The Doppelwanger
Jun 10 '03
The Bottom Line When looking for sex toys, unless you get off on Jesus Action Figures, religion sites are probably the wrong place to go
When I was a boy, a kid I went to day-camp with named Danny looked exactly like me. It was truly uncanny. Though he was a year younger, we were exactly the same height, pretty much the same weight, had the same color hair, not-styled in exactly the same manner. The summer sun gave us a similar pattern of freckles on our noses and cheeks. We were both a little awkward, and we both had a bit of an attitude problem. People, including Danny’s own father once, actually confused us. In part because we looked so much alike, and in part because nobody really liked either of us, there was a strange sort of pressure for us to be friends. And we gave it a good go for a while. We would have sleep-overs at each others houses, and whatever the equivalent of play-dates were back in 1978.
But after a time, both of us got more than a little sick of looking at one another. We were really not that much alike, and that fact set the discomfort of looking into a living mirror every day into stark relief. The little idiosyncracies he had that might otherwise be mildly annoying were unfathomably intolerable, because they were, in essence, coming from “me.” In some strange way, it seemed like I was being whiny, or bossy, or lying through my teeth. And I grew to hate the me I saw in him. And I imagine he felt the same way.
So it was with great relief to both of us when our respective parents told us both we didn’t have to be friends any more. Years later, when we would see each other walking around the halls of our high school, there was always a grudging, but sort of warm and knowing, nod of recognition. When we were in one another’s presence, we knew that we had gone through something weird that bound us together somehow, but we certainly didn’t want anyone else to know.
It’s sort of that way with the new artificial penis, molded from my very own unit, that’s currently sitting atop my computer monitor. We recognize one another, and we acknowledge that there’s a sameness there, but I’m not sure that either one of us is real happy with what we see.
[This is the point at which I would like to interject – Mom, for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, and if you have any hope that I will care for you in your impending decrepitide, please, stop reading. Go pick up that copy of Biography sitting in the guest bathroom with Pierce Brosnan on the cover and read that instead. Things will be much more comfortable for everyone at next year’s seder if nobody spits out Manishevitz at the first mention of a “shank-bone”]
MR. ASHCROFT, I THINK I’VE GOT ONE
If you read my Friday Night Ramble a few weeks back, you might know that my girlfriend and I had a little discussion about partaking of a product called makeyourowndildo, available, not surprisingly, from makeyourowndildo.com. Well, that discussion led to a purchase. But the company that makes this remarkable product is not, in fact, called Makeyourowndildo, Inc. It’s called Empire Laboratories.
Ordinarily, the name of the company might not be important. But we live in a post 9/11 world – a world defined, as much as anything, by John Ashcroft’s suggestion that we all look out for suspicious behavior from our neighbors -- and in that world, the oddest little facts become important. They particularly become important to people like the UPS guy, I imagine.
I also imagine such things peak the UPS guy’s interest when someone receives more than one box at a time from a place called Empire Laboratories, which I was, because my co-worker asked me to order the vibrating makeyourowndildo model for her so we could each partake of the dildo volume discount. And I imagine such things seem even more suspicious-like to a UPS guy when he has to buzz the buzzer like three times and the guy who comes to get his two big laboratory boxes has spiky one-sided bed-head, morning wood straining against a pair of Old Navy sweat-shorts and a yellow day-glow tank-top that says SPRING FUCKING BREAK!
I could be wrong about the UPS guy, but quite honestly, as I signed for my boxes of liquid cock-mold, I did sort of feel like maybe I was violating a UN Resolution. Or at least the Patriot Act. I only hoped that the storm-troopers wouldn’t bum-rush my home while my dick was sack deep in a bucket of molding solution.
ORDERING
When you’re dating an attractive older woman with really nice skin, or a slutty middle-aged divorcee who lives 400 miles away, you’re wont to do whatever it takes to keep her from trolling for horny college boys at the local Fatburger when you’re not around. You may spend a lot of time talking dirty over the phone. You may send her naked pictures of yourself with Ron Jeremy’s penis photo-shopped onto your pelvis and hope she won’t notice. You may even gently suggest that she try on the Walter Goethals of Belgium brand chastity belt that you ordered on line. But sooner or later, not that you know such a product is available, you’re going to want her to have her very own polyurethane-epoxy replica of your wiener to snuggle up next to on cold nights.
Having seen such an item during a visit to my local Good Vibrations Sex Shoppe, and mentioned it to my very own slutty middle aged divorcee, there was some interest from both of us in checking it out. But the retail price of the kit was in the neighborhood of 120 bucks. Having seen my penis, both of us knew that was a pretty pricey neighborhood for a replica that didn’t come with some sort of cunnilingus or home-made-ravioli-cooking attachment.
So we looked around on line. Surprisingly, a Google search for “make your own dildo” turned up a website called “makeyourowndildo.com.” Sure enough, they had the same product we had seen at Good Vibrations for only $69.95 ($79.95 for vibrating model) which still seemed a little pricey, but given the size considerations at issue, we figured there was a legitimate possibility of making two with one kit, and 35 bucks per Eyore schlong seemed, well, maybe about right.
Considering the additional kit we ordered for my workmate, the grand total for two of them, with shipping and handling, was around $130. The order form was easy to use. The credit card (miraculously) was approved in less than 10 seconds. And 3 days later, the boxes arrived – ahead of schedule.
THE MAKING OF THE UNIT
The kit came inside a small plastic bucket, which was filled with: a narrow 10" long cup (won’t need all that); a large bag of what felt like flour; two bottles containing some kind of viscous liquid; a thermometer; a tongue depressor (what the?); and a set of instructions. Cool.
The instructions were rather intimidating. You had to measure out enough of the flour stuff to come up to one line on the long cup and dump it in to the bucket. Then you had to mix it with water that came a third of an inch above a second line in the cup. Why not just make the second line exactly where you had to fill the water up to? We have to guess on a third of an inch? Oh, and not just any water. This water had to be EXACTLY 75 degrees. Hence the thermometer. What were we supposed to do, have a test run, to see how much adjustment would be needed in the water? It has to be exactly 75 degrees?
YES! Exactly! If it’s too warm, this jellifying solution would end up just dripping all over your balls and onto the floor. If it’s too cold, it will solidify around your johnson and you’ll be walking around for the next 2 years with a 10 inch medical cup poking through the fly of your pants.
But the mixing of the jellifying solution – the paper mache, whatever – seemed like the easy part to me. The hard part, as it were, was that once you started mixing the solution in the bowl, you had EXACTLY 3 and one half minutes to mix thoroughly, scoop the solution back into the medical cup thing, and obtain a woody capable of maintaining full capacity for 90 seconds. Seemed like a lot of work in a short period of time. I’m not 18 and I’m not from Havana. 90 seconds, in my world, you’re either saying “Sorry that usually doesn’t happen to me” or “That was great honey, goodnight.”
When my slutty middle aged divorcee came to visit a few days later, I guess I was kind of eager to give it a try ... the kit. But days went by, and we were, I don’t know, watching movies or something, and we just never got around to making the thing. Until about two hours before her plane was set to leave, when she shook me out of my sleep, and said, “Let’s go Sparky, we got fake penises to make, and not a lot o’ time to make ‘em. Get that thing a’movin’.”
“Yeah, could I maybe get a cup o’ coffee and an assist here?”
“Not enough time. Let’s go, let’s go, move it!”
“Aight.”
So, you know, the next five to seven minutes were sort of a blur of measuring and mixing and temperature-taking and woodworking. And fast as it was all moving, things seemed to be going pretty well. 75 degrees? Check. Thorough mixing? Check. You up, tiger?
“Well, check. Sort of. I mean, there’s wood, and there’s wood, and I’m not sure this here’s gonna ...”
“Looks fine,” she said, “Let’s do this thing ... three and a half minutes are up.”
Now, I know when I bring up the subject of sticking your dick into a jar of grape jelly, there’s a lot of you out there thinking, “Hells yeah! I am SO down with that.” But the truth is, it doesn’t feel half as good as you might expect. I mean, not that I know what sticking your dick into a jar of grape jelly feels like, per se, but I imagine it’s a similar sort of thing. It’s sort of cold. It sort of envelopes you. And it sort of oozes out on your stuff ... maybe onto your floor a little.
But there it is, you (or in this case, I) standing there nekkid, with a big opaque medical cup full of paper mache wrapped around your unit and staring at a watch waiting for 90 seconds to pass and hoping you won’t be stuck. And there’s your girlfriend – or in this case, jazzbocrow – looking at you looking at a watch with white glop dripping out of a cup around your penis, and saying, “Hot damn, that’s about the funniest thing I ever did see, you standing there with your dick in a cup. I wish I had a camera.”
The 90 seconds passes faster than you think, but everything still feels so wet and cold it’s like having bareback sex at the prom or something. You know it’s been a minute and a half, but you’re not exactly sure if it’s time to pull out or not ... and you’re more than a little worried about what happens if you don’t.
We decided to trust the instructions. Of the entire event, my girlfriend insists it’s the sound of removal that has left the most indelible impression. It reminded me of the time I was walking along a New Jersey mudbank filled with Fiddler Crabs and my foot sank in about a foot and a half, and I quickly yanked the shoeless foot upward, the sandy mud squishing in to fill the void. It was the empty “thwock” you hear when you’re yanking a handful of guts out of a small roasting chicken. The sucking sound one imagines when one imagines Russell Crowe’s band 30 Odd Foot of Grunts on stage.
But sure enough, it held. There it was, a cup full of my bizarro wang. a negative image of all that I had held so dearly and so often lo these many years. All we had to do was wait for the mold to cure ... and WHAT! Hey, I don’t look all that, uh ... oh jesus ... at what point in the jellifying process did mere morning heaviness take over for raging almost-impressiveness? Oh, for the love of god!
About 8 hours later, things seemed sufficiently cured to add the epoxy into the mold. My girlfriend was long gone, but all that was left was the science anyway. So I set about mixing the appropriate amounts of the two solutions. Again, the instructions were a bit intimidating. There are two bottles of liquid, and they suggest you pour the clear bottle first into a container, because it’s more viscous and will take a while to settle down, for measurement purposes. I chose a very small tupperware thing – something I usually pack, like, leftover chopped cilantro in. The stuff had the consistency of glue. But I filled the container half-way up. They say you have to put the EXACT amount of each of the two liquids in. EXACT! If you have a little more of one or the other, then the final product will feel “Sticky.” I’m guessing in this context, sticky is not a good thing. I think I got the second bottle, which had the consistency of paint, measured out correctly. And then I mixed like crazy with the tongue depressor thing for about 2-3 minutes. I remember thinking, “Well, I’ll surely have to mix up some more of this stuff. That’s one small tupperware container full of epoxy-resin, and that there mold has even my nutsack and everything, and that’s some VOLUME brother.
As I poured the last third of the container of epoxy mix into the mold, I wept a little on the inside as it overflowed, and dripped over the sides of the cup. I tapped the cup down on my desk, figuring all the mix hadn’t settled all the way in. No deal. That was it. The mold was filled and there was epoxy resin to spare. Nothing to do but wait.
THE REACTION
Late that night, it seemed like everything had solidified. The entire mold slid right out of the cup, which I took to mean everything inside had set up completely. The mold kind of cracked open pretty easily, and as it did, it revealed, much to my shock, a perfectly formed, and by all appearances, precise and detailed replica of my very own thingy.
Sure enough, things had gone a little Charmin mid-process, but nevertheless, there it was. Every vein. Every wrinkle. Every ridge. Every skin-tag. Perfectly replicated. My doppelwanger. And it was a damn freaky sight to see.
I guess this might be a good time to mention that, if your initial placement of the unit into the jellifying solution is not perfect – for reasons of anatomy and physics that will become obvious if you ever try to make one of these things – the instructions instruct you to turn the cup while it’s still on you. This is good advice, except for one thing: The solution starts to solidify real damn quick. And once you’re in, if you turn the cup, it kind of turns you too. The result is not terrible, but there is something about it that is sort of reminiscent of the insouciant tilt of the head one associates with Nipper the RCA dog or a confused child baseball player in a Norman Rockwell painting. And I can tell you from experience that one of the few things in the world you do not want to be giving you a quizzical look is your very own penis.
Excepting that, I have to admit, I though it was pretty cool. Suddenly, I was seeing myself from angles I had never seen before, and it brought to mind thoughts of guillotined Frenchmen, and the strange view they must have had in their final seconds if their heads landed in the basket eye-holes upward: “Hey, that’s me up there! Sort of different looking from this perspective, and it’s not a perspective I’m entirely happy about having. But yeah, sure enough, that there is me.”
It also brought to mind some other things. Like all those women who said, “I can’t, it’s making me gag.” Suddenly, if I was so inclined, I could find out for myself if that was just a bunch of hoo-ha and needless complaining. I could, if I was so inclined, develop a pat response: “Oh please, I’ve been there, done that, and it ain’t no thang!” But if I experimented thusly (I’ll pretend here to have been worried) what would that make me? Gay? Incestuous? Andrew McCarthy? Some kind of as-yet un-named sexual deviant?
I didn’t know. But I know this: As I sit here today, with the doppelwanger quizzically staring down at me, I’m reminded of Danny, my childhood twin. Of the brief time we spent sizing up ourselves by sizing up one another. And of the even longer time we spent sort of resenting each other’s existence, even as we embraced the fact that there was nothing else in the world quite like us.
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