Tribute to a Strap-on

Beads of sweat upon my palm are pressed into the lacquered grain of the door. I press, it jingles, swings. The scuttle-footed lady at my back stays close, breath at my shoulder. The shop is well-lit, sparse, artistically and lovingly arranged. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, saucer-eyed kids in a very naughty candy store.

Tubes and shafts and oblongs, curlicues and cylinders and unnameable blobs. Oh, my. Some glitter, others glow. A few feature vein-y protrusions, as though they are flexing for our benefit. I wonder, vaguely, if cocks can technically flex. Hmm. Anyway, must focus. Focus on the fake cock shopping. Oh god, we're cock shopping. Another gallon of fluid coats my already sopping-wet palms.

No big deal, really. We can't exactly mask our intentions. I mean, if there was a variety of produce on one side of the store, and a menagerie of love-rockets on the other, one may be able to meander amongst the starfruit and kumquats, frowning in a disapproving fashion upon prospective dong shoppers, before hastily purchasing a dong of one's own. Nope. No fruit stands here. Just rows and rows of synthetic cock. Both beauty and bane, this knowledge. Knowledge that we are all here for the same thing.

This knowledge is absolute. This being a rather upscale toy store, one would not find a gaggle of middle-aged bar-blonde harpies giggling over cheap vibes as potential gag gifts. No flickering neon XXX lights glaring in the window. Only blonde wood displays, subtle track lighting, black velvet cushions upon which precious merchandise may rest. This is a serious operation, which belies serious intent. A holy intent. Therefore, we are all aware of one another's desire and devotion, want of benediction and penance, our blazing need to worship at the altar of FUCK.

Right. Well, we all know what's up. So just pick up the fucking harness.

I look at her, she looks at me, scratches her nose and shrugs. I cough, and recommend a leather one to prevent chafing. She clears her throat and says okay. We lift a strappy contraption from the bar upon which it hangs, fiddle with the buckles. She holds it up to her pelvic region for the purpose of determining relative sizing. And then the dreadlocked shop girl proclaims loudly that there is a room upstairs we can use if we wanna try it on. Why, thank you, oh-so-helpful shop girl, with your multitude of piercings and excellent vocal projection. We both bid her a boisterous thank you, and scurry up the stairs as though the cops and clergymen were hot on our heels.

In the upper room, amongst zippered leather hoods and kits specifically designed for "medical play", she slips the leather over her jeans, steps back, slaps her hands to her thighs, looks at me. And when her eyes meet mine, the knot in my chest unravels, and I laugh. She laughs, and we laugh. And I kiss her. And I feel silly, but safe, because I'm with her.

We flounce back downstairs together, hand-in-hand, pore over the display case. She vetoes a pink piece, I veto a monstrous one. We settle upon a middle-of-the-road, sleek, black number, head to the counter. We giggle like school girls over bejeweled butt plugs as the shop girl tallies our purchase, which we split right down the middle. We chuckle, again, that this is to be our first piece of common property. We say our goodbyes, the shop door jingles, and we head out into the softly falling snow.

And I feel silly, but safe, because I'm with her.