This story contains sexually explicit content that is NSFW.
“And how did you get roped into doing this?” my wife asked, not unreasonably.
“I… volunteered,” I told her, chilled by a sudden presentiment of sticky shame.
It was bad enough that I had, just weeks ago, consumed all manner of herbal virility teas in the hopes of bolstering my bedroom performance; the idea that I’d top this public humiliation by trying to assemble my own masturbatory aid would really test her opinion of me, no matter how comically oversized her vibrator is. (It sounds like a swarm of mutant wasps, for real.)
But marriages come and go—fucking inanimate objects is forever. And truth be told, I thought I could use a change from my usual moisturizer-wasting routine. What if I was missing out on something much better? What if those reclusive hikikomori knew something I didn’t? I had a journalistic responsibility to find out, as well as a moral obligation to my own dick.
Duty aside, I’ve always been deeply mistrustful of Fleshlight-brand toys and items like the Autoblow, which evoke an air of becoming sexually intimate with a robot, are a pain to clean, and present the possibility of a gruesome local news headline. If I’m going to stick my hard-on into something, I’d prefer to have a clear understanding of how it works, inside and out. As someone wise once said, surely: “Give a man an orgasm and he’ll take a nap. Teach him how to build an orgasm machine and he’ll never leave his apartment again. Except for more latex gloves.”
Oh, and forget sex dolls—I’d just be thinking about Ryan Gosling the whole time.
The artificial butt
As I set to Googling some blueprints for DIY fuckables, I noticed that a 2011 YouTube video had sparked some chatter of late. It’s a step-by-step guide to fashioning a dirty-sock-lined cockport bundled in blankets presumably meant to give the impression of a human butt.
I quickly put the recipe into action, mixing a cocktail that was two parts water, one part cornstarch
In any case, the insistence on ass-shaped padding struck me as both gilding the lily and not quite sad enough for the splooge session I had in mind. Try it at your own risk, fellas.
The cornstarch blob
Screengrab via Chinalert
When I stumbled upon the instructions for making this monstrosity, allegedly devised by a resourceful Chinese man, I knew I had something worth pursuing—and a way to get rid of the mysterious corn starch that had been sitting in my kitchen cupboard for the better part of a year. “It sucks to be a guy,” the page reads, “while a girl can use her fingers and a whole range of fruits/vegetables to please herself, we are stuck with our inadequate hands.”
A dim view of our most useful appendages, perhaps, but the argument moved me. I quickly put the recipe into action, mixing a cocktail that was two parts water, one part cornstarch, in a standard plastic drinking glass. The milky result was, as you might predict, quite revolting.
Next I was meant to pop the fluid into the microwave for a minute so that it might solidify. This was where I discovered that my microwave is a weak piece of garbage, since nothing of the sort had occurred after 60 seconds at high power. I popped the glass in for another minute and came away with a warm goo in which I dug a small hole, per the detailed directions.
Then back in the microwave for another 30 seconds, after which I was to insert “a stick that is slightly smaller that one’s own size” into the hole; having not planned ahead, I made do with a fat Sharpie marker. (Incidentally, the best part of the guide I was following was where the author parenthetically notes that he “would personally recommend using a stick with some grooves or patterns,” although he has “never tried any of this and never will.” Sure, dude.)
I threw the cup, Sharpie and all, into the fridge so that the waxy substance could cool down. Nobody likes fucking warm things, right? After 40 minutes, I took it out, extracted the marker, and began to pry the blubbery thing loose—completely destroying it in the process.
Oops. Although bearing a resemblance to uncolored Nickelodeon Gak, the stuff crumbled easily in my hands. Guessing that I hadn’t let it congeal quite enough, I placed what was left of my ruined toy back in the fridge. When I later tried again to pull it out of the cup, it disintegrated further, along with my dream of ejaculating into a shapeless wad of regret.
This was turning out to be far more difficult than I’d imagined.
The Pringle pipe
I had one last, desperate play: a homemade Fleshlight-like contraption whose inventor promised I would “never ever need a girl again” if I managed to replicate his design. (I privately planned to keep my wife around for conversation, at least.) The materials required were sponges, a latex glove, lube, and a cup—but “a Pringles container works a lot better. The shape, depth & size of it, it’s just overall a much better feel.” Who was I to argue?
After eating a column of appropriately tragic Loaded Baked Potato Pringles—I mean, think about it, that’s basically a potato-flavored potato chip—I was ready to get my stroke on.
The first step was to sandwich a glove lengthwise between two sponges, such that the opening for one’s hand was still accessible. Then I wedged the sponges into the empty Pringles can (slogan: “You Don’t Just Eat ’Em”), stretching the glove’s wrist elastic tautly over the rim to keep everything in place. Still, nothing about this arrangement struck me as secure.
God, this was going to be horrible. I reflected on the mindset of a man driven to create such an object, though not for long—the moment required arousal. Turning to my computer, I fired up some interracial porn, because that’s the sort of socially enlightened guy I am, and slathered myself with K-Y Jelly. I also administered a generous amount to the sponge-and-rubber orifice, fearful of unwanted friction. Then, finally, I could stall no longer.
I can now neatly divide my life into two phases: the nearly 30 years before I screwed a Pringles container to completion, and the shameful aftermath.
The penetration was hesitant, and at first everything was far too tight, but with all that lube I was able to glide in the rest of the way. I started moving the Pringles can up and down my shaft, distinctly aware that although I was experiencing a pleasurable pressure near the base, I was thrusting into a glove whose loose fingertips were flapping around in a cavernous cardboard space—an emptiness directly opposite to the warm fullness one feels in real sex.
More importantly, it seemed as if the sponges were sliding out of position with each pump. I began to worry that I could actually fuck this thing apart, the Pringles can exploding, K-Y and some errant potato chip crumbs raining down over the living room. That couldn’t happen. I doubled my speed, praying that I might finish sooner. Before I knew it, I had, with an odd sense of constriction, as if I were ramming my condom-wrapped member through a padded glory hole with nobody on the other side. Afterward, the usual wave of disgust—greatly enhanced by the sight of the wreckage—washed over me. Even so, I was grateful to find that the glove had done a bang-up job of containing the mess. No Kleenex required, you guys.
I couldn’t wait to destroy the evidence of my deed. But first I needed a shower.
I can now neatly divide my life into two phases: the nearly 30 years before I screwed a Pringles container to completion, and the shameful aftermath. I doubt I’ll ever be the person I was—I almost don’t even recognize him. So innocent. Not afraid to do things the old-fashioned way. Perhaps more willing to make an effort toward gaining access to vaginas.
But there’s no turning back; only the path to more elaborately depressing forms of self-satisfaction lies open to me. To what heights of perversion, what peaks of sordid pleasure, will I one day ascend? I don’t know, but I’ll send you a postcard. Just make sure to wash your hands after reading it.