Last week, I took a slice out of my paycheck for my new job and bought myself a Fleshlight. My god, it is the unparalleled opus of onanism! Makes me feel a bit crass to discuss it in any space, even one as discrete as this. Kevin Smith praised a high holy hymn to the fleshy implement's virtues on his podcast. While I may like to consider myself above the persuasive power of advertising, it stuck. I'd always worried that it would end up another useless implement at the back of the sex toy drawer, next to the too-pointy buttplug and the inexplicable 14" dildo. Really, all I needed was a vote of confidence that it wasn't a waste of ~$70.
And it isn't; it's the best sex I've ever had. Which isn't as much of a statement as it sounds, as I've only had two sex partners, neither of whom I successfully topped. Part of me feels creepy for enjoying it to the extent that I do. I guess I kind of worry that it's a step or two removed from knitting scarves for my RealDoll. Hell, as a transwoman I feel guilty for taking so much pleasure from sticking my dick in something. But these are reservations that enter my mind long after the deed has done, and they tend to not linger long.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Legend of the Street
When I was 14, my dad died. Each member of my family dealt with it by crumbling in his or her own special way. Mine was pot, and the dispassionate lifestyle it brings. Gravity brought me to orbit around other potheads, which is where I met Max. I was maybe 16 when I met him, having just obtained my driver's license and a clean little '89 Honda Accord that I proceeded to befoul. Max, as a 14 year old, should have been in a completely different social stratum from the burnouts I hung out with.
His equalizer was that he stole cars. He'd tap a window with a spark plug, hotwire the damn thing, and joyride. The group we were a part of was car-obsessed, and Max had not only the natural social allure of the thrillseeker but the driving skills of a god damned legend. He had this black '90 Prelude. Whenever someone spoke of their experiences in it they got a little catch in their voice and a sudden verve their eyes.
Some people cultivate tall tales, and some people slowly and quietly build a legend. Max didn't boast, at least not relative to the other teenage boys in his company. But I'm willing to do it for him. Here's the prototypical Max tale: after a long night of looting cars, he was offered a trade - his stack of purloined stereos for a mid-80's box Crown Vic with a Mustang engine. Max enthusiastically agreed, drifting around the city until the cops started chasing him. He lost them in a display of reckless skill, ditched the car, and called it a night. I wasn't there to see it, yet I believe it unquestioningly, because I myself witnessed a number of Max stories unfold. Like the time he took us drifting in an E-350 cargo van with no front brakes. In the rain. The he got his Ford Ranger, a fairly tame looking light passenger truck. He could burn the tires through any corner in that thing and make it look good. Then there was the incident with the Latin Kings ... I should stop.
All this adoration is a bit much. Whenever I tell the tales to someone, they ask if I had a crush on this kid, but that's not it. Max was an inspiring figure. As a child, I played far too many RPGs, and was crushed when I discovered my dreams of being a lone, unconquerable hero were hopelessly out of touch with reality. There were no legendary swords for me to claim, there was no final boss for me to conquer. Knowing someone like Max gave me a bit of hope that I could be at least a little special, and that there were exceptional people lurking everywhere.
To get to a point, Max is kind of a big part of the reason I write. I want to communicate to someone else how in awe of him I was and am. There is no more exciting place I can think of being than in the passenger seat next to him. I can't immortalize him in fiction, because I'd just turn him into a Mary Sue, so this little blog post will have to do. A monument to Max, the tallest 5'8" a man could ever be.
His equalizer was that he stole cars. He'd tap a window with a spark plug, hotwire the damn thing, and joyride. The group we were a part of was car-obsessed, and Max had not only the natural social allure of the thrillseeker but the driving skills of a god damned legend. He had this black '90 Prelude. Whenever someone spoke of their experiences in it they got a little catch in their voice and a sudden verve their eyes.
Some people cultivate tall tales, and some people slowly and quietly build a legend. Max didn't boast, at least not relative to the other teenage boys in his company. But I'm willing to do it for him. Here's the prototypical Max tale: after a long night of looting cars, he was offered a trade - his stack of purloined stereos for a mid-80's box Crown Vic with a Mustang engine. Max enthusiastically agreed, drifting around the city until the cops started chasing him. He lost them in a display of reckless skill, ditched the car, and called it a night. I wasn't there to see it, yet I believe it unquestioningly, because I myself witnessed a number of Max stories unfold. Like the time he took us drifting in an E-350 cargo van with no front brakes. In the rain. The he got his Ford Ranger, a fairly tame looking light passenger truck. He could burn the tires through any corner in that thing and make it look good. Then there was the incident with the Latin Kings ... I should stop.
All this adoration is a bit much. Whenever I tell the tales to someone, they ask if I had a crush on this kid, but that's not it. Max was an inspiring figure. As a child, I played far too many RPGs, and was crushed when I discovered my dreams of being a lone, unconquerable hero were hopelessly out of touch with reality. There were no legendary swords for me to claim, there was no final boss for me to conquer. Knowing someone like Max gave me a bit of hope that I could be at least a little special, and that there were exceptional people lurking everywhere.
To get to a point, Max is kind of a big part of the reason I write. I want to communicate to someone else how in awe of him I was and am. There is no more exciting place I can think of being than in the passenger seat next to him. I can't immortalize him in fiction, because I'd just turn him into a Mary Sue, so this little blog post will have to do. A monument to Max, the tallest 5'8" a man could ever be.
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