At 22, fresh out of the closet, I was hell bent on proving my queerness. Coming out while in a college sorority, the gossip mill buzzed on about how I was bicurious or only making out with my female friends for male attention. This fired me up. Believing that there could be no more non-hetero act than strapping on a dildo, I claimed solving all secrets of the silicone cock as the ideal route of proving the whole world wrong (and no doubt subconsciously proving myself right). And thus, prepare yourselves, readers, for an awkward coming of sexual age story.
That summer, my newbie self journeyed to a local feminist sex toy shop in search of the perfectly proportioned dildo. I aimed to kick off my developing repository of sex toys with a tool that would blow away all who encountered it. In my mind’s eye, a neon sign blazing the advice “SIZE MATTERS” largely guided my purchasing decision that day. Not the least bit savvy and all puffed up on my sense of ownership of my sexuality, those size mandates navigated me to the biggest, baddest dil in the shop. I didn’t talk to any friends about it first, didn’t bother chatting up the shop employees, didn’t bother referencing any books or online resources—no, instead , I took home a nine-inch long, four-inch around, purple silicone wonder, convinced that I was a winner
. …and then I broke in half. The repeat attempts to conquer it, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, squatting, huffing and puffing, were perhaps some of the least sexy moments of my life. Did I mention I had yet to learn that LUBE existed? Shockingly, my previous sexual forays with frat boys had left me but a sexual zygote. My vagina would not cooperate.
Since taking it was out of the question, I decided to flip the script, channel my top energy and give it to my lady like a champ. Harnessing up, the dildo hung huge, floppy, and unwieldy—I turned corners and knocked over bedside lamps. My start was fumbling and jabbing, and I am sure my gf regretted my presence in her bed. Then something worse happened… I got the hang of it, but rather than being proud of the orgasmic sounds I elicited from my gf, jealousy of the new purchase crept up and owned me. I tearfully felt bested by a lump of silicone.
So I took a break. My self-image shattered, I wondered if I was really the true queer I believed in my heart to be. Was sex only a matter of mouths and hands for me from that moment ‘til the day I died? In my baby brain, I had failed the litmus test of kinkdome. My penalty? Banishment to the vanilla domain of two bodies bumping and grinding au natural for all eternity (ha, I should be so lucky).
After a few emo months of self pity, I sucked it up, admitted to myself that I knew nothing, and researched all about about the Dos and Don’ts of Dildo buying. I was primed for hopping back on that ol’ pogo stick, but this time I put in a little more preliminary investigative work. Once I started looking, I unlocked a treasure trove of new knowledge. Jelly dildos were fun for personal use, but not for sharing. Silicone was great for partner sex as long as you washed with soap and water after or when taking turns. Using toys with multiple partners? No biggie--throw a condom on it every time.
What I uncovered in the internet universe was more thrilling still: a cornucopia of stories from REAL LIVE WOMEN—women who raved over the short fatties that filed their bodies to the brim, sex toy connoisseurs who heralded the benefits of gently curved lovelies that angled straight into their g-spots, champions even managed to climb supersized, Mount Everest dildos like the one that left me defeated. The key? Foreplay, lube, lube, foreplay, lube, foreplay, lube. These tips and tales guided me into my now beautifully harmonious relationship with strap on sex.
And that’s how I stopped worrying, started thrusting and learned to love the Dildo.