
Clinical and trustworthy. Scientific and sterile. And yet - stimulating! Stodgy old men in white lab coats, nude young college girls, volunteers strapped like lab rats into dental chairs, wired to EKGs above and down there, that measure their response to . . . stimulation.
“Begin the stimulation, Miss Klocknocker.”
And what secret society do you think came up with that?
So I’m thinking. If there's the old reliable stuff Dad stimulated Mom with, what else is out there? How extreme underground can it get? What would tattooed biker girls use to get off? Spanish Fly gel? What would be the ultimate, screaming, nymphomaniac in a bottle female stimulation gel?
I got the Ben Gay, but the question had a hold of me. A little Googling and women seemed to agree that the ultimate is something called "G". Women rave about it. G is the stuff.
Walmart doesn't sell it. Kroger doesn't sell it. Walgreen’s doesn’t sell it. Target doesn’t sell it. CVS Pharmacy doesn't sell it. Rite Aid Pharmacy doesn’t sell it. The flea market doesn’t sell it. Pets Mart doesn't sell it. It’s turning into a Holy Grail.
“Lucy's Love Shop” is a little place in an obscure strip mall, next to a sushi joint and a real estate office. It keeps its head down low in Baptist country. In the window were frilly naughty but nice underwear such as you might see these days in Victoria Secret or even J. C. Penny’s. The real stuff was in the back.
Yet walking into Lucy’s what I saw was that we sea monkey spritzers have failed to penetrate here. This is the world of ravenous goddesses and seething courtesans. A wall full of daunting dildoes and ferocious vibrators. Dildoes that look like natural phalluses right down to little pee holes that squirt. Dildoes that look robotic and insectile, pure function over form. Women have so many good things to play with. They don’t even need our dicks. And yes they have orgasm gel, four different kinds, but - No “G” gel. Nada. I could settle for second best, but I can get that anywhere. I want the female stimulation gel of the gods.
But next to the dildoes there was this thing like a Salvador Dali hallucination, on a row next to the boxes of blow up dolls. A shrink wrapped cylinder with a pussy inside. A flashlight case containing the most perfectly pooched labial lips. Talk to me Big Boy. I turned my back on the clerk and picked it up, turning it over in a detached scholarly manner, raising an eyebrow in a bemused fashion. A remarkable specimen, see here Dr. Jones what we’ve found in this ancient Mayan pyramid. A mummified cunt.
How much . . . ?
Eighty Dollars?? Oh my shit. No way. And how would I explain this to my wife when she finds it under the bed? Would she be jealous? She’d be furious. Go sleep with your flashlight! Tell your flashlight to cook dinner for you!
It looked mighty good. I admit it. I tried to give it a little feel through the thick plastic armor to get an idea what it would be like to, you know, use, but for eighty bucks it might as well be an alien artifact abandoned on the moon. I read the hypoallergenic materials breakdown. This stuff didn’t look that hard to get.
I lock my car and go up to Cargo’s Hardware and Sporting Goods Supply. A man in an orange Cargos’s vest sees me. He sees something in my face that makes him blink instinctively for just a second. My shame? It is a look he can see? Has he seen this look before?
“Help you find anything?”
I glance down at my list. Start with the easiest thing first. “I need to buy some pipe?”
“Plumbing’s back there, end of aisle nine.” He raises his arm and points towards the far end of the store.
As I walk by him I feel his eyes on my back. Does it show? Is it the list? I glance down at my shoes. My zipper. Paranoia. Is it the way I walk? Does he know?
I am the Raskolnikov of sperm spacklers.
As I get closer to plumbing I pass through the home appliances. A man is standing in front of the vacuum cleaners, holding the attachment hose in his hand, fondling it. I stop, because I feel the vibe coming from him, like Gaydar. The way he’s looking at the fellatio nozzle hole. Sizing it up. Talk to me Big Boy. He turns around and our eyes meet.
I move on a little more and see the Plumbing and Bathroom sign a couple of aisles down. I cut through sporting goods.
A man holding a wicker creel in his hand. But it’s the generously round hole he’s looking at. He makes a ring with his thumb and finger and holds it over the hole. Measuring it for girth and depth with his hands. Caressing his fingers through it. Rubbing it. He turns. He knows I know. I know he knows I know.
Passing through the board game department at the end of sporting goods, a chunky woman is holding a wooden chess set in her hands. But there’s only one piece of royalty she cares about. She lifts her eyes.
Rounding the corner into pet supplies, a woman is holding a furry toy mouse between her thighs and stroking it, her eyes half closed in bliss.
She turns at the sound of my feet as she rises on her toes and our longing gaze meets gently across the room.
Almost running now into home appliances. There, a woman holding a six inch pepper grinder in her hand, her pink tongue tip touching the big knob at the end. She sees me, startled, puts it back on the shelf, turning red.
Toilets parade by and I’m at the end of aisle nine. Pipes. There’s two rows of them, plastic, metal, every kind of pipe. I’ve never fixed a pipe or toilet before in my travels. Never needed to, never stayed in one place that long before. But for what I’m doing what would I need? My daddy bequeathed me the standard plus a little girth. So I figure seven inches plus a little space at the end. Maybe eight inches. Nine inches. How hard does it need to be? Sextoyscientist isn’t about using the tube for the thing itself but only as a mold, which means it should be a little longer to account for compaction. The Fleshlight case is the size of a standard flashlight case, so maybe its not part of the act. But I wouldn’t want to mush this thing into the sheets either, try explaining that one on laundry day. Figure nine inches. Looking through the pipe they’re all the wrong size. Papa Bear Pipe is too wide and long. Baby Bear pipe is too small and narrow. Where’s the Mama Bear pipe?
Get your Fleshlight to cook dinner for you!
Yeah, and there’s that. How do I keep it out of sight? I should get screw on caps to go on the ends. Then it doesn’t look like anything.
At the end of the row there’s something that looks like it might work. A heavy metal length of sink pipe about twelve inches. That’s a little longer than I need, I confess. Bit it’ll be perfect for a mold, and later for a protective case. Best of all it has threaded ends and a little bin of dedicated caps you can screw on both ends.
As I stand there a couple of more men gather up behind me. One of these has a white plastic bag that says Mortin’s TPE Grade Silicone. The other on the right of me, eyeing my length of pipe, has a jar of Micleson’s FDA Grade Mineral oil. Oh my God. My people. I have found my people. The pickle pounder on the left looks at the pipe I have and picks one up and turns it over in his hands. The gherkin gooser on my right picks one up and turns it around and sets it down and checks out a smaller one next to it.
These are the guys I should ask – where did you find that stuff? If I ask they’ll know. But what I realize is I can’t. The fraternity that dares not name itself. Pudding pumpers. Weiner wrestlers. I just look at the length of pipe in my hands and I can hardly move. The yo-yo yanker on my right reaches down slowly, almost defiantly and picks up the same pipe I have.
I want to ask him do you think it’ll work? Any tips or trouble shooting I should know? One fellow axe-murderer to another? But nobody says anything. If we were barbeque grill enthusiasts or home brewed beer hobbyists, something manly and respectable there would be this comradery. A little bombastic chit chat about the best grains and malts or the One True Way to marinade a brisket. But this.
I back away with my pipe and my list.
Outside the plumbing aisle, what about the stuff they carried? Where would that be? I figure silicone would be somewhere nearby plumbing. But the mineral oil. Maybe paint?
An earnest young man in a Cargo’s vest comes up to me. “Help you find anything sir?”
The mystical list in my hand, the capped off pipe in the other. What the hell.
“Yeah,’ I say, “I’m looking for some stuff.” I hold up the envelope. He takes it and squints at my handwriting. I point out the word on the top. “I need some food grade mineral oil and some TPE resin. I know it’s here someplace.”
“Mineral oil? We got that, I think maybe. What’s TPE resin?”
“Ah . . .” Hell. What the fuck is TPE resin? I’m doing all this on faith. “I think it comes in little pellets or something. You mix it with the oil and some other stuff.”
He takes a deep breath and glances at the capped off steel pipe in my hand. “Oh.” He looks back at the paper. “Sooooo . . . . what’s TPE stand for?”
“I think it must mean ‘thermo plastic elastomer’. Yeah. Its probably what you get when you mix them together. I need some Marine Epoxy too.”
“Soooo . . . . you mix them together and get what?”
“Thermo plastic elastomer gel. It’s all on the internet.”
“Oh . . .kay. . .” He glances up and his eyes are passing over my beard. “What do you do with thermo plastic – gel? Exactly?”
“It goes in the pipe. You make things with it.”
“What things? What’s it for?”
Ah no. Well, let’s see here.
You mold it into the pussy lips of your choice, put it in the pipe and when no one’s around you poke your stiff little -
“Its kind of a personal thing. I can’t really explain it.”
“I’m just asking. What’s it for?”
“I really don’t want to explain it.”
“Let me check with my manager and see if he knows if we have these things. Wait here please.” He puts the paper in his pocket.
“It’s okay.” I try to stop him, but he’s heading off fast. This guy is going to take all day. “Let me check for the oil in the paint department. I’ll meet you there.”
“No sir! Please. Just wait right here. We’ll help you find your stuff. Wait here. Please.”
The two woo-woo whizzers who were next to me in the pipes are at the check out counter. That’s where I should be. Seems like I’ve been standing here forever. I don’t want to be rude and walk off on somebody who’s trying to help.
Behind me are two guys in black suits and narrow black ties and black bug eyed sunglasses. Shiney black shoes. He’s brought two managers. Wow. They like me!
“Hi, I’m trying to find something –“
“We need you to come with us please.”
One of them quietly scoots behind me, grabs my wrists and handcuffs me. “Don’t make a fuss please. We just need to talk.”
Funny how everybody says please.
An hour later I’m sitting in the back seat of the of a big black Ford Explorer with black tinted windows and electronically locked doors. A Homeland Security guy has been going over my paper with me. I’ve confessed to everything. He’s got a nice new iPad in his hand and he’s at sex toy scientist but the videos don’t work because Apple doesn’t enable Flash player on any of its stuff.
“A male masturbation device? You’re telling the truth? Because we find out if you’re not, things will get very bad.”
“Sextoyscientist dot com. Its all there. I don’t want any trouble. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
He sits quietly for a long time, drumming his fingernails on the iPad screen, making the applications dance open and closed. “Well.” He pushes a key fob in his suit pocket and the door locks jump open. “I guess we can’t legally hold you on just a piece of paper and a pipe. You’re free to go.”
“Can I have my list back?”
He turns toward me like I’m a moron. “No. And don’t leave town for a few days. Or else.”
“Yes sir. Thank you. I won’t do it again sir.”
I move for the door handle and open it. His black suited sleeve reaches across me and pulls it closed.
“Hold on.” He says. He takes off his sunglasses.
Oh my shit. He’s got the eyes. Talk to me Big Boy.
“I just got to know.” Says federal agent Stiffy Strangler. “Off the record.”
“Yes sir. Anything to help my country, sir.”
He sighs. “How do you make one?”
* * * *