This is a long one... You might want to buckle in, and apologies in advance.
So I was on a family vacation in NY State last week.
My posse and I spent 3 magical nights living in a railroad apartment above a barn in scenic Roscoe, NY that housed over 120 Alpacas directly below us.
At one point I was able to break away from my tribe to take a little drive and explore the neighboring towns, and I wandered into a local sex shop… This seems like an inappropriate stop to make and a less-than-ideal place to make it, but I am writing a much larger blog on the sex doll industry, so I am always trying to get a feel for local sex-toy supply and demand.
So as far as you know (and if my wife asks), I was only in a sex shop while she was minding the kids back on the farm for "research purposes"… Got it?
(Katy looks like she's having a stroke here)
(That's a little better.)
While I was meandering through the aisles, I immediately came across a small section of a wall dedicated to Fleshlights…
For those who may not know, a Fleshlight is a flashlight-shaped masturbatory aid that has a soft rubber opening on one end that is crafted into the shape of a vagina. They even make custom Fleshlights in the shape of famous vaginal openings, such as Asa Akira and a number of other adult actresses…
However, upon closer inspection of this selection, I realized these particular lights were all fashioned with openings that resembled anuses, as opposed to the traditional vagina-like Fleshlights I have "seen" in the past.
I asked a clerk with a lazy eye about this coincidence and he sheepishly told me, "There are only assholes because you are in the gay section."
Now, for some, that might set off a flare, and they would probably rush right over to the straight section in order to reinforce their heterosexuality.
But not me.
I was thrilled to be on the gay side of town and decided to take my time seeing how the other half lived (and masturbated).
SOOO… Next to the gay Fleshlights was another small section of portable asses… Which, for the uninitiated again, just look like the backside of a mannequin expertly cut away from the rest of the mannequin's body and then sanded down for a smooth finish, And they're made of a supple rubber substance so they feel just like real cheeks (allegedly).
Then, right next to the portable asses, lying on the floor in a box, were a small pile of rubber wrestling dolls.
I looked into the box, and I saw nothing sexual within. There were a dozen, or so, dolls in there, all about 8-10 inches high and made up of maybe 3 or 4 different characters. They just looked like a pile of your everyday "bodega quality" Stretch Armstrongs.
Due to licensing concerns, I can't post an actual Stretch Armstrong, but here's Louis Armstrong…
Here are some stretchmarks…
And here is some random stretching…
Still, I was baffled why this random box of rubber wrestlers was in the gay section of an upstate New York sex shop, so I summoned the cockeye clerk back over (since he was so helpful last time), and asked him what's the deal with the box?
He said, "Oh, those are 'stroke sleeves'." And before I could even ask for more details, he offered, "You lube up the hole in the back and jerk off into them."
I said, "Cool!" And then asked, "Are they all the same, or does the quality differ from character to character?"
To which he replied, "Nah, man. They're all the same. The only difference is each style has its own name."
That was enough information for me, so I grabbed a doll out of the box that was nearest to me and went up to the register.
As I was checking out, my strabismal clerk-friend passed by one last time just as the cash register person was bagging up my new toy in a brown paper bag and said, "Aw, man… I see you bought the 'Justin'… Good choice."
I was going to question why he said the Justin model was a "good choice" when only seconds ago he assured me there were no differences in the dolls, but I decided to keep any further conversation to myself because my continued curiosity might be misconstrued as friendship.
I left the store, threw the bag in the secret compartment of my trunk (where I keep the chloroform and duct tape), and sped off back to my family at the farm.
Days go by.
I am now home alone, and I decide to go for a long walk.
And by "walk", I mean an aggressive waddle because a couple of weeks ago my favorite CEO in the whole wide world asked if I would be interested in doing a half-marathon the day before Thanksgiving with the walking club I started, and I emphatically said, "Yes, Erika… I would LOVE to."
Since then, I have been trying to get my fat body into some sort of shape where I can not only walk 13 miles, but also do it in a time that is not overly embarrassing, OR make my boss respect me even less.
So when I say I was going for a walk, I put on this 20-pound rucksack-thing I ordered off of Amazon and then slid into a brand-spanking-new sauna suit I also ordered off of Amazon, and I took to the streets.
It was 75 degrees and sunny, I got to about 2 miles away from my home, and then my body started to give out.
The sauna suit was doing its job because I was sweating like a whore in church.
The rucksack was also doing its job because I felt like I was carrying Zah on my shoulders.
So, I immediately turned around and made the 2-mile trudge back to my house.
When I returned home, there was nobody there. I believe my wife was taking our new puppy over to her mom's, and she apparently took our other liabilities with her.
I was relieved there were no witnesses to see my less-than-triumphant return because I was soaked in sweat, hobbled over like a jumbo shrimp, and crying just a little bit.
I crawled upstairs to the Master Bath where I shed off my plastic suit, weighted vest, and soaking wet undergarments.
I entered a cool shower and washed the mistake of "working out" off my dimpled body with one of those high-end shampoos that had a minty finish to it.
After drying, I made my way over to my bed and laid down… Buck naked… Arms and legs akimbo, and stretched out over my California King.
The faint breeze that meandered through the room was enough to awaken the scant minty soap residue on my body, which caused me to experience a much-needed evergreen "tingle" all over.
As I lay there, I tried to take some sort of personal diagnostic to see what I had just hurt by trying to do too much too fast, and that's when it happened…
I started to smell burnt toast.
Now maybe someone was grilling next door. Or maybe there was a burnt-toast-like smell emanating from somewhere in my room. Either way, for a couple of seconds, while I lay there naked in bed, I smelled burnt toast.
--- Is the burnt toast mention something that is universally known? If not, I can explain it quickly to possibly the younger readers- Smelling toast when there is no toast in the immediate vicinity is often a warning sign that the smeller is about to have a stroke.---
I was surprisingly calm/physically exhausted, so I just continued to recline there until the smell went away, and, when it did, I quietly whispered to myself, "Man, am I glad I didn't just have a stroke."
Wait a sec… Stroke?
As in "stroke sleeve"?
That's when I remembered the implement I had tucked into the secret compartment of my trunk where I keep the shovel and fake passport.
I threw on a loose pair of basketball shorts with the pockets cut out and ran out to my car shirtless to retrieve Justin.
On my way back inside, I gave the wife a little text asking her when she would be home and she said I had about another hour, or so, before their return.
Here's where the story gets a little odd.
I really didn't buy this thing to beat off with. To be honest, I don't know why I bought it.
I mentioned above that I grabbed the doll closest to me in the box at my feet, but, truth be told, I was drawn to this one for some unknown reason, and I rummaged around the box to make sure I had the newest looking one of that particular model.
I felt almost guilty about what I was about to do with it, but I justified my inevitable action by promising to myself that this sleeve would only be a physical tool. The mental side of this act would be provided by the memory of one of my recent dalliances with the only woman I have ever truly loved.
That was enough justification for me, so I decided to get to work.
I grabbed one of the small vials of mineral oil that I keep hidden beneath every mattress and couch cushion in my house and I slathered it up around the gash that was cut into the back of this flimsy rubber wrestler.
What came next was nothing but utter disappointment.
I managed to insert myself into this lifeless doll, but what I felt was just that… Lifeless.
There was a clammy coldness to the inside of Justin's back that made me think I was doing something unnatural.
I tried to think about the aforementioned dalliance with the bride because I like to finish what I start, but there weren't enough erotic memories in my mind palace to excite me any further.
The Justin doll was a failure.
And as I looked down and saw this lifeless pathetic thing hanging off me, I, for some unknown reason, committed one more act… I reached down and grabbed the doll's head, and twisted it around, so it was looking at the pitiful human being I had become.
And that's when it hit me.
In my rush to buy this thing, I never really took the time to look into its tiny plastic eyes.
Perhaps I was just in a rush because of the potential embarrassment if a fan of mine were to walk into that sex shop.
Or perhaps I was harried because I was trying to avoid further conversation with the clerk with the East-West eyes.
Either way, it wasn't until the doll and I become one did I take the time to finally look closely at its face.
A face that looked EXACTLY like none other than my fellow Podfather, Clem.
Now, this blog is already filled with "I don't know why"-s, but here's one more… And it's a biggie.
I don't know why the realization that I was inside a miniature version of my good friend Clem did what it did to me, but all I can tell you is that I looked down at that familiar grimace and IMMEDIATELY had one of the most earth-shattering orgasms ever known to man.
I'm telling you… In that second, I must've dropped a million healthy babies into that thing.
So much so, the Clem-like plastic head shot right off the top of the doll's shoulders and landed safely on my windowsill… Where it still sits today.
Thank you for coming on that long strange journey with me, and what I really wanted to tell y'all is that the newest episode of Clem and my parenting podcast, The Podfathers, dropped earlier this week.
Be a doll, and give it a listen.
Take a report.