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I t's probably a dubious honor that I'm the person picked to test-drive a tasty little item called the Fleshlight, but when I learned that the inventor spent two million dollars developing it, I was hooked. It's amazing that a budget normally reserved for the space program or the Pentagon was funneled into a sex toy
that's capitalism minus the Cold War, I guess. Figuring that men like tools, the inventor designed the stealth exterior to look like a flashlight. But inside, the material is supposed to be nearly identical to the texture of actual labial flesh it's the Mother Goddess of ersatz pussies.
I rush to my girlfriend's house and proudly exhibit the Fleshlight on her kitchen table. "Yup," she agrees. "Looks like a flashlight." But when I unscrew the top, there's this bubble gumpink puffy sphere with what appears to be a coin slot. We poke at it with our fingers. Hmm. Feels wet, but doesn't really make your finger wet like that "goo" stuff for kids that comes in a little plastic trashcan, only substantially more adult.
"What's that smell?" my girlfriend sniffs inquiringly through her mid-January Kleenex-buffed nose.
I breathe in deeply. "Vanilla?"
"Christ on a crutch!" She squeals. "You're gonna put your dick in that thing?"
 "Why not? You wanna watch?"
"Yuck. Do it at your house."
"I can't do it at my house. You're supposed to warm it up in the sink by pouring hot water over it. My roommates will find out."
I open the bottom of the Fleshlight and discover a hard plastic tube that runs down the center. I pull on it and it sticks to the pink, sticky "flesh."
"What is that?" she mutters. "Vulva-on-a-stick?"
I look at the brochure. "The stick maintains the 'vulva's' shape."
She runs her fingers through her hair and squints at the ceiling, groaning, "How symbolic."
The brochure also warns not to share one's Fleshlight with anyone. No problem. I'm not even sure I want to share it with myself.
She leaves the kitchen and climbs into her bed. Her ass cupped inside a pair of velour panties causes my "all-natural" flesh to swell into an arc of longing. I look at the Fleshlight cupped in my hands. One glance at its gooey, pink, coin-slot eye and I'm soft again. I crawl into her bed and spoon myself around the warm hips that house her real pussy. She clenches my hands between her breasts. Ah, better.
"What about your date?" she asks.
"I left her with the toaster."
Next morning, while she's in the shower, I'm nursing a coffee at the kitchen table. The sun's first rays cast a pleasing light across the room and the  Fleshlight, standing tall and majestic on the table, casts a shadow like a sundial. Maybe I will do it tonight.
After work I feel indecisive. Instead of racing home to fuck the gooey pink eye, I find myself at one of those bars with a million different beers instead. It's midway between my house and my girlfriend's. Three connoisseurs to my left are talking fruity bouquets. I flirt with the idea of admitting defeat. Somehow my groin is not entertained by the Fleshlight. It could be the vanilla, it could be the slime coat or it could be the eye.
I order a Boddingtons and watch the bartender build it the way you build a Guinness. The head rises to the top of the glass, then shrinks as the golden liquid emerges underneath. I mean, it's not like I'm afraid of the Fleshlight, is it? When the head settles, she pours another shot from the tap, slices off the foamy head with a butter knife and slides the beer in front of me. Looking down into my beer, I see a coin-slot eye staring back. I raise the glass to my lips it smells like vanilla. I take a drink and I'm acutely aware that a thin slime remains on my upper lip. Okay, I admit it: I'm afraid.
Over the next couple days, the Fleshlight looms larger than life. It's my mother's disapproval, my third-grade teacher's declaration that I'll never amount to anything, my ex-girlfriend's aunt asking me why I'm not Jewish. I must conquer the Fleshlight before it conquers me.
I wouldn't normally buy Juggs magazine, but they published one of my stories and my contributor's copy came in the mail. Obviously, they're into squishy, big breasts, especially lactating ones. Like a good egomaniac, I'm checking my piece for typos over my morning coffee. Once again, my  girlfriend's in the shower and I'm sitting at the table with the Fleshlight. Today is my day off, my so-called writing day. It dawns on me that today is the day. I quickly but lovingly pack my notebook, Juggs and the Fleshlight in my backpack and crack the bathroom door to kiss my girlfriend goodbye.
"You think you could put the toilet seat back down every once in a while?" she complains.
"Women," I mutter as I struggle with my bike down the steps of her building.
At home in my room, I rummage through my mail, slowly working up to the task at hand. I open Juggs. Hmm. That "virgin" on page nine is kind of cute. My yoga teacher's phrase comes to mind: "Be aware of your pud throbbing in its methodical yearning way." I turn the page. My god, the boobs on that black lady in the carnival mask are bigger than my beer gut. I think I need a little more porn star, and a little less freak show. Ah now, here's a wholesome lass washing her pick-up truck in some rural place like Montana. She's wet and soapy and has this huge, smug grin on her face; she's rubbing herself against the windshield of the truck so the photographer can get a shot from inside the cab. My yoga breathing devolves into panting.
I reach into my backpack for the Fleshlight and hastily unscrew the top. Christ, why vanilla? I realize it would be better to warm it under hot water, but my roommates are around. I flip back to the virgin. Her smile says, "Hi perv!"
"Getting a hard-on?" she giggles. "Go on, take it out. Whack off for me, baby." She's also muttering "Pathetic creep" under her breath, but I concentrate on her saying, "Undo your belt, sweetie. Your jeans, sugar lump. Your briefs, thumper."
"Okay," I answer obediently.
"That's better," she coos as I scoot my pants down below my knees. "Now get your toy and lube up."
It's not easy. I take off the bottom lid as well as the top in order to remove the hard plastic tube from inside the soft, gummy vulva.  I'm afraid of ripping the tender "skin," but eventually I wrestle it free. I put the Fleshlight on the desk, with its unfortunate eye staring at the ceiling like a bored patient at the gynecologist's office, and open the lubricant. I aim it into the eye and get most of it in, but when I lift the Fleshlight off the desk, the lubricant empties out the back end. It startles me and the thing falls from my hand, bouncing off the edge of my desk, off my thigh and rolls onto the floor about six inches past arm's reach.
There's a knock on my door.
"Uh, yes?"
"Can I come in?" my roommate Stephanie asks.
"NO!"
"Then can I borrow some milk?"
"Borrow whatever the fuck you want!"
Ice cold fake pussy juice is dripping from the puddle on my desk into my lap. My pecker, soft as a jellyfish, is burrowing backwards into my abdomen. If Mom could see me now, wouldn't she be proud?
I'm in serious need of a game plan. I rock my chair back and forth until I'm close enough to reach the Fleshlight. Both of my hands are slick, but I manage to pull it onto my lap where I squeegee some lubricant from the puddle between my legs back into its hole. I wipe my left hand on my shirt, put the bottom back on and begin again.
I concentrate on the girl washing her truck in Montana. My trusty lust is taking over. I pick up the Fleshlight and slide it over the head of my penis. It feels tacky, like a woman who isn't quite wet yet. To remedy the situation, I resort to my own warm, reliable saliva. I turn back to the virgin on page nine. There's a red line on her shoulder that a bra strap has left. "Babe," I tell her. "You're cute!" A couple insurance moves with my right hand and I can reenter the atmosphere.
There's a sensation down there of making it through The Sacred Gates of Labia. There's a Brazillian woman on page sixty-four that's nice and plump. So nice and plump. Like a rotisserie chicken. She looks like what the Fleshlight feels like. Oh, yeah: looks like what the Fleshlight feels like. She's squeezing her nipples. I plunge the thing to the hilt. Oh, yeah! Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Hey. . . this thing is hissing. I loosen the rear cap and plunge again. PFFT! PFFT! PFFT! It's hissing louder. I remove the end altogether I don't care if the juice drips on my pants again. It occurs to me that this thing feels like getting a blow job only no teeth.
I'm pumping like a deranged plumber. I'm pounding the squish out of the thing till it's bouncing off my nuts and for just a moment, I'm lost in a sensation of bouncy, wet, virgin flesh, and boom! As Woody Allen said, there's no such thing as the wrong kind of orgasm.
Then, it's over. I'm cold. The thing is dripping everywhere, and I have the urge to cuddle. Staring into the hideous eye, even more hideous from use, I yearn for my sweetheart's mid-January nasal drip and her velour hips, warm and huggable, under a duvet. The virgin is still smiling the exact same smile from her frozen home on page nine.
"Hey Joe!" Stephanie yells from outside my door, "Want anything from the store?"
"Nah," I wheeze absentmindedly. "Just a shower."
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©1999 Joe Maynard and hooksexup.com, Inc.
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