Sex and marriage is tough. It’s a whole different ball game than when you’re dating. And don’t get me wrong, married sex is great, even better than ‘single’ sex in a lot of ways. It just happens a lot less frequently. I have two young kids, which is about as much of a turn on as a traffic accident, so needless to say, sex in my house only happens a few times a month…unless it’s a little One on One.
And the thing is, I adore my wife. I’m crazy attracted to her. All it takes is for me to see her naked, and I’m at 100% and ready. Hell, she gives me a lingering hug and I am ready to go. You know the kind. Where a girl brings you in close, and her breasts squish against your chest. It’s the squish that makes it.
It’s like I have a Ferrari, but am only allowed to drive it on the weekends. Or maybe after the Ferrari has a girls’ night out… a few margaritas…and comes home and is ready to get busy.
Isn’t that the best? Your lady goes out with her girlfriends and she gets regaled with stories from her single friends about how awful the men they are dating are, how being single is terrible, etc. Then add a few drinks, and if you’re a decent husband, your wife comes home horny and appreciative.
That’s the most perfect state you can ever hope your wife is in – horny and appreciative.
I had a girl’s night out backfire on me once. My wife went to a passion party. You know what that is? Where normally demure and straight laced women get together, and turn into vicarious nymphos for one night, and have a blast talking about sex, lubes and toys.
Thank you 50 Shades of Grey! It’s like when your girl has a Pampered Chef dinner party or an Amway thing, the main point is to get your friends to buy that shit, so the host gets free shit. Therefore, the host of a passion party is basically having this party so she can get a free buttplug and french ticklers.
And whomever hosts that party, you can bet on a few things: She loves sex, she definitely loves it in the ass, and she’s fucking the holy shit out of her husband when everyone leaves. I bet that is some transcendant, amazing wife-sex, that only rivals her coming home from a Bon Jovi concert.
So my wife, who knows I want to drive her Ferrari more than once a week, goes to one of these parties, and what do you think she comes home with? Some rad black dildo the size of a man’s arm? With ultra realistic veins? Some cool lube that makes sparks when we bang?
She brings me home a Fleshlight. And not for her to use on me, as the ads would have you believe. But for me to use on myself. A unicycle for me to ride, for when the Ferrari is in the shop because “Didn’t I just go for a drive 5 days ago?” Which is fine. I respect that. In an abstract way, she was trying to do right by us both.
Raise of a digital hand for who has used a Fleshlight?
Not that hand, sir. Gross. You should be ashamed of yourself.
For those of you who don’t know, a Fleshlight is basically a rubber vagina jammed into a tube. It looks like a flashlight, but there’s a puss dropped on where the light would be. Or a butthole. Or a mouth. Because men, if you’re going to use a simulated rubber toy to blow a load, it might as well be your fave hole.
So she buys me this pink thing, and I act all uppity, like I’d never degraaademyself and take it out. So it sits in my night stand for a week. I don’t want to give in to this rubber succubus, for fear I might enjoy it too much. Plus that’d also give my wife the satisfaction of ‘winning.’ But like a tell tale heart, I could hear the Fleshlight’s siren call. I could hear it beckoning me to enter into it’s pleasurable vice grip. To cast aside my reticence, whisper to it softly my fears. My hopes. My dreams.
And hey, she spent money on the god damned thing, so I better not waste it.
With the family out of the house one day, I close the shades, pour a glass of wine, light a candle and take stock of the situation. Because while on one hand it’s obvious she bought me something for me to use on myself, I also have to HIDE the fact I used it and am ashamed of it. That’s not her, that’s my own insecurities. Years of growing up and hiding, and sneaking a self-handy are hard to shake.
So when a married family man jerks off in his house, he becomes a Sherlock “John” Holmes – making sure he leaves no clues behind of his activities. I get a spidey sense about where the lotion was, where the tissues were. And you can bet your ass I ‘private browse’ on the computer. Only a jerk rookie would leave a tab open or at least not clear their history. I need to be sure everything is as it was to conceal my crime. This is a skill honed from even as a teen, rewinding my friend’s VHS pornos right back to where it was when I started cranking (usually about 60 seconds).
With the stage set, I get to work. Obviously since my junk doesn’t create its own lube, and this Fleshlight is a dry-ass piece of pink floppy plastic, it needs a bit of greasy encouragement. Immediately, I’m making a mess. I put too much lube in, and my sheets get covered in it. Exhibit A of the crime scene.
But I soldier on, get to work, and do the deed. I’ll spare you the details, but it did feel a bit better than my normal, “handmade” version of this act. Guys are simple and dumb. It felt good. The end. But it did add a new twist to an act I’ve been practicing longer than just about any other of my hobbies.
Now I’m left with a dilemma. Of course I’m feeling the normal “you are disgusting, you are a depraved animal, look at your filthy hands” thoughts that immediately enter a man’s head as soon as semen is self-pulled from his body. But I’m also left with a mess. Besides being messy myself, I now have this thing full of my essence, staring back at me with its pink creases and knowing eye-hole, reminding me of what I did.
Guys get a bad rap for not wanting to cuddle after sex, which is true to a degree. So wanting to clean up a jizz device? The desire for that is even less. My post-coitus level of effort is usually just enough to hobble to the bathroom to get my wife some toilet paper to cleanup, so this is ridiculous.
I had the added benefit of using a lube that’s not water soluble, so it takes me running my pink jizz-lube-tube under hot water in the sink for 10 mins to get it clean. And now it’s clean but wet inside. And I don’t want it to get mildew smelling by sitting in my dark, bedside nightstand. No one likes a moldy fake vagina.
So you might say, “Dan, just leave it out full of jizz and clean it in the morning.” Well, I can’t for two reasons. One, I’m a neat freak, and can’t go to sleep with a sink full of dishes, let along a Fleshlight full of a hot load. And two, this is Exhibit B! The smoking gun! The murder weapon! I can’t leave that out for my wife to find. Or dear god…my kids!
“Hey dad, I found this cool rubber toy in your room. It looked like it had a pretty pink flower on the end, so I gave it a sniff. It smelled like the ocean!!! So I thought it was a seashell, and I put it up to my ear and squeezed it, and it shot a sticky web out of it like Spider-Man. I thought it was a Spider-Man toy, so I ran around the house shooting webs everywhere.”
I’d rather explain to my son that God and Santa don’t exist, than tell him what semen is, and that he just flung his microscopic brothers and sisters all over his Skylanders.
As I was contemplating this, I heard the garage door open, which is the universal sound telling a loner guy at home that he needs to stop jerking off IMMEDIATELY. I quickly grab the Fleshlight, wrap it in a T-shirt, and throw it in the laundry basket.
Later that night when my wife and I are getting into bed, she pulls the covers off the bed and spies an ungodly amount of dried lube from where I squished it out by accident all over the sheets.
“You have some fun while I was out today?” she coyly asks me.
“Sure, yes, ha-ha.” I laugh nervously.
“That’s an awful lot of lube,” she casually demurs. “Wait, did you try the Fleshlight finally?”
“No way,” I stammer back. “That thing is silly.”
I’m not sure why I lie about it. It was after all, a gift from her. I guess it all goes back to that masturbation guilt I’m so foolishly wracked with. I change the sheets. We hop in bed, watch a DVR’ed episode of Mad Men, and go to sleep.
The following days I struggle with my next steps. Do I introduce the Fleshlight into my routine? Is it worth the struggle of cleaning it, and having a device hanging around the house at risk of being found? Maybe this isn’t a Ferrari, but it’s not a unicycle either. More of a Corolla. And it can be fun to rent a Corolla and drive it like you stole it.
I head to the internet to find out how other distinguished gentleman are cleaning their new toy, and everyone is recommending corn starch. Because that’s just what I need. Have my family think I am battering fried chicken in my bed when they find white powder everywhere. And by doing that, I’m already making much more of an event out of what tends to be more habitual than enjoyable.
While I’m contemplating all this, I hear my wife in the laundry room and realize she’s going to find a pink present wrapped in a crusty gym shirt. Time to face the bah-chicka-wah-wah music and tell her I used it.
And of course, when I tell her I tried it and liked it, she was happy about that. I think she appreciated getting some pressure taken off her, and certainly wasn’t feeling jealous about a rubber mistress living in my nightstand. I think she was also happy that she was able to gift me this elastic concubine. A sort of masturbation dowry.
So she was happy. And nothing is better than a happy wife. Except a horny and appreciative one.