Deep in the heart of Texas, there is an adult megaplex situated off a certain highway. My friends (who for the purposes of this post will be S and O) and I see it every time we drive up and down this highway, have for years, and recently we decided to finally visit it.
In my town, the only sexy store mostly caters to the local strippers, providing specialty shoes, tear-away teddies, and other such tools of the trade, with one wall dedicated to marital aides. Ever since 50 Shades became a thing, there’s been a shelf that has handcuffs and cheap ties on it.
Compared to this megaplex of sin, our local sex shop looks like a nunnery.
I will endeavor to share at least a fraction of this journey with you, gentle readers, because joy this great deserves to be shared. This kind of story is the kind that goes down in the history books, or at least in the scrapbook of my memories, as one of the greats. Buckle up, because we start off going zero to sixty in exactly one line…
We passed the Adult Megaplexxx on our way to cash in a winning lotto ticket.
Not for any groundbreaking amount of money, but still enough that it constituted a family outing for the three of us. Off to a rollicking start already! We piled into S’s car and spent a few hours heading down to the Texas Lottery Commission.
As usual, the Adult Megaplexxx caught our attention.
The Fleshlight Banner
Whoever set this up is either brave or stupid. This is Texas. And on the side of this warehouse-looking modern day Sodom is a banner at least ten feet long that reads: “FLESHLIGHT. The #1 male sex toy in the world.”
Considering I was taught in my sex education class that masturbation caused personality problems and mental illness (I am only in my twenties), I consider it pretty ballsy of them to not only admit that men jack it, but also that they help them do it. And are the best in the world at doing so!
There’s a lot to be said for excellence in one’s field, and Fleshlight was saying it. With a giant banner and bold type on the side of a sex toy emporium.
We had all day once the ticket was turned in, so S and O decided it was finally time to check it out. How many times had we seen this banner, leering at us? How many times had this carnal castle caught our eyes?
O plugged the address into her GPS and fed S the instructions. And that is where the first of our obstacles came up. We obeyed the directions, but somehow, we ended up at a Golden Corral.
A Golden Corral. If it’s possible to be more opposite a sexual experience than Golden Corral, please, let me know.
So and O pulled into the parking lot and started looking over the directions. I’d been in the backseat, listening to music and blocking out the pain in my feet and the uncomfortable rumbly that was starting in the tumbly and associated organs. I was only vaguely aware there was any sort of problem. I looked around and noted that this was not, in fact, Dildopolis, but instead the architectural harbinger to an hour spent explosively shitting and bemoaning God for abandoning you.
I sat up, put an ear in the conversation, and found them just debating on how things had gone wrong. I studied the Golden Corral, noting how nice and clean the facade was, in stark contrast to its insides and the facade of the one in our town. I leaned back again and settled in for more music.
I happened to glance over and saw the Adult Megaplexxx. It was across a six lane divided highway.
“Guys,” I called. “Guys, there it is.”
We managed to navigate across six lanes of the worst drivers Texas has to offer, and ended up turning down the driveway. S was a bit concerned. See, the parking, like in most scandalous locations, is located in the back, for utmost discretion. This wasn’t worrisome, at least not to me.
What was worrisome was the thick forest surrounding the parking lot. It looked like we’d been dropped back into primordial Texas, before the white man came and hosed it down with piss and cedar. Tall oaks and dense underbrush, all dark and teeming with birds and who knew what else.
There was additional parking under cover, though it was walled in with sheet metal and thick, rusted pillars of steel that looked like they could stand up to a semi collision. We deigned not to park there, lest we be murdered.
All of this features are for security and privacy, and I can respect that. I do respect that, immensely, and the care it shows to consumers. Still, it looked like prime murder territory, and its location–surrounding a place where you can buy handcuffs and gags at a reasonable price–didn’t really help soothe our fears.
Opening the doors revealed a hallway kept separate from the rest of the store. On either side of either door, there were metal detectors, like the kind at an airport or a high school.
“They sure don’t want you smuggling anything out of here,” I said.
“I wonder if they have toilets,” said O.
“Do you want to use the toilet in a Dildopolis?” S asked.
Bathing the length of the hallway with dim, bluish light was a soda machine. One of those new ones that gets your drink with a robot arm and opens up a little plastic tube like the ones at the bank. I went over to inspect it, and made an incredible discovery.
“Guys! They have cherry Sprite!”
We clustered together to look at it.
“I’ve never seen a soda machine with cherry Sprite in it,” I commented.
“Are you gonna buy one?”
“I don’t want dildo Sprite!”
We all agreed that dildo Sprite wasn’t calling to any of us and entered the Dildopolis proper. Immediately, we were hit by a brick wall of nauseatingly thick perfume smell. I wheezed, eyes watering, and S made the same noise as a clotheslining victim.
O looked over her shoulder at us and gestured for us to follow her.
“Holy shit look at the size of that porn collection!” she exclaimed.
Panic! At The DVD Section
Our excitement was short-lived. Yes, it was a porn section roughly the same area as our house, but upon closer inspection, it was a palace built on sand, or however that Coldplay song goes.
I’m to understand that mainstream pornography has the same problem as mainstream anime. That is, everyone has the same exact face and they all have beachball titties. This porn section did nothing to disprove this stereotype.
Same-face syndrome was the least of its worries. I was browsing the nearest shelf and found a series promising brutal rape right next to a series about naughty teachers. The whiplash of topic and tone stunned me, and I’d only just started recovering when I saw pregnancy porn sitting right next to extreme anal sluts. Over them was a selection of Girls Gone Wild knock-offs and college-themed DVDs. On the next shelf was another rape series surrounded by mundane gangbang and MILF porns.
“What the fuck lines are these things divided on?!” I demanded to air. O and S had made it to a different part of the section.
“Oh, God. Dee. Dee, get over here.”
I hobbled over and found a new section header. “Ebony,” it read. All the pornography starring black women was here. Next to it, “Latina,” and on the other side, “Asian.” There was a shelf nearby for the interracial stuff.
We studied these sections for a moment, wondering which one of us would point out the implication first. It was me, because I have almost no filter and even less self-control.
“So what they’re telling me is that rape porn and vanilla fucking don’t bear separation–”
“I think it’s divided on studio lines. Not that it makes it any better,” S remarked.
“Rape porn and vanilla fucking is the same but God forbid I see any black people amongst them because that would just be too chaotic! Jesus Christ!”
We moved on from that terrible place and gave a half-hearted search for the Avengers XXX porn parody, but the wind had been knocked from our sails. It was hard to get excited for high-budget comic book porn after being confronted with that kind of subject discrepancy. Still, there was an entire Megaplexxx to explore, and we tried not to let ourselves get discouraged.
Our determination soon paid off.
Mysterious Ass In A Box
S stopped short, a deer in the headlights, and after we realized we’d lost him, O and I went to see what had caught his eye.
There was an ‘employees only’ room on the back wall with the door open. Inside was an assortment of boxes, the sort of thing you’d expect from an inventory room.
Out in the open as a life-sized ass. It was being kept in a clear glass box on a pedestal that was labeled ‘do not touch.’
Just… just sitting there in the box, plain as day. A big silicone ass. It was an ass you’d need both hands to grab. Where could you even keep a fake ass that big besides an altar-like glass box and pedestal display? Surely it wouldn’t fit under your bed. And any box big enough to contain those cheeks would be a hassle to store in most closets.
The next time we passed, the door was closed. Perhaps the employees didn’t want us to know about the ass. But it was too late. We had been initiated into its silicone mysteries. Even now, I wonder what the story there is. I wonder if it would go good on this blog.
The King of Fuck Mountain
I thought that things had gotten wild enough with the bizarrely ritual glass ass box. This was a very stupid thing to think, for this Megaplexxx had been described to me as ‘the Best Buy of sex’ and aimed not to disappoint. Not only in scope, but also in tech level.
I was approaching a ceiling-to-floor wall of fake dicks like Odysseus enthralled by sirens. Hypnotized, I wandered through the aisles toward my destination, when a box big enough for at least one child (two if they agreed to hug) broke through the dongsong.
What the Hell could be in a box of such magnitude?
The answer was ‘a fucking machine.’ For those not in the know, a fucking machine is, well, it’s an engine and piston you stick a dildo to, and the pumping of the piston serves as the thrusting action. It’s a machine that does fucking. A fucking machine.
What I didn’t know is that they also make them so that you can insert a dong and get simulated fellatio. That wasn’t the end of the surprises I would be subjected to.
The King of Fuck Mountain was a two-fer: it had fucking and sucking, so that one person could get the dangle jangled with mechanical persistence and another could pretend they were getting reamed by a Terminator.
I was studying its specifications in awe when I read the best part of this particular unit. Not that it was ‘whisper quiet,’ which I sincerely doubt, or that it was made for ultimate portability, though I admired their dedication to on-the-go machine threesomes.
There was a USB port in the side of the fucking machine. The engine not only powered the piston and the suction, but could also charge USB devices. How nice! Like, seriously, I’m not joking or playing games here. Putting a USB in a fucking machine and giving it the capacity to charge is one of the most convenient, considerate, consumer-friendly things I’ve ever seen any sort of company do. Within the sex industry or outside it.
I can’t remember the brand. But whatever it is: good on y’all. I can’t suggest y’all enough. If any reader wants to invest in a fuck machine for you and your penis-having paramore: look for one that has an USB port in the side, because those people genuinely care about you.
Power Tools For Butts
This might relate too closely to fucking machine for some, but I think, in light of the consideration shown by the King of Fuck Mountain, this deserves some distinction. The employers at Dildopolis thought it deserved not only its own corner on the wall of dongs, but also its own banner and themed wallpaper.
Did they do that? Or is it something the company that produces the dread ‘Drilldo’ provides for licensed vendors? Do you have to have license to sell Drilldos? Once again, the Adult Megaplexxx provides questions with no answers.
The Drilldo is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life, at least in regards to things you put in an orifice. I told O this, and she responded with some measure of disbelief.
“You dubbed that fucking machine ‘King of Fuck Mountain,’” she said. “There’s no difference between one of those things and a fucking machine except you can take the Drilldo places.”
“The King of Fuck Mountain is portable,” I murmured, but only on reflex. I was full absorbed in my horror of the Drilldo.
Maybe it’s because I grew up around construction workers and so count the bright yellow of most drills and other power tools as a comforting part of childhood, viewing the Drilldo as a perversion of that nostalgia. Maybe the association with jackhammers makes me uncomfortable because of the violence that goes hand-in-hand with power tools; they’re so noisy!
Maybe there’s some sort of quasi-feminist, Freudian dread bubbling up here in relation to the masculine power fantasy of penetrating an orifice with one of the ultimate modern symbols of masculinity, reducing the act of penetration to yet another form of displayable machismo.
Or maybe I’m just not giving the Drilldo its fair shake, and using academic jargon to make myself feel like I don’t have to question that. So many questions were raised in the Adult Megaplexxx, and none of them are easy to answer.
Now that I’ve had some distance, though, I do have to give the Drilldo some credit: I bet that if you had carpal tunnel, that thing would really relieve some burdens.
Teeny Tiny Try-Me Pussies
There came a time when we left behind the dongs and insertables and entered the world of penetrable toys. You’ll recall the Fleshlight banner and its prominence. Here we were, in that realm, the one promised to us by the giant banner, and S was walking off.
“Isn’t this your section?” O demanded.
“What? I’m not buying anything here!”
“Dee won’t judge you.”
“I will judge you. Do not buy anything at this store. I don’t wanna know what you get up to.”
He went to go stare at a display of collars and other sex jewelry, while O and I learned about the masturbatory aids of the other side.
“This is what comes to escort your soul to Hell when you die,” I said, pointing to the first horrifyingly proportioned moppet I saw.
She was ‘very concealable,’ as the box promised, and this was because she had no legs nor arms, but a torso with tangerine sized titties and vagina that stretched almost of a quarter way up her monotonous peachy body. The whole thing was about big enough to fit the average penis.
Maybe it’s just because I haven’t got one, but that seems fucked to me. So gross. They couldn’t even give her a disconcerting cartoon face, they just… didn’t give her a head. I mean, even the shitty Star Whores blow-up doll had a disconcerting cartoon face, but not this bizarre, quadruple amputee sex imp. Horrid.
I turned and found a box with a far more normal Fleshlight knock-off toy in it shoved in my face. This wasn’t the source of O’s excitement, though.
In the corner there was a tiny model of a pussy. Bold yellow font demanded we ‘try’ her.
“Do it. Do it! Do it do it do it do it do it–”
I did it. I can admit it. I’m made my peace with the things I did in that store, the ways I defiled myself. Made myself unclean and impure. I did it. A tiny little silicone pussy model ordered ‘try me’ and I did. I took my index finger and gave that little sample a good, hard jab right in the mons pubis.
“Oh. Oh, wow, that’s really squishy!”
We put her back. How many greasy, linty fingers had jabbed that poor thing? And what were you supposed to do with it once you’d gotten the bigger version? Just throw her away?
I don’t know about y’all, but if I found a tiny model pussy in the garbage, I wouldn’t even wait to get to a safe place to call the cops. I’d be calling them as I booked it to the station.
Hell naw. That seems like something you find in a serial killer’s den right before he shows up behind you in a bunny mask with a nail-bat, poised to strike. Disembodied vaginas are just inherently disturbing. And unlike with the Drilldo, I know there’s some valid psychosocial reasons for that.
I went and washed my hands afterwards, mostly because of the germs. The feeling I had violated myself in violating the silicone pussy wouldn’t sink in until much later, but it wasn’t nearly as easy to get rid of as the germs. Soap can’t wash away shame.
Imprisoned Sex Golem
RealDolls are a very special concept and therefore deserve a special blurb. Whatever your feelings on life-sized fuckpuppets may be, you’re wrong if you don’t think they’re works of art. They’re in the uncanny valley, but not badly, and that’s no mean feat to accomplish with a medium of soft, fuckable silicone and paint. The amount of engineering and artistry that goes into the production of high-quality sex dolls and especially RealDolls deserves admiration.
Now that that’s all out of the way, I hate RealDolls, they’re super-duper creepy. Yes, even creepier than the limbless decapitated sex imp from the previous section, for similar yet entirely distinct reasons.
As if they had anticipated this–alternatively because they lacked any sense of self-awareness–the employees of Dildopolis had chosen a novel way of displaying their five-k gynoid. She was in a glass box, much like the ass enshrined in the employee’s only room, but was handcuffed in a standing position, dressed in a pink teddie like the ones that could be purchased elsewhere in-store.
“Thank God, she’s sealed away,” S said. “We’re safe.”
“If she should ever be unleashed she’ll go destroy Prague.”
“She’s beautiful, I love her,” O cooed.
O does not share my opinion on RealDolls. This is an extension of her admiration for dolls and dollmaking of all sorts, and her appreciation as a seamstress for things you can dress up. A RealDoll would make an interesting model, I suppose. Certainly cheaper in the long run than a real one.
“The Sex Golem of Dildopolis,” I said. “Write ‘cock’ on her forehead and she’ll come to life.”
“That’s not funny.”
“If you change the ‘o’ to a ‘u’ and make it spell ‘cuck’ she’ll die.”
“Stretching it, Dee.”
“Wouldn’t it be fucked if she just like… if her head just turned and she looked right at you? Would you piss or what?”
“You’re having too much fun with this RealDoll,” S said. “It’s not even out of the box.”
A Bong Shaped Like Fantomex
Why didn’t anyone else notice him?
Why didn’t anyone say anything when I pointed him out?
It was a bong shaped like Fantomex! All out in the open, just sitting there waiting to be sold! There weren’t any other X-Men characters (not that I recognized) but I know Fantomex when I see him! It was Fantomex!
I don’t get it! Why Fantomex? Is there, like, a street slang thing going on here I’m not hip to? Do they call weed Fantomex or something? I’ve never heard of such a thing but maybe that’s just evidence of my own lack of coolness!
Nobody else said anything, but the bong shaped like Fantomex continues to haunt me. Why Fantomex?!
Flight From Dildopolis
Night had fallen by the time we left Dildopolis. The employees said their polite goodbyes and we waved back, still reeling from the sheer amount of sex paraphernalia that we’d been exposed to. The forest was substantially scarier now that it was dark, so we wasted no time piling back into the car and getting back onto the highway.
For a long time, nobody said anything. We rejoined the flow of traffic, and the engine roar soon became soothing white noise. Highway hypnosis, as they say.
“Well,” S finally said. “We went to Dildopolis. How do we feel?”
“I loved it, I want to go back!” O exclaimed.
I thought about it for some time. I watched the bright lights of the city pass us by, the tall buildings and the ones yet to be finished. The passing headlights alongside us, the taillights in front, and the rushing noise of fellow drivers.
“I shoulda gotten that cherry Sprite,” I finally said. “I really want it now…”
“Yeah, I’ve never seen one in a machine,” S agreed.
“We could stop at Sonic and get you one,” O offered.
“No, thank you. It just wouldn’t be the same…”
Again, thick silence settled between us; rather, that blankety feeling when nobody is speaking but the air is full of noise, and nobody feel awkward. A welcome silence.
“Yeah, you really shoulda gotten that dildo Sprite,” O said. “I can’t believe we passed it up. Dildo Sprite! I bet it would’ve been great.”
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