Sometime after my first trip to San Francisco to buy my first dildo and harness, and before I had the opportunity to use it (or have it used in me), I ended up back on active duty in the Army.
Although my first wife and I had been separated for nearly 18 months, we were, officially at least, still married. As a married service member I was entitled to some benefits, one of which was moving my household goods from my apartment in upstate New York to my new duty station in DC. The problem was my reporting date was sooner than I could possibly get into an apartment. My solution was to pack all my stuff in boxes, put them in storage, and have my father sign the papers when the movers came to pick them up. Deep inside one of these boxes, my dildo and harness were carefully packed. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The problem with military moves is that they are extremely careful about what they take and how it is packed. No firearms. No fireworks. No toys with batteries. There is not, thankfully, a restriction on dildos and harnesses. There is, however, the matter of liability. In an effort to mitigate this liability, unless you sign a waiver, they are going to repack your boxes. I wasn’t there to sign. My father didn’t see the harm in them repacking everything. The movers repacked….everything.
You can imagine my surprise when my goods arrived in boxes that were quite different than the boxes I had used. And then you can imagine my horror at realizing that there were things I didn’t want movers, or my dad, poking through. A few pornos, a couple of books of erotica, and a Cybergasm CD were all normal enough. A seven inch lavender silicone cock and a leather harness….well that might have seemed a bit odd.
Fortunately the inventory upon receiving the goods does not have to be done with the movers. You have some time to go through your boxes on your own to make sure everything is accounted for and in the same condition it was in when they “packed you out.” I eventually found my box of treasures with all my sexy stuff in it. I think they were labeled “personal items” but I can’t quite remember. All I know is that they were packed just as carefully as everything else: wrapped in blank newsprint and tucked safely in a box. There was no outward indication that these items were any different than a Waterford vase or my human skull replica; just my stuff, and well-packed. Thank you Allied movers.
My parents are not the most sex positive people in the world. Actually strike that, my father is not a sex positive person. My mother is, well, his polar opposite. That’s probably why they divorced.
The first vibrator I ever saw was hers, found in a drawer while looking for ribbon. It was her “The Joy of Sex” that gave me the most incredible orgasm of my young life. It was she who found me in her bed with a friend when she came home early to the apartment we were renting in Arizona during my teens. She walked in the room, looked at the two of us, allowed us the chance to uncouple and said, “Whose your friend?”
“Uh, this is Stephanie.”
“Hi, Stephanie, I’m Christine,” she said extending her hand for a shake. Then she left and presumably spent the night at a friend’s because I didn’t see her again until the next day when we were set to make the 3 hour drive to Phoenix. That drive was excruciating. I was waiting for the talk. The talk my dad, who I lived with nearly full-time would have given me. Never once did she mention it. That doesn’t make her cool, or my favorite, it just makes her sex positive.
My dad, on the other hand, found my condoms in a bracelet box behind my headboard and cut them in half. He also left a note: “When you think you are ready to be a father, come talk to me!” Now I had been raised Catholic and I know they have some unusual ideas about condom use, but I thought it was universally accepted that condoms were designed to prevent fatherhood. In fact, it is that very characteristic that made condoms so evil in the first place! I don’t know what bothered me more, the fact that I didn’t have any condoms or that my dad was an idiot. Either way, it didn’t stop us from fucking; it just increased our risks dramatically.
It was this same guy, who I do love dearly, who probably found my dildo and harness. Of course, there was the possibility that the packers tried to shield him from this. I am sure this was not the first time movers came across some sex paraphernalia during a “packing out.” (In fact, when the movers my employer recently hired came to move our stuff they asked what our sex swing stand was. “It’s gym equipment.” That’s what she put on the box. I am sure I didn’t fool anyone!) I was, however, sure that this was the first time my father had been exposed to a strapon cock in his son’s personal goods.
This all happened in early spring. I didn’t get back home to New York again until July 4th. My father and I talked quite a few times in the interim and for the first dozen or so times I was waiting for him to bring it up. He never said a thing. I guess, had he had the opportunity, he might have slipped a note inside the box: “When you think you are ready to get bent over, come see me!” Okay, maybe that would be creepy. Eventually I decided that he never saw the dildo and harness. The movers shielded him from this discovery, and it would never come up because he didn’t know anything about it. Again, it seemed reasonable at the time.
During my trip home for the Fourth, my father cornered me in his kitchen. He had the home turf advantage. He started asking some bizarre questions about why my first wife and I split up, most of which were aimed at her sexuality in very tangential ways. He wouldn’t come right out and ask, but it was clear where he was going: did she leave me for another woman. No, Dad, she did not leave me for another woman.
I clearly had him satisfied, or at least convinced, that I didn’t have a strapon because my ex-wife was a lesbian (again, flawed logic is a running theme). It was then that my father started on a whole other trajectory. Mind you, he has not mentioned the existence of the strapon; but it was clear he knew I owned it and he was set on getting an answer. His line of questioning then turned to …. his recent prostate exam! Did I know that it wasn’t horrible? It actually made him feel good in a weird way which was terribly embarrassing but, had I ever heard of this? His urologist said it was okay. It wasn’t like he was gay just because it felt funny. Did I know this? The prostate could be a source of pleasure? Was I aware?
This was the most sex talk I had ever had with my dad. It was this weird beating around the bush with him trying to find out why I had a silicone dick in my boxes without ever really talking about it. This went on for at least 30 minutes. I didn’t cop to it during the interrogation and he never brought it up again. That time in his kitchen has always weighed heavy on me. We were so close to actually talking about something and yet both of us couldn’t bring ourselves to actually address it. So here it is: DAD, I TAKE GREAT PLEASURE FROM YOUR DAUGHTER-IN-LAW STRAPPING ON A COCK AND FUCKING ME UP THE ASS.
Wow, that was easy!
***Pegging is the sexual act of a woman using a strapon dildo to anally penetrate her male partner.***
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