***Warning— this story has some pretty explicit sexual content in it***
When I was in high school, and particularly hormonal, my friends and I would compare people we found unconventionally attractive and try to shock one another with our choices. The selection began with fairly innocuous characters — Noel Fielding, Anthony Hopkins, our local priest. As we progressed, things got more intense, and abstract — a second cousin, Wally of Where’s Wally, Lightning McQueen. Back then I was actively ignoring my bisexuality and most of my choices were male (or seemingly cis-male cartoon characters). Unfortunate, as almost the entire cartoon ensemble of Disney’s Hercules was masturbation fodder for me — including the Hydra.
None of this is out of the ordinary, especially not for people brought up in a catholic school system where sexuality is paradoxically non-existent and excessively repressed. Attraction to anthropomorphic cartoon characters and patriarchal religious icons isn’t dissimilar to fangirl celebrity worship — the object of the obsession still fairly unreachable, god-like in status.
Since then I’ve moved away from my late night Deviantart.net visits in the relaxation that my adulthood has brought upon my sexuality and how strange and surprising it can be. Well, strange to others, perhaps, but not to me. As my sexual focus turns from the pursuit of other people inward to my own pleasure and figuring out what I really like, experimentation seems to be the key factor, within reason. I don’t really want to say that I’m into “kink” or “BDSM” or whatever because frankly it’s kinda cringe. I will instead consistently call myself a “try anything twice” kinda guy; plodding along trying new things (fisting? sure!), discarding the things I don’t want to try again (anal fisting; very unsure) leaving no stone unturned, and remaining generally open minded along the way.
That was until I discovered the ovipositor.
The ovipositor is a different beast entirely. Moulded from silicone into a fantastically abnormally proportioned phallus, the ovipositor has a hollow centre in its shaft into which you insert large gooey gelatin eggs resembling those bouncy balls you used to get from dusty $2 plaza toy dispensaries. The moulds vary from the size of a small chicken egg to a tennis ball, depending on how, ahem, FULL, you wish to feel. The toys creator (a company delightfully called Primal Hardwere) states that if you’ve ever “yearned for an otherworldly encounter” they are your source. The items they sell range from longer, more dragon-like to bug-esque in nature, with names like “Splorch”, “Glorp” and “Squick”. You can even customize the colour and sheen of the shaft and base. What more could you want?
When I first read about it, (my source a now fairly old Vice article) I wasn’t shocked- it felt almost logical to me, the next rung up in the hierarchy of sex toys I had already grew tired of. It was as if this dildo was waiting for me, lying dormant in a cold remote cave, and that all my actions to that point lead to me discovering it in all of its disturbing glory, blowing off the dust, gingerly fingering its gooey eggs. I wasn’t delving into some dark or frightening part of my psyche from which this desire came — wanting to be bred isn’t that out of this world, but it usually requires a certain amount of psychology to be effective, a role play involving more than one party.
I needed a partner in slime. So when I found Ethan, it felt like the stars had aligned.
Initially Ethan seemed like the definitive almost-thirty-male-creative, recovering ketamine enthusiast-cum-pot enthusiast with a nice guy image that I had cut so clearly in my mind. He was cute, witty, friendly, and seemed to be well travelled and fairly wise for a dude who was in advertising. Soon I would find out that his life experience was a lot more extensive than I had given him credit for (and coming from me, that was saying something).
We had started off texting each other quite frequently almost every day up until our first date, a factor that would usually feel tiring to me but in this instance became almost rewarding, and fairly comfortable. Once we had exchanged enough pleasantries, he took the first plunge into the sexual cesspool.
I was all ears and eyes. He sent me two videos of him fucking a pocket pussy with so much vigour I genuinely thought it would split in two. I was surprised; Ethan obviously wasn’t as much of a girl scout as I had pegged him to be. This first performance and our subsequent exchange of videos even sent me into a strangely prudish headspace — could I handle this dude? He was obviously into some pretty interesting stuff. It went against my stereotype of him as someone that I would have to work hard at getting to even so much as spank me. It was exciting. I pulled up my G-string, gave myself a slap on the tit and remembered who I was.
As fate would decide it, I would contract gonorrhoea prior to our date, and became worried that it would hinder the momentum we had built so carefully in the week leading up. Not that I felt any shame — I have found that telling someone that you contracted an STI is a pretty good judge of character; why would I want to hang out with someone who was judgmental about it in the first place? Bleh. Ethan wasn’t phased, just sad that he couldn’t stick his tongue down any of my holes. Our drink at the pub ended up an eight hour engagement, concluding with me giving him a foot job on the balcony of his friend’s Airbnb. All in all, a great first date.
As it progressed, our fling became an intense exchange of sexual inclinations, each of us hoping the other would encourage our fantasies enough that we could eventually play them out in reality. I advocated hard for foot worship, he for comically large anal plugs. He wanted a gang bang, and I would describe how I needed to be bukkake-d at least once in the coming year. It was a mutually beneficial relationship, and I felt like I had found a kindred spirit in filth, a real lothario of the worst nature. He even took me on a driving lesson, a date that was so enjoyable to me I had forgotten that I hadn’t even given him a blowjob yet. He was very into breeding, cream pies, being called Daddy, the whole shebang. When I finally brought up the ovipositor, he basically didn’t bat an eye. In fact, he told me that he had been waiting until he found the right person to try it with. I was ecstatic, and we both enthused that we were happy that we had found each other.
Ethan very generously purchased a Splorch, and all the required accessories, set to arrive from the US in a month’s time. We were on our way to greatness. I was ready to become a mother.
In May, I came back from a trip to Melbourne and he from a regional wedding, and we fucked for the first time. It was fabulous, and intensely intimate, even after he had widened my tunnel with a ‘vaginal expander’ that looked like an old-timey bellows. I spent the night, and he got me coffee in the morning. Then he stopped texting me.
Realising I had been ghosted was frustrating. Obviously he had life stressors that needed more attention than whatever we had going on did, and I wasn’t about to be shitty at someone for checking out for their mental health. I was more worried than anything, and had grown up enough to expect a little more decency from someone who had literally tasted my squirt only a week earlier.
Eventually I probed with a double text, and he explained that he had a lot of stuff going on — which was totally fair enough. He also said that he had gotten intense “girl of his dreams” vibes from me, and that nothing could ever really happen because I had a boyfriend, so he was avoiding the stress that talking to me would put on his already tender heart, so to speak.
I hadn’t expected it at all. I was sad that he was going through whatever he was going through, and disappointed that we probably wouldn’t get to bump uglies again. When he stopped responding to my messages for the second time, I gave up. I didn’t say anything about the dildo — that would have been at the least insensitive, at the worst greedy. The sexual future that I had imagined had slipped through my fingers just as quickly and intensely as it had appeared, and my dreams of being fertilised with it.
Now that I’ve had time to reflect on the sticky situation, I ponder on the desires that led me to embrace the ovipositor so intensely in the first place. Supernatural and fantastical creatures throughout history have embodied a plethora of allegories for the human condition. In their interactions with humans, monsters play out moral conundrums in the tenuous relationship between good and evil — representing fear, subversion, power, domination, betrayal, the unknown. Human sexuality and behaviour are so closely linked, you don’t have to do much Googling to discover the extent of these ideas as the personification of sexuality throughout culture — Bigfoot porn, tentacle erotica, Vampire fan fiction — and there are now multiple defined paraphilias (the experience of intense sexual arousal to atypical objects, situations, fantasies, behaviours, or individuals) including exophilia (attraction to extra-terrestrials) and teratophilia (attraction to monsters; this term is now outdated, and most people who adhere to this paraphilia prefer exophilia as an all-encompassing label).
In a paper published by the National Taiwan University in 2015, researchers suggest “that monsters can function as an escapist fantasy for some women, since the monster is able to embody masculine attributes without presenting itself as a man,” (most frequently arrogance, cruelty, dominance) “…which may embody trauma and terror in extreme cases, or aggravating patriarchal arrangements in the least.”
So, with this knowledge ,we can deduce that monsters = big, bad and frightening; characteristics which become beneficial in depictions involving masochism, bondage and domination. I like all of those things, and then some, but why the eggs? Why did the impregnation excite me the most?
Biologically, sexual desire for inhuman creatures perplexes most evolutionary psychologists. While some believe that all sexual desires must be rooted in some evolutionary adaptation in the genetic need to procreate, many also argue that monster porn has the ability to mimic ancient genetic cues that might have once had an adaptive purpose, but are no longer relevant in our current time. Some of these sexual characteristics may even be incidental by-products, with no adaptive functions of their own. Thus, this transgression of biological impulses becomes simply a reality of our modern access to information and technology. The technology, in this case, an artificial egg laying marvel.
While the ovipositor doesn’t seem to serve any purpose in my life other than a funny way for me to get my rocks off, I understand that all of these concepts are present in some way — there is a physical and emotional power play involved — the submission and vulnerability that allowing someone to insert foreign objects into your clunge requires, and the fear of unknown mythical power and allure of domineering masculinity. There’s also an element of wanting the care and sensitivity pregnancy and birth lends itself to — you are looked after, checked in with, worshipped, even. You don’t have to be an evolutionary psychologist to understand why one might crave those things.
At the end of the day, it’s not like I couldn’t have bought my own toy, inseminated myself and toughed out the pregnancy alone — it is physically doable, but in my opinion, nowhere near as much fun. If I'm topping up my Opal card and doing the dishes with home brewed alien eggs inside of me, I want someone to know about it, for fuck sake. While I understand that losing the stunning specimen of sexual adventure that I am is a huge loss on Ethan’s part, I am disturbed by the thought that he may be using the ovipositor on someone else less deserving of its sanctity, or he’s sold it, or even worse — it lays unused gathering lint under his bed, a hallowed reminder of his mistakes with women.
Ethan, if you are reading this; I want the ovipositor. I know the divorce was messy, but let me take custody of Splorch. You have enough on your plate.
In the interim, I’m taking applications for a new partner in slime, tentacles notwithstanding.
