Send Your Right Hand to Retirement
Dieter, the unhinged Russian postman who delivers to my building with the energy of a man perpetually one bad day away from something irreversible, rang the bell one afternoon and handed me a package. Gift from Brian. No context, no note. I opened it and found two enormous plastic flashlights—one matte black, one pearl white—except they weren’t flashlights. They were Fleshlights. Two rubber pussies in a tube. I was immediately delighted.
Each one is different. The white one is modeled after the anatomy of redheaded porn star Ariel Vortex—I verified this thoroughly—tight, pink, detailed in ways that suggest someone in a laboratory somewhere genuinely cares about accuracy. The black one is wider, with more generous labia, and goes by the name "Build Your Own Texture," which is genuinely good product naming. Like LEGO for adults who’ve already solved all the interesting problems.
I treated the occasion with the ceremony it deserved. Made mussels in white wine and cream over arugula, opened a Pinot Grigio, set out some olives, lit a couple of candles. Dimmed the lights. Then I picked up Ariel’s soft, warm, wet replica and got to work. Three minutes later I was done. Efficient. Genuinely, surprisingly efficient.
Here’s the thing about masturbation: it takes forever. On a bad day you’re forty-five minutes deep into mediocre porn, checking email between scenes, ordering food you don’t actually want, grinding toward some brief and joyless finish that doesn’t even feel earned. The Fleshlight cuts that down to nothing. You could use those recovered hours to learn a language, pick up a hobby, or simply sit quietly and feel like a person.
You can find them on Amazon starting around thirty-five euros—or spend more for the zombie, alien, and asshole variants, which exist and are exactly what they sound like. If you’re between girlfriends, or just want a few minutes alone that actually feel like something, it’s worth it. It feels real in a way that’s genuinely surprising. Clean-up is soap and water. The only real downside is visual: mid-session you look like you’re aggressively fucking a broken hand vacuum. Draw the curtains.