by Calico Rudasill, Sssh.com Porn For Women
Look, I’m all for innovation in sexual pleasure device technology, and normally just about anything which might offer the grief-stricken comfort is A-OK in my book, but I think this whole dildo-urn thing might be taking things a bit too far.
Read on…
Mostly, I think this because of the way my husband reacted when I showed him the Yahoo! article linked above: “Oh, man: Time to call the estate attorney, because I need to change my will!”
I’ve long since accepted there are certain things of which my beloved husband simply will not let go. When it’s time for the NBA playoffs, for example, he’s not turning off the game – any game – until he’s satisfied it’s really over.
Once upon a time, I could persuade him to walk away early from games which looked like pending blowouts, but I think those days are over now, as of that ludicrous fourth-quarter comeback the Golden State Warriors pulled off a few days back. (Thanks for that, btw, Stephen Curry and Co.)
Now that he has spied Mark Sturkenboom’s “21 Grams” memory box, I’m pretty sure the hubby isn’t going to let go the idea of spending at least some portion of his ‘afterlife’ couched within a sex toy – and more troubling, the idea I’d actually then use said sex toy to pleasure myself.
“I think it’s brilliant,” he says, continuing to show an enthusiasm which makes me really regret sharing the link, firing off random questions to nobody in particular. “Does it come in black? Does it have a USB port? Can it store scents other than aftershave? I don’t use aftershave; can it emit the smell of my B.O instead?”
Great. Bad enough he wants me to pleasure himself with a Death Dildo, now he wants me to have to live with his Eternal Odor, too?
Luckily, if my husband’s hardheadedness has any match in this world, it’s MY hardheadedness.
“Honey, you know I love you,” I say gently. “But if you think I’m putting your ashes in a dildo, then using that dildo to get myself off, an estate attorney is not the sort of counsel you should be seeking right now.”
He’s stubborn, my husband, but he’s not that dumb. I figure he’ll immediately appreciate my vague allusion to the specter of divorce. No such luck, though, because his attention is still focused squarely on the Death Dildo.
“Oooh!” he exclaims, apparently oblivious to my veiled threat. “It says the 21 Grams box has an acoustic amplifier, so maybe it does have USB. Just think: You could listen to that one Crystal Method tune you like so much while fucking yourself with my remains!”
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration strikes, one which might just knock him back into reality. Seemingly born to haggle and cajole, if there’s one way to move my husband off a staunchly held position on anything related to domestic life, it’s the act of negotiation. His favorite negotiation is the exchange of household chores for sexual favors – something which works for me too, because somehow I always manage to hash out an arrangement in which I receive oral sex in exchange for him doing the dishes. (Hey, I didn’t say he’s good at negotiating, just that he enjoys the process.)
“OK, how about we make a deal?” I say, knowing the very word ‘deal’ is enough to get him to stop reading, at least for a moment.
Looking up from his tablet, I can see the wheels of his mind already turning: What will he have to sacrifice in order to get me on board with the Death Dildo concept?
“If you promise to abandon the NBA playoffs going forward – forever, meaning no more playoffs from here to the end of your life – assuming you die first, I will hereby agree to have you cremated, loaded into this weird Dutchman’s Death Dildo, and further promise to use the Death Dildo at least once a month until my own death.”
His brow furrows; experience tells me this is a signal of skepticism, intrigue or both.
“Please define the word ‘use’ for me, in this context,” he responds.
Motherfucker; he’s actually considering the deal.
Has he somehow divined I’ve softened on basketball over the years and now actually even enjoy watching it (a little, so long as Blake Griffin jumps around enough)? Or is he just enjoying fucking with me, wielding the Death Dildo concept like a rhetorical bludgeoning device? Could I have him arrested and charged with domestic brain-violence? At least that would get me out of this insane Death Dildo Debate.
Having painted myself into a corner, there’s only one option left: Call his bluff and hope I die first.
“Use in this context is defined as masturbating with the Death Dildo,” I say, as calmly as I can as a woman discussing the notion of wanking using a dildo full of dead husband. “What did you think I meant, using it to stir spaghetti sauce?”
He looks wistfully at the television, then back at me. “Just the playoffs? I can still watch regular season games?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’m not a monster.”
“How about an exemption for the NBA finals?” he asks, filled with hope.
“No dice,” I say. “This is an all or nothing playoffs proposition.”
Sighing heavily, he theatrically brings his index finger down to the tablet’s screen and closes the browser window housing the Death Dildo article.
“Nah,” he says. “There’s a double-header on TNT tonight I really want to see – and you’d just cheat on this anyway. I mean, I’ll be dead, so who would enforce the deal?”
“True,” I say. “I’m no lawyer, but I’m guessing the courts would hesitate to get involved with an estate dispute of this nature.”
Hours later, with the basketball double-header over and bedtime nearing, my husband makes one final Death Dildo appeal.
“What if, instead of ashes in a dildo-urn, we make a mold from my dick and use it to make you a real dildo instead?” he asks. “It wouldn’t be as cool as a Dutch dead husband memory box, but it also wouldn’t smell like sweat from a drunk Irishman.”
When it comes to arguing this late at night, I’ve always believed efficiency is the better part of valor.
“Sure dear, sounds good” I lie. “We’ll call the estate attorney in the morning.”
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