Sex Toy Story
Often, in life, things happen quickly.
Twenty minutes ago I was hanging on a peg at a place called PeekWorld. Now I’m on the front seat of a silver Dodge Dakota — an SLT four-door with an extended cab — being driven much too fast by a young guy who, after a lot of pensive looking around and pacing and considerable comparison and debate, purchased me for $79.95, plus tax.
Oh wait. I should tell you I’m not a person; I’m a sex toy — a masturbator, actually. More specifically, I’m an artificial vagina. My name is Debbie XS11.
Leadfoot here paid for me with a credit card that had a picture on it of a tiny, smiling girl in a highchair. I notice little things. Details. Like personalized credit cards. Like how a speeding truck can smell like a mix of Axe Kilo body spray and old motor oil.
Before Martin, the clerk at the adult bookstore, slid me into a brown paper bag, I noticed that this still-somewhat-nervous acting, Jeff Gordon wannabe wears his cell phone on his belt. That would explain, at least in part, his need for a Debbie XS11. But the guy’s surprisingly good looking — for a cell-phone–on-his-belt-wearer. He’s shortish and slight, but also in a too-scrubbed-and-clipped, blond, blue-eyed and rednecky sort of way very cute.
I am sharing the brown bag with a couple of magazines, one called “Creamgirls,” the other titled “Facials.” The bag is open at the top and tilted against the passenger side door in such a way that I can see tree tops, forlorn-looking poles and wires, the occasional, nondescript rooftop and expanses of a swollen, gray, southern Indiana sky.
My new owner switches on the truck’s radio and I hear Tim McGraw confess to spending forty-eight dollars last night at a county fair and throwing out a shoulder while winning someone a teddy bear.
She’s got me saying sugar-pie, honey, darlin’, and dear, Tim sings.
While McGraw’s liking, loving and wanting more of it, I stare at a seemingly stationary blimp advertising “MetLife” in the sky and wonder how much farther it is to wherever Speedracer and I are going. He cracks a window and a sudden rush of wind causes the brown bag to make a noisy flippy-flap sound that drowns out the radio. Cutie smashes the accelerator a little more.
Eventually the truck slows and we turn onto Something Church Road. After a few lefts and a right, we pull into a driveway and stop. I’m gathered up along with a black metal lunch box and Pager Wearing Boy jumps out of the truck into an overcast day and hoofs it across an overgrown lawn. He holds the bag in such a way that I can’t see much, but I hear children playing, the sound of a distant lawn mower and, closer by, a woman crying.
A man’s hoarse-sounding voice asks. “How’s it going, Wade?”
With a simply stated, “it’s going,” Wade climbs a few porch steps. There’s the jangle of keys. I hear a door bang open, then the clomping of boots on a wooden floor. The metal lunch box makes a sort of combined clang and thunk noise when Wade sets it down on a glass coffee table. When he tosses the magazines and me on a couch, I slide out of the brown bag and can see again.
Through a big, curtainless and rain-speckled window I notice a Jeep in Wade’s drive that’s more or less in pieces and an old Pontiac Grand Prix up on blocks in a frightfully unkept front yard.
Contrasting the clutter and chaos outside, the interior of Wade’s home is sparse, colorless and almost prissily neat. A black, leather couch and a huge, flat-screen TV are this room’s only furnishings. Wade’s walls are painted an ash color and he has nice, hardwood floors.
At first I was thrilled this guy decided on me instead of Pamela XL200, with her life-like pubic hair. I truly hated PeekWorld and the panic I’d sometimes feel when some old, fat fucker would eye me. But now something about Wade makes me not so sure about him, either. Still, in a sort of incongruent, hayseed-trying-to-be-a-hipster kind of way, he is cute.
The cloddish work boots he wears, the silly phone caddy and a chain wallet that’s too young for him all could go, but I like his dark, loose-fitting jeans and tight, black T-shirt with the word “Hollister” across the front in stone-colored letters.
Wade disappears, returns after a minute or two with an icy-looking Bud Light and walks to the big window. Staring outside, he takes a long, throat-working drink.
Like some sort of geek cowboy might draw a gun, Wade snatches his cell phone, quick-like, from its holster, punches buttons and waits.
“Hi, Meg,” he says softly. “I know I said I wouldn’t call you, but…” Moving to his right, almost out of view, Wade watches a girl — a young woman, really — as she steps out onto a porch just across the street.
“I’m not looking for that either, Megan,” Wade says, “and I definitely don’t want to fight with you. I just want to make sure you’re not going to try and make it hard for me to see Madison. She’s three years old, Meg. She don’t understand what’s happening. Everything’s changed so much for her… for all of us, really.”
The woman across the way is red-eyed. Her face is puffy, but she’s still quite pretty and Wade can’t seem to take his eyes off her. He puts his beer down. “And none of that changes the fact I still love you, Megan,” he says, calmly. “Okay. Okay. Fine. As long as you don’t try to keep Maddy from me. I can somehow learn to live without you, Babe, but I can’t live without my daughter. I won’t.”
It occurs to me the dark-haired woman on the porch is the same woman I heard crying earlier. Still watching her intently, Wade says, “You are sooo wrong, Meg,” into his phone. “I never thought about another woman the whole time you and I were together. Not once. … Don’t worry about that, I’m not going to spend a lot of time hoping where there ain’t any anymore. You do what you have to do. Go through with the divorce. Whatever. Just tell me I can pick my daughter up on Friday, on most Fridays, and you and I won’t fight in front of her any more.”
Wade has sapphire blue eyes, a smallish upturned nose and a nice, wide mouth I note as he stands at the unadorned and, now, fogging-up window. “Every guy isn’t Darryl, Megan,” he says, “and I don’t care what you say, some of us don’t stray or even want to stray.”
The pretty but distraught looking girl across the way steps back into her house and Wade turns from the window. A couple of minutes later he hangs up his phone, takes another long pull on his Bud Light and punches more buttons.
“Hey Sean,” Wade starts to pace. “Yeah, thanks,” he says. I notice he has a piece of black leather cording or something tied around his wrist.
“Yeah. Twenty-four. Tomorrow.” Wade frowns and sputters the words, “Are you kidding me?
“Hell no!” he barks. “No! Fuck him! I don’t want anything from Dad. I don’t know. Not much. The truth is I don’t need much. … No. I just got back from buying myself a… Wade looks over at me… an, um, CD and a… a couple of books. And it’d be fine with me if that’s all I got this year.
“Nah, don’t even do that.” Wade walks over and sits on the couch beside me, close enough I can feel his body heat. “What was that? … Well you can’t keep an outside dog inside.” Reaching over, he moves “Creamgirls” and rests a slender hand on top of me.
It’ll be a couple of hours and several more calls later before Wade carries me into his bedroom. It’s another cheerless, sparse, but neat room with a tidy, almost funereal-looking bed and a black, mirrored dresser. There’s a nightstand and, on the wall over the bed, a pearl-encrusted cross.
After closing window blinds, Wade walks toward the bed. Using both hands to hold me, he rubs me against his Levied crotch and I feel him swell under the thick fabric of his jeans. Wade places me on the bed, pulls his shirt off and then leaves the room. He returns after a minute carrying a slate-colored towel and a large bottle of lotion. It’s shocking to me to see how small and thin the guy is.
After unbuckling a too-big-for-him belt, Wade unzips his pants. He spreads the towel flat on the bed and moves me over to the center of it, pushing his jeans and underwear down his smallish body until they drop and rest on and around work boots he’s still wearing.
The head of Wade’s fully hard dick is wide. A dark rose color. In all honesty it’s a beautiful cock — so perfect it almost looks more manufactured and artificial than I do.
With pump bottle in hand, the young man moves closer to the bed, bends at the waist and his thin fingers spread open my perfectly crafted labia. Sticking the hard tip of the bottle into my tiny vaginal opening Wade pumps me too full of a white, coconut-smelling lotion before proceeding to pump a couple of generous squirts of the same lotion into a cupped right palm.
I watch him slather lotion on and then up and down a now fully hard dick. Still bent at the waist, Wade slides a middle finger into me. Slowly moving it around, he actually groans. He finger fucks me for half a minute or so. Preparing me.
Finally I feel his weight as he climbs onto the bed and positions himself over me. Guiding his cock with his fingers, Wade pushes just the thick head of his cock into me. He waits a long minute, then silently sinks the rest of his length into me.
Watching his small, firm ass repeatedly tighten and release in the dresser mirror, I think about what will happen to me when this is over. I’ll most likely be ignored. Tucked away in a closet or drawer and lucky to be taken out once a week. Eventually I’ll be thrown away when Lover Boy finds a real vagina to service his needs. Once a week.
As Wade moves slowly, balls-deep, in and out of me I decide I won’t worry about the future. Several silent minutes pass with Wade’s lubed, moving cock grinding against my hard little nub of a clit.
After emitting an almost scared boyish little whimper Wade suddenly and inexplicably pulls completely out of me and, on his knees, crawls forward on the bed. Using his cock-guiding hand now to finish, he throws back his head and shoots ropy, white jets of cum all over a pillow.
As Wade’s orgasm subsides he husks one word: “Bitch.” He sits back on his heels, calms and climbs off the bed.
I watch him walk out of the room. Lying there, I see myself reflected in the mirror and I’m shocked at how pink I look in Wade’s colorless world, like a huge wad of chewed bubble gum on a sad, lonely sidewalk.
Several nights pass with me tucked away in the nightstand on the left side of Wade’s bed. The drawer is a little off the track, keeping the drawer slightly ajar so I can at least see out, watch Wade pace as he talks on his phone. I watch him eat. See his flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a large shiny square that rarely comes to life.
I also see out the big, bare window nearly a week of days just as grim, weather-wise, as that first one was.
I believe it’s a Thursday evening when I hear Wade’s key in the front door. He’s been gone most of the day, leaving empty-handed that morning at around eleven but returning now with two large shopping bags from Baby Gap.
Wade’s on the phone as he comes through the door. He’s a talker for sure. One day, 6O years in the future, he’ll be one of those tiny, gossipy old men on a bench in a park somewhere.
“The thing about you, Sean, is you like KFC with a side order of wedges. I’m more a grilled, lemon pepper chicken on a bed of rice. … What do you mean that’s what I’m trying to be?
“Who wouldn’t be impressed? … Yeah. well, that may be, but she was very impressed with my daddy skills. Yeah. She said she enjoyed watching me around Maddy.
“No way, man, she’s not West End at all. No, no, she’s very East End. I know! She has that ass and a fuck-ton of money.”
Behind Wade I see it’s still… or again raining. I sigh. After so many weeks of the bright lights and colorful images at the store, I’m sad to find myself in a dark drawer looking out and learning how dreary a late summer/early fall can feel.
“You want me to do what?” Wade asks whoever Sean is. “No! Fuck no! I don’t care. Tell her whatever you want. No, Sean. There’s no way I’m coming there to meet her.
“Because she’s fat, Sean. … That’s easy for you to say. You’re banging the hot nurse. … I appreciate the thought, Sean, but it’s not like I’m desperate.”
Soon, with one of his dark gray towels and the bottle of awful lotion in one hand, a fully nude Wade lifts me out of my drawer with his other hand and after not much preliminary or prepping at all, little Wade fucks me with his big dick. Jabbing almost painfully into me, it doesn’t take him long to pull out, crawl up and again jack off onto his pillow.
As his orgasm subsides, he utters another single word; this time it’s “Haley.”
I eventually learn Haley is the 17-year-old sister of Wade’s wife, Megan. I also become aware of how Haley doesn’t know Wade is alive.
In the kitchen, a completely nude Cell Phone Boy opens a cold beer, and a bag of potato chips. Resting on a crotch-high kitchen table, I’m again struck by how small and slight Wade is and notice for the first time how disproportionately short his arms and legs are to how long his trunk is.
Wade takes a few steps toward a radio. He punches it on and a nasal sounding country voice sings. Wade sings along with it…
‘Cause when I’m a bullet shot out of a gun
‘Cause when I’m a firecracker comin’ undone
Or when I’m a fugitive ready to run, all wild-eyed and crazy
No matter where my reckless soul takes me
Baby you save me.
Watching Wade bite into a potato chip I’m reminded of that little gecko that sells insurance on TV. I think about how it is that someone can be quite cute while also being a little reptilian.
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