#1: Dildos Make Me Giggle


I went to a sex shop today.

It’s not like I’d never been to one before. Okay, I actually had only ever been to a sex shop once before, and it had been a pretty sketchy place on the side of the highway that I kept begging my then-boyfriend to take us to as I saw the signs on the highway informing (warning?) me that it was getting closer. 20 miles ahead! 15 miles ahead! “Come on, we’ve got to go, I’ve never been to a sex shop before. I’m 24 and I’ve always wanted to go to one!”

The place I went to today was a decidedly more classy establishment, in a real building on the main strip of town with carpeted insides and displays and windows that weren’t covered by black tape or anything. I don’t think the windows of the sketchy sex shop had black tape on them, but there had been an admission booth covered in a barred window. This place, you can just walk right in. When I went in there was a girl behind the counter who I wanted to avoid at all costs, but since the last time I’d been to a sex shop they’d made me present an ID before they buzzed me in like it was a night club, I assumed I had to show my ID to the girl at the counter. Turns out I did not.

I felt indescribably awkward. I’m an incredibly sexually open and sex-positive person. I ask guys point-blank having only known them for 15 minutes and knowing their sexuality is not a match with mine what the size of their penis is. I realize that’s just a little bit creepy, but my point is that I’m not afraid of sex. Maybe if it had been a guy behind the counter I wouldn’t have been as intimidated, but it was a girl. A nice girl, with pretty hair and big glasses and friendly smile. I looked around.

There were vibrators, and lubricants, and porn DVDs. I suppressed a giggle. And then another. I suddenly became a fifteen year old boy. Oh my god there are dildos in here. Why am I smiling like some weirdo? Why can’t I stop giggling under my breath? What the hell is wrong with me?

Why is a DVD $35 and a basic bullet vibrator $105?

All pertinent questions, I’m sure.

I had actually come in with the intention of buying a vibrator. Now, I’d forced myself to come, because I’d just left a Chinese buffet, and on a full stomach, the last thing a gay boy wants to think about is things going up his butt. But I knew that later on I’d want something up my butt, and there have been so few satisfying things up my butt in my life that I feel I really deserve something of good quality, preferably in the shape of a penis and vibrating.

The very friendly girl at the front counter gave me a little tour. I tried to both diffuse the awkwardness I felt and make it clear that I didn’t care about the lingerie by offering her a brief version of the story of my first trip to a sex shop with my ex-boyfriend, both to hammer home the fact that I was gay and therefore (a) not interested in the lady panties and (b) your ally. Gay men and straight women have a way of sticking together. It’s a crazy world out there, and the straight men treat us both like shit so we’ve got to rally our defenses and pool our resources however we can.

The friendly counter girl was distracted suddenly by a customer coming in with a baby, who she had apparently not seen in a while. I know I’m not completely hip to the rules of this whole “adult store” thing, but I’m pretty sure a baby is far beneath the age of 18. When does the statute of limitations on babies stop? Is it still okay to bring them in when they’re a year old, but not when they’re a year and one month old?

At any rate, I stood awkwardly paralyzed in front of a wall of “extenders,” these kind of dildos that you put your cock into to give you the monster cock of your dreams, I guess. Not only did I have no interest in them, they were far too expensive anyway and I was staring, unblinking, at a wall of dicks, too paralyzed by awkwardness and inappropriately suppressed giggles to move. Some ladies came in. They were looking around, and I think occasionally glancing at me. What were they thinking? I’m standing in front of the wall of extenders, next to the porn, 95% of which is straight, so clearly I like a straight guy with a small dick who wants to extend himself to his heart’s desire while watching girly movies. I was none of those things!

So I tried to find the vibrators. This proved to be a challenge. I mean, there were vibrators, but of so many varieties and sporadically sprinkled throughout the store that I didn’t know where to look, and the more I akwardly walked around with a probably creepy half-grin on my face suppressing immature giggles because, well, there were dick-shaped things in front of me, the weirder I probably looked to everyone.

For the record, had I found any vibrator under $20 that looked like it might suit my needs (which are slim: be penis shaped and vibrate), I’d have bought it. But almost everything in the store was a hundred dollars or more, so finally, after paying a brief visit to the porn section to look at maybe three of the total twelve gay DVDs, I waved an awkward goodbye to the counter girl, who said “Come see me again!” I replied “I will!” and headed out the door.

Even in sex shops, those Southern colloquial things like “Come see us again” still seem to apply.

I held it in the whole way to my truck, I unlocked the door, got in, sat down and closed the door.

I burst into a fit of uncontrollable, maniacal, Joker-like giggling. I had just been in a sex shop, by myself, perusing walls of fake dicks, actually holding a Fleshlight box in my hand and turning it upside down to look for a price (I probably looked like I was admiring the vagina shaped penetration area, which I can assure you I wasn’t, though admittedly it was well made), and picking up one of the six books in the entire store that was on a table with two chairs next to it, a volume of gay erotica that was $15. I thought about buying it. But I didn’t.

My fortune cookie at the Chinese restaurant a mere fifteen minutes earlier had told me to be spontaneous. I was at a Chinese restaurant I’d made up my mind to go to hours before, about to go to a coffee shop, which I had also premeditated, and though I’d made up my mind NOT to go to Adam and Eve, I’d changed it at the last second and stuck to the original plan, despite having a full tummy and not feeling at all sexy, but I still don’t think that counts as spontaneous.

And so I came here, to the cafe, where I had planned to come, and did exactly what I planned to do, which was to play the old piano that’s in here for a while (absolutely no one seemed to pay any attention to me, which I’ll admit was a bit of an ego bruiser, since at least one person usually comes up to me afterward and says “Hey, that was great!”), and sat down to write the first entry in this journal, which I planned to do last week, and which I spent two days trying to think up a name for. I wouldn’t say any of that is spontaneous either.

I finally settled on the name “Procoyon” for the URL, because my name was already taken, and I could use my name but I’d have to pay Live Journal $15 for the domain name, which is just silly. So I started to sift through song lyrics, names of fictional characters, gods and goddesses, anything that I thought sounded cool. Finally I turned to weapon names from Final Fantasy, and since Hauteclaire was already taken, I started looking through the weapon names in Final Fantasy XIII. The character Sazh uses pistols which are all named after constellations, and I tried a few (Aldebaran, Antares, and Ras Algethi were all taken) and found that Procoyon was available. Then I had to decide if I wanted to go with the name of the constellation, or the name of the actual guns, which would be “Procoyons” since there are two. It’s splitting hairs I know, but I’m atrocious at making decisions. It takes me days, sometimes weeks or months to decide on a username for any website if my name is already taken.

So here I am. I want to have a journal so I can talk about my day to day thoughts, record moments that I will one day enjoy reliving. I tried blogging, but blogging isn’t personal enough, I feel a pressure to write an article every time I try to write a blog entry, and since no one is reading anyway, I feel silly going on about myself or my life and my problems. I thought I would put together a small eBook of the short stories, poetry, and a few select blog entries, that I’ve written over the years, but when I went through my blog I found that the majority of the entries were vapid and boring and not at all worthy of being put in a book. This doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be written, but they need to be in a journal, and a blog just doesn’t feel the same as a journal. I know that I’m splitting hairs again, but it matters to me.

So here I am, in this little cafe about a half hour from my house. I was first brought here on a not-a-date-that-I-really-wanted-to-be-a-date by a guy who bought me some coffee and gave me a tarot reading. Later on that night, after listening to me tearfully confess the details of my depression, my medical issues, my anxiety problems, my recent breakup of a three year relationship, and so on and so forth, he gave me a big hug, which felt really good. Then he took me into my bed and cuddled with me, and well, that turned into one of the best rounds of sex I can remember having, and one of the few times I enjoyed bottoming. This encounter made me want to learn more about tarot (and in retrospect, maybe it’s what ignited my desire for a vibrator again. My ex had thrown out the first one after neither of us cleaned it for a few months. That was probably the correct thing to do), so I bought a tarot deck, and then an oracle deck, but soon after I started reading atheist literature and I became very disenchanted with new age Spiritualism or Neo Paganism and whatever else, and became a little nihilistic, because I started to really contemplate the possibility that when I die, my consciousness may well fade into nothingness and oblivion.

Currently, I’ve moved away from the Atheist side of the spectrum and back into Agnostic territory. I don’t know if anything will happen to me after I die, and I have difficulty believing in any specific deity, but I admit that it’s easy to believe in a vague concept of a grand united divine consciousness permeating all things, and that my spirit will return to it when I die and maybe I’ll get to be a plant and breathe in the oxygen through my skin and drink water with my roots, or become a wolf and cuddle up to my mother, surrounded by my brother and sister cubs. It’s just a more fun way of looking at things, and I’ve always been partial to fantasy, so it’s easy to believe something like that. I kind of feel like I’m violating my own principles though, because I refuse to believe in the Christian God, mostly because of what a maniacal jackass he is, but if I refuse to believe in one supernatural philosophy that cannot be proven, why subscribe to another that’s just as faith-based? It’s an ongoing question for me.

And so, the journal has been started. The first thoughts are written down. The music plays and the endless possibilities of tomorrow stand before me. Like the Fool, standing on the precipice with arms outstretched, I jump.


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