I’ll have strapped myself into the 117 step process that rivals that of the skydiving process, slid nothing but “The Cadillac Of Cock” into the ring, checked my hips, checked my dong, turned around to make sure the butt part was right (cause sometimes that gets criss-crossed and you should start over because it will chaff) and I realize that I’m totally ready to go. It’s time. It is totally time for me to the one in charge of the thrusting and the pacing and the entry and the stuff astronauts worry about pretty much.
This is when I’ll take a moment to look into the mirror and then start to do some kind of dance. It will start in the shoulders but will inevitably charge down to my groin when I shall find the movements that make the right kind of wave pattern into my long, dangling, delightful cock. Who do I dance? Does it matter? There is something of a Lacan Strap On Mirror stage that can absolutely make you regress to a sense of silliness that makes you want to stride like Balanchine across the room with your new wobbling phallus.
Who can resist? Who can truly look at those things attached to their body for the first time and not feel the itch of the instinct to just play as you test the range of your new extension? Does it wiggle? Wobble? Sway? Bounce? What are the motions necessary to make it really thwack? Why am I making airplane sounds as I do this?
And then the moment when you stop and make your best Prince face in the mirror with a sideways stare as you move to grab your member firmly for the first time. It’s like the final step to fully complete the animation process. It starts out at first as a novel feature, something to be giggled at with delight as the laws of physics are studied experimentally. But then, when you remember the task at hand, you have to ignite magic and pull the startup cord up in the brain.
That all happens when you clench your fist around that dick and turn your strap-on on. And maybe that silliness comes from digging back into your brain for those same muscles that turned cardboard boxes into pirate ships and sticks into swords and you were so good you could feel salty air on your cheeks indoors in a landlocked place.
I’ll show you transubstantiation.
Then you go and give your lover or lovers a proper toss by reverse-engineering “getting fucked” for awhile until you finally step back and just let your cock show you the way. When you finally get the rhythm going in your hips and you’re on a solid roll and you know that you are absolutely a fucking god you might feel the sudden rise of a fist into the air. Much like the artist beholding a masterpiece, there is an excitement at recognizing a mastery of skill by your own feats. It can be nearly out of body.
How can this be? How can I be wielding a tool of this size with such deftness? I fall down a lot when I wear heels. This cannot be me fucking with pure agility.
My friends! This bypass is a trap. It is you. You must acknowledge that it is you.
And what a delight when you do. When you hold onto a pair of hips and feel like jazz musician who is really on and riding the wave. Yes, your hand might climb into the air. This is because you are high-fiving the gods.
Pornstars will often do this purely from the hours they put into the practice. They can do things in advanced positions. If you put many hours a week into fucking in a place designated for fucking (a fucking gym, if you will or perhaps a temple if you will not) a better fucker would emerge from you. It’s the same with a violin. You may not emerge as a virtuoso but you will know how to hold the damn thing and point it in the right direction and play a few tunes.
With a strap-on, you may indeed high-five the gods but do remember to high-five yourself and the strange powers of erotic animism that exist within the human mind for they are plenty and they are pleasurable and they are there for you.
This was a very interesting read.
Hmmm… I think the old internet adage might apply here. It never happened unless you post the picture! I’m going to have to get my lady one of those. She may also wax poetic.
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As a skydiver, I must say the unexpected parallels are profound. Yes, there is always a safety check before every jump. Once my safety checks are complete I’m never concerned about death, but more about having a testicle find its way between my crotch and the harness upon deployment of my chute. This is never fun. And yeah, this is the shit astronauts worry about. Chaffing and nut squashing after 10,000 feet of free-fall. Typically, I’m too busy worrying about the dive flow or who is where in the skydive or my altitude, all of which are very crucial things, but the point is, there are often moments where a fist is raised inside of me knowing that I am untethered to the fucking world by no visible element. I am falling at the rate of 120-ish mph and I am the master & commander of neither Jack, nor Shit. I’m just the asshole that pulls the cord and lands the canopy. In the moment though, it’s just me, the sky, and the carefully engineered blanket on my back that gets me back to earth without bouncing off of its merciless crust. Indeed, high fiving the gods through a fit of delusion and acute mania, the entire way down. The first couple dozen jumps, and during close calls, I felt I had cheated death utilizing my own physical and mental faculties(along w/ oodles of training and experience). So, whether it’s sending my small white body into a vast volume of atmosphere or wielding a big black cock into a tight orifice, all we really want is a reason to strap one on. You have your strap on. I have mine.