The toy for me

Posted by Jaki in The Opposite of Advice.

I’ve always been a fan of the toys. Once I became a fan of sex, sex toys weren’t too large a leap of logic. I graduated from silent bullets with clock batteries to back massagers with extension cords that sounds like car engines. But I’ve always harbored a love of strap-ons. Maybe it’s the part of me that’s queer. Maybe it’s the kinky part. Maybe because it’s subverting the female stereotypes but I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t dream about finding the perfect cock to call my own.

There is something extremely powerful about owning a cock. I say this as a woman who wasn’t born with one. No, I had to earn my cock. I worked long hard hours dealing with various un-sexy customers in extremely non-erotic settings. It’s enough to make a girl’s happy place turn frowny. But I struggled on and I dreamed about finding the cock; My cock. My cock would salute the ladies and lean left in a high breeze. My cock would drive a Ford. My cock would throw itself around your shoulder and pull you in for a warm hug. My cock would smirk knowingly. I had a empty hole in my harness that needed to be filled. The search began.

The search continued. The search was long. It would seem that my prize was unattainable because the more I searched the more I began to notice a disturbing trend. The world was determined to give me a white cock. I could be thick and stout. I could have Ron Jeremy’s cock. I could have a cock that’s as big as a desk lamp. I couldn’t find a cock to call my own for one reason; I wanted a Black one. Not permanent sharpie black but Black like me. People talk about choices.

You see, someone decided that there was a a perfect color for everyone. This color is a pale pinkish peach tone that is labeled “flesh”. Funny thing is, not everyone’ flesh is “flesh”. Mine is closer to a Hershey bar. Like all those “flesh”-toned people, I wanted a cock that matched my skin. This is where the real search began. I could live with the bandages that never matched my elbows. I could pass over the nude stockings that made my legs look ashy. I expect my makeup to be costly and harder to find. It doesn’t make me pause any longer when tan is described as dark. But I refuse to have a white cock. The standard brown option wouldn’t be enough. I don’t want rainbow stripes or sparkles. My cock is not a joke.

All the friendly sex shoppes had one brown cock on display that stood under a lamp like some beacon of diversity but for me it was either that was too dark or too light. I’d ask the shopkeep if there were other colors. They’d have pink and green cocks all over the walls but would look confused when I asked for another shade of brown. More than one brown? There was only one brown one, one brown cock for all the many shades of us. This company doesn’t make any more. The message was clear: Take it or leave it.

How often should I comprise what I want? How often do I live with the lack of choice? Why do I have to take the one alloted African American option? In a country that prides itself on freedom, a woman should be able to find the cock of her dreams. Stop making me choose white cock, America.

I asked other women of color and I was lead down the rabbit hole into an underground multicolored world of cocks. Cocks that came in a variety of colors and shapes to match a wider range of skin tones. It felt like a secret. It felt like home. Then I found her. The cock. My cock. My cock looks like me. My cock is warm to the touch. My cock has a presence. My cock is patient. Me and my cock are as tight as cloth and Velcro. I shouldn’t have to scrounge to find hidden options. I should be able to expect variety in every store, every website, every vendor. If there is a option for the “flesh”-toned then there should be others right along side, lilting under the weight of their brilliance. There is only so much a person can comprise. We shouldn’t have to comprise the things closest to us.

 

The Opposite of Advice |