by Bryan McMillan
I gave my father a double-ended dildo for Christmas this year.
It was 12 inches long and anatomically correct, with two circumcised heads and veins running all up and down and around the shaft.
When he unwrapped it from the tissue paper he let out a gasp, quickly wrapping it back up - we were, after all, at the Cheesecake Factory and you never can be sure how tourists are going to react to 12-inch dongs appearing in the middle of the bar.
"What is it?" my stepmother asked as my father began to laugh. "He didn't..." She let the sentence trail off as my father pushed the package across the table.
Apparently my parents had almost bought me an electronic recorder that, when you blew into it, made different funny sounds depending on which button you pushed. My stepmother had jumped to the conclusion that I had somehow stumbled upon the same gag gift and decided, in some bizarre coincidence, to buy it for them. My father just smiled as she unwrapped the tissue.
"Oh, my god," she said, repeating my father's hasty rewrapping. "Why did he give you this?"
The grin covered my father's entire face. "Because he knew I wanted one."
You see, this wasn't my father's first double-ender. It was a replacement for an 18-incher he'd had for years but lost.
He'd originally found it lying in the middle of the road one day just outside the gates to the town dump. At the time, he was driving me to a friend's house - since I wasn't driving myself, I couldn't have been any older than 15 - and he was so surprised to see it lying there that he turned to me and asked, "Was that a dildo?"
"What?" I said. I guess I hadn't been paying attention - probably listening to music or something.
"Oh, nothing," he mumbled, as if distracted, and didn't say anything else until he dropped me off at my friend's.
But after I was out of the car, he drove back and got the dildo.
He picked it up with two sticks he grabbed from the side of the road and dropped it onto the floorboard of the car where he kicked it way back under his seat. Oddly enough, he was on his way to meet with his bankers and, as you can imagine, he didn't want them to see the giant head of an 18-inch dildo peeking out from under the seat of his sports car. But after his meeting was over, when he finally got home, he used another stick to dig it back out and flip it onto an upside down trashcan lid that he used to carry the dildo into our house where he threw it in the dishwasher to sterilize it.
After that it became his favorite toy.
He would invite people over for a dinner party and lay out a huge meal and in the middle of the table would be one of those long wicker breadbaskets that you use to serve Italian loaves. Inside the basket, wrapped in a cloth as if to keep the bread warm, would be the dildo. My father used to get the biggest kick out of watching people's reactions as they reached for what they thought was a loaf of bread and instead came away with the double ender. The fact that I had gotten him to unwrap this new dildo in the middle of a restaurant was simply my homage to that particular gag.
Another favorite trick of my father's was bringing the dildo to a sporting event, like a boxing match or a football game, and stuffing the monster down his pants before he went into the bathroom. He would pull out the dildo instead of his own penis and, after pretending to take a leak, he would bang the head of the dong off the sides of the urinal - thump, thump, thump - as if he were trying to shake off the last few drops. You can't even imagine the looks on the faces of the poor dupes standing to either side off him - they must have thought they were taking a piss next to some sort of insane porn star.
In fact, it was because of this gag that I hadn't given him a dildo sooner. I'd actually been looking for just the right dong for a few years - obviously it was important that the dildo be anatomically correct - something shaped like a bunny rabbit or a rocket ship just wouldn't work - and I wanted it to be a double-ender for sentimental reasons. I never had any luck, though. I'd find an 18-incher, but it would only have one head. Or I'd find a double-ender, but it would have a smooth shaft and rounded heads. Or I'd find one that had lifelike circumcised heads and a veiny shaft, but it would be made out of black latex, which would have blown the whole illusion.
Finally I decided to go another route. A friend had been given a life-size latex fist and forearm for her bachelorette party and to this day it's a huge hit with all her guests any time she throws a party. My dad might get a kick out of that, I thought. But when I went into the shop to buy the fist, I saw the 12-incher and, other than its missing six inches, it was perfect. So I bought it.
As the sales clerk was ringing me up, I told him what a hit my friend's latex fist is with all her friends. He told me he had a funny story about the fist. It seemed the shop had a regular mail-order customer from Alaska who was always asking for the biggest thing they had. Finally, the clerk said, they sent him the latex fist and eventually the guy from Alaska called back to say it was great but wondered if they had anything bigger. "Bigger?" the clerk asked him. "What are you fucking up there? Polar bears?" And that was the image I carried with me as I headed off to meet my father at the Cheesecake Factory.
A prank that my father liked to play with his dildo was to give it as a gift to other people when he knew they were going to have to open it in public, like at a surprise party or a special anniversary. That's how he eventually lost it, of course.
The last time he gave it away was to the wife of one of his oldest friends. They were having a roast for her on her 45th birthday and all her friends and family were there. Well, after the roast, she stuck the dildo in a drawer in her bedroom and began plotting a way to give it back to my father in a way that would even the score. Unfortunately, while she was still working on the plan, the police confiscated the dong.
My father's old friend, who was in the middle of building a new strip mall, was suspected by the police of engaging in some, let's just say, shady practices and while they were never able to prove anything, the police raided his house looking for evidence. In addition to whatever business documents they could find, they took many of his wife's personal items, all of which had to be reclaimed personally. Needless to say, my father's friend didn't want to go down to the police station and ask for her 18-inch double-ended dildo back, so there it stayed - a loss that I'm afraid my father felt keenly.
Now, though, my father finally has a dildo again. Or rather, he almost does. Fifteen minutes or so after leaving my house on the night that I gave it to him, he called me to say that he had forgotten it at my place.
"Since I'm leaving for Florida in a few days, you can use it for the winter," he told me. "But when I get back in March, I want it back."
Fortunately, that gives me plenty of time to plan a dinner party. Now I just need to find one of those wicker baskets.