For the past ten days, I have been trying not to stare at a gift an anonymous admirer dropped off for me. It’s an 18-inch clear plastic cylinder that contains everything you need to whip up an exact, glowing, vibrating copy of your penis, made in your own home out of new, improved, body-safe silicone.
So what else is new? Or not?
Egad! Am I the only person still breathing who remembers the Plaster Casters? Two young Chicago groupies, named Cynthia + 1, who’d been unable to connect with the gorgeous men who made the awesome music that turned them on through the normal channels — lurking in dimly lit hotel corridors — attempted an alternative approach to getting their hands on a rock and roll appendage. The pair asked — I believe it was Paul Revere and the Raiders — if any band member was interested in having his package immortalized in plaster. The Raiders demurred, but Cynthia, whose actual ambition was to have sex with a British rock star, lowered her standards to include the homegrown variety and did indeed manage to lose her virginity during or after that chat.
Two years later, Cynthia cast her plaster more efficaciously with a different + 1 getting Mr. Johnson up, up, and quivering. Her first cast? Jimi Hendrix. Others followed his lead and dipped their misters in a dental mold filled with alginates. There were 77 big dippers, but her list of gets is not all that impressive; more sidemen and hangers-on than boldfaced names. Cynthia’s hot shots include Eddie Brigati of the Young Rascals; Zal Yanovsky, a circumcised, nice Jewish boy from the Lovin’ Spoonful; and British composer/performer Anthony Newley, who wrote seven musicals including Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, which makes me wonder if that film was actually meant for kiddies. The big one that got away was Eric Burdon, lead singer of the Animals. He dipped, but Cynthia screwed up the mold.
What to do, what to do
Back to the present. What’s a person to do with a Clone-A-Willy kit who doesn’t have a penis of her own to clone? Make do with whatever’s around the house. What’s around my premises is my husband Alvin, that long-suffering saint. I’m hoping he doesn’t nod off while I’m studying the instructions. Great! It only takes two minutes to do. Oy vey! Why do I have to watch a video on YouTube? Is it worth all that time and trouble when I have the real thing available whenever I want it…without a hunt for replacement batteries?
The Clone-A-Willy website displays a choice of colors, skin tones, and materials, including the phosphorescent green one that actually glows in the dark. Whose radiant penis might I be actually interested in contemplating during a power outage? Bradley Cooper’s? Hugh Jackman’s? Caitlyn Jenner’s? And what would induce any of the above to remain tumescent long enough to allow my fumbling fingers to complete the deed?
My favorite of all the kits offered on the website neither vibrates, shines, or flickers. It’s the solid milk chocolate one — the perpetual foodie favorite. But I wonder why there isn’t a gilded version for the majority of misters who truly believe theirs is made of solid gold.
Which brings me back to the man of the house, my husband Alvin. A clone of his willy would be unbelievably handy. Not for sexual encounters, but to allow me to win any and all of our arguments. So when I invariably tell him what he should do to himself, I could also hand him the perfect object to do it with. That’s easily well worth $44.95.