The Right Hand Retires

Dieter, the Russian mailman, showed up with two packages one afternoon. Two massive plastic flashlights, except they weren’t flashlights. One black, one pearlescent white. A gift from Brian, no explanation attached—probably the right move.

I opened them and found two rubber vaginas. Genuinely excited.

Each one was shaped differently. One looked like Ariel Vortex’s anatomy. I looked it up. The other was wider with bigger lips and called itself Build Your Own Texture. Customizable. LEGO for adults. I liked that.

That night I prepared. Dinner: mussels in white wine cream over arugula, fresh olives, Pinot Grigio. Candles. Lights off. Grabbed Ariel’s soft, warm, wet silicone. Fap, fap, fap. Three minutes. Done.

Efficient.

Because normal masturbation eats time. On bad days you’re an hour in, cycling through terrible pornography, checking email, ordering pizza, all for thirty seconds of nothing and a stupid expression. Time you could spend elsewhere. Languages. Actual relationships. Anything.

These cost around thirty-five euros—more if you want the weird variants. Zombies, aliens, that kind of thing. They feel almost real. They rinse clean with water. Three minutes instead of an hour slouching through the internet.

The downside: you look absolutely ridiculous doing it—like you’re fucking a puffy hand vacuum. Close your curtains.