Blow Up Doll
Speaking of love dolls.
Two of my friends and I chipped in together to buy one once.
On the box, she was some bodacious porn star. Then you opened up and it was just a hideous abomination. This wasn’t a REALDOLL. This was a plastic balloon in the approximate shape of a human, with three holes of entry.
Mouth, pussy, and anus, of course.
Three friends. Three holes.
We were each designated one hole. The anus was all mine.
I promise you, though, all three of us used all three holes.
We just didn’t do it at the same time.
We let each other have our darling harlot in private. Like gentlemen.
Oh, and that lady came with some warming lube.
I remember what kind it was, because of the excited tone in my friend’s voice, when he said, “Hot apple pie pussy!”
Yeah. I pounded that blow up doll a few times, real good. While I was watching TV. Before bed. Whatever.
I wonder where she ended up. It seems like I’d remember. But no idea.
We bought her from a love boutique at Deja Vu, a strip club.
I went there two times.
The first time, I had the time of my life. Let loose. Howled. Smelled fresh vagina in my face during a couch dance. It was hot.
The second time, I was brooding. I was in a somber mood. I was looking around, noticing the sadness in some of the strippers’ eyes.
Some were having a grand old time. Others looked desperate and defeated.
I knew I wouldn’t ever go back again. The sadness was too real.
Women who want to strip should strip.
Prostitution should be legal too. We have ways to make it safe and savory.
But women who never figured out their identities all the way, who get into stripping or prostitution just because they have bodies that are considered beautiful by societal standards, but they are trembling and dying inside?
That’s not all right. We have to fix the circumstances that create such desperation.
We need people to be taken care of, without having to lose their dignity and humanity.
We can get there. We will get there. We’re on our way.
As for that one blow up doll that got away, I hope she’s happy out there somewhere married to a doctor or lawyer. Maybe she’s a preacher’s wife.
Originally published at Andrew L. Hicks.