Recently, out with my friend M, I got drunk.
I didn’t mean to—drinks in Manhattan are $16 each, and by the time I’m drunk, I’m also filing for bankruptcy.
But M can put away liquor: I ordered a glass of champagne; he ordered a tequila on the rocks. When I was halfway finished with my first glass, his glass was empty. I tried to keep up.
“So, how’s the dog working out?” he asked, gulping away.
He was referring to my roommate’s new dog, a rescue with a tendency to eat my underwear when I leave my bedroom door open.
“It’s not bad,” I shrugged, “as long as I keep my door closed.”
We caught up over the next hour or so—drinking, and drinking, and drinking. “Let’s go out,” he said, picking up the bill.
I worked the next day at 9 a.m. No way was I going to stay out later and get drunker. I came up with an alternative: “Let’s go to the sex shop.”
We sauntered down 8th Avenue, fluorescent blue light glowing from our destination. The store is called, appropriately, The Blue, written in white across a blue banner; its store window displays speedos and underwear, but it’s no surprise what else is inside.
“Why are we here again?” M asked me, fingering a leather whip.
“I need a new dildo.” That wasn’t just the alcohol talking: I retired mine after my last failed relationship, and that was in 2015.
We went to the dildo wall, filled with all the colors and shapes you can imagine (including a black fist, which just made me clench). An employee came over and helped me pick my perfect fit, like someone at Madewell trying to sell jeans—and I went with the flesh color.
Listen, I know I was really drunk. But let me tell you—I went home and masturbated for two hours. Maybe that doesn’t seem like a long time to some of you, but for me… I’m very much a “Let’s get this finished so I can go get Taco Bell and fall asleep” kind of guy (sober or drunk, to be honest). But this—it was the Holy Grail of dildos. The Holy Dildo.
I woke up the next morning late, hungover as hell. I jumped up, took a two-minute shower, and ran out the door to work.
When I came home, I noticed that my bedroom door was wide open. Set on the bed was half of my dildo and a couple of chewed-off pieces. My roommate’s dog ate the full head of my dildo. And swallowed it.
My roommate, horribly embarrassed, paid me in full for a new dildo and carefully monitored his dog as she pooped out chunks of flesh-colored rubber. As for me… When I returned to the store, they only had the same size/brand of dildo in hot pink.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been that drunk since, but it just doesn’t feel the same.