I recently re-posted an old video of me on Facebook in which
I sing Elvis Presley’s “I Want You, I Need You, I Love You” at a karaoke show
while dancing with a blow-up doll, who I named Mercedes. It brought back
memories, and I suddenly recalled that I’d written a blog about me purchasing
Mercedes from the local sex shop. I thought it might be worth revisiting the
blog, which is so old it originally appeared on MySpace. (www.myspace.com/tabardinn,
if you care, but be warned, I’m almost never there.)
I edited it down a bit because there was a lot of stuff in
there that wasn’t important to the main story, stuff about work that no one
will give a fuck about. I first posted this thing on the morning before I went
on stage with Mercedes, so I also cut out my invitation for people to come out
to the bar and witness this train wreck in person. I left the rest of it alone,
even though I wanted to tinker with it a little.
Without further ado, here’s “Adventures in the Sex Shop,” originally
posted on April 23, 2009:
The atmosphere inside a sex shop is always a bit strange.
There are all these toys and novelties and such hanging off the walls, and none
of the customers can look each other in the eye. They ignore each other as much
as possible. They fondle the wares in absolute silence. They furtively crouch
to see items on the bottom shelves.
Some of these toys are so large you can’t possibly imagine
using them on someone, unless you planned to beat that person to death with
them. But clearly there are women who can accommodate these enormous objects,
as a nearby magazine demonstrates.
One patron accidentally brushed up against another, and they
froze like scarecrows. Neither met the other’s eyes. Everything went silent for
a moment, and their mouths worked as if they wanted to say something. But they
didn’t. They turned away from each other, not a word spoken, and continued
perusing the shop, intent on seeking out their respective pleasures.
I found an entire bookshelf dedicated to blow-up dolls of
all kinds. All of them were female except for a lonely John Holmes model. Much
to my surprise, almost all were small enough to fit in a box roughly the size
of a VHS tape. Could these things be really full-sized? I needed a doll that was
at least five feet tall, as I intended to dance with it.
I looked all over one package, but I couldn’t find out how
tall this thing was. I went from box to box, and none of them said anything
more than how the doll was shaped. Many of them were made for doggie style.
Some had pictures of porn stars on their faces. But no practical information,
aside from which holes were available.
And then, near my feet I noticed a few packages that DID say
how big the dolls were: three feet. At first I thought it was pretty funny. Who
would buy something like that except for people who wanted to bone midgets? But
then I thought about who else might want to buy small blow-up dolls:
pedophiles. My stomach turned. Well, I thought, if they have to fuck something,
why not a fake kid? That would be so much more acceptable than actually fucking
real live kids. Maybe there was a social use for mini-blow-up dolls, after all.
I grabbed an Asian blow-up doll, mostly because she was
advertised as not being bent over for doggie style. I needed the doll to stand
up, so I could dance with her. I brought the box up to the counter and asked
the cashier, “How big is this thing?”
She was very polite, as someone who works in a sex shop must
be. She offered to open the box for me and show me how much material was in
there. With two quick slits made by a box cutter, she pulled out the doll and
showed me that they could actually fit a lot of doll into such a small box.
I told her I’d think about it. She sealed the box again, and
I went back to browse some more. This time, I found a pregnant blow-up doll,
which was really creepy. Distantly, I wondered if there was another doll inside
her belly. And then I saw the alien blow-up doll, which was purple and had
three tits.
Yeah . . .
And then I saw a bigger box hiding behind the John Holmes
doll. Ah! This one actually stood up to full height! She had huge tits and even
clothes! I knew I had my winner, but I wanted to look inside, just to make
sure.
The cashier opened the box for me and showed me the flattened
doll’s body. “Aw, look!” she said. “She’s got hair! You can do her hair, if you
want.”
Darkly, I said, “It’s not her hair I plan to do.”
She laughed. “I think you make a great couple.” And she rang
me up. While I was waiting for my receipt, I noticed a warning on the bottom of
the box: PLEASE PRACTICE SAFE SEX. DO NOT SHARE YOUR LOVE DOLL WITH ANYONE
ELSE.
Could an STD really survive inside a sex doll in much the
same way as it does in a person? And besides that, who the fuck shares their
blow-up doll with someone else? If such people do exist, would they resort to
wearing a condom while swapping dolls?
I got in my car and started driving home. It was only then,
as I found myself easing into traffic, that I wondered what would happen if I
got into a car accident. The paramedics who would pull me from the wreck would
not understand the presence of a blow-up doll at the scene. If I died, my
grandparents would have to go to the morgue to collect my belongings, and they
would find my blow-up doll. As they put my corpse in the ground, they would
wonder what kind of pervert they had for a grandson.
I obeyed the speed limit and came to a stop behind the white
line at red lights.
When I got home, I thought I’d inflate my doll to take her
on a test drive. NO! Not like that. You people have a lot of growing up to do.
I just wanted to make sure I could dance with her and pull a few moves while
still holding a microphone.
A few things took me by surprise.
I never expected blow-up dolls to lack fingers and toes. It
looked like she was wearing mittens and booties.
I never expected blow-up dolls to have a cherry. Not just
one, but two. Both the vagina and the anus each had a cherry one could pop.
Some of you are drooling and saying, “You bet.” The rest of us are saying,
“That’s fucked up, when you think about it.”
I never expected blow-up dolls to have hair. This one’s was
like a Barbie doll’s, except it was only attached to her forehead. The rest of
her pate was bald. I was tempted to shave the rest of it off.
I never expected blow-up dolls to be so . . . tight. No, I
didn’t test it with my dick; I used my fingers. I popped the doll’s front
cherry with my fingers and then tried to push them all the way in. I could only
fit the first two digits of my index and middle fingers in, and that was at a
vertical angle. Horizontally, I could only do one finger. The same held true
for her mouth. [EDIT: For the record, when Mercedes popped a few weeks later,
her back cherry was still intact, so I never tested her back door.]
There’s no way I could have fit my dick in this thing. Only
a micro-penis could get in this doll. Now clearly these things are popular.
They’ve been sold for who knows how long? But can there be that many dudes with
micro-penises out there? And even then, those guys would have to make their
peace with the slightly sharp edges of the vagina. I don’t see that happening.
Anyway, I learned that she would most definitely do for the
onstage performance I had in mind. Time to deflate her. I pulled the tab in her
back, and air came hissing out, but not fast enough. I pressed her against the
floor in an attempt to speed this up, and when that wasn’t as helpful as I was
hoping, I pushed her face down into the carpet with all my weight and folded
her legs behind her head. As her air blew into my face, I suddenly felt
ashamed, as if I was assaulting a woman for real. It reminded me of a story I’d
written in college about a guy with a wife-beating habit who went to a shrink
for help. He was then instructed to start beating pillows instead. It worked at
first, but he got tired of it. The pillows weren’t good enough anymore. He went
out and bought a bunch of blow-up dolls, which he then proceeded to beat
mercilessly. I never got the chance to market it, though, because shortly
after, I read Hunter S. Thompson’s SCREWJACK, which features a character with a
similar background.
I shook these horrible thoughts from my head as I bunched
her body up into a ball and stuffed her back in her box. I hid her in my
closet, where she will wait until my performance tonight.
[At this point, I invited everyone to come out and watch me
serenade a blow-up doll. I should make note that, as evidenced by the video,
the crowd loved it. However, it turned out that management at that bar was not
pleased with me. Instead of talking to me about it, they bitched out and talked
to my friend, who ran the karaoke show. I had to play nice from then on out. A
few other stunts I pulled: changing Weird Al’s “My Bologna” to “My Salami” and
pretending to go down on myself onstage, dressing up like Dean Stockwell in
BLUE VELVET and singing “In Dreams” to a cardboard standup of Freddy Krueger,
and singing Denis Leary’s “Asshole” in an attempt to win a $1,000 contest. I
also did Chuck Berry’s “My Ding-a-Ling” with a pair of bells hanging from my
belt. I was originally going to wear a dildo for this performance, but I heard
back about the Mercedes incident, and I toned it down so my friend wouldn’t
lose his gig.
It’s a good thing I did. That night, I was picked up for DUI
after leaving that bar. Explaining a dildo to the arresting officer would have
been next to impossible. If he’d busted me a week before that, I would have had
to explain Mercedes to him, because she was sitting up in my backseat like a
person, wearing a seatbelt and everything.
For those interested, you can find my DUI Diary on this very
site. Start here.]
