Posted on

The Delta Dildo Dilemma

My sister and I were at LAX trying to check our luggage when the Delta agent claimed that my sister had never checked in and that it was too late for her to do so — she’d have to pay for a later flight to JFK. We disputed the claim but, you know, the house always wins.

As I sat in my assigned seat, I heard my sister’s name called over the PA system several times. I informed a flight attendant of the situation, and he said she was definitely checked in for the flight. By then, of course, it was too late to get her through security. An off-duty Delta flight attendant traveling standby took my sister’s seat — an exit-row, aisle seat — minutes before they closed the door.

I quickly ascertained that there wasn’t a death in this flight attendant’s family. She wasn’t even en-route for work. So I laid into her. She seemed genuinely ignorant about my sister getting bumped for her and immediately brandished 15 drink coupons. I was two drinks in to her four when she told me that she needed to get to the Upper West Side stat in order to recuperate her belongings from her ex-boyfriend’s apartment while he was gone. Among these items was a mold of her genitalia.

This mold technically belonged to her ex because she had given it to him, just as he had given her a mold of his erect penis. They both travelled a lot for work, she explained. Still, she didn’t think he deserved to keep her vagina. I pressed for more information and learned that the mold was actually of her vulva and did not include the vaginal canal.

Honestly, this didn’t sound like a fair trade to me. The reproduction of her genitals seemed purely decorative, while the reproduction of his had both ornamental and functional value. Had he given her a mold of his flaccid penis — or maybe of just his testicles — it would’ve eliminated the utilitarian nature of the gift and made for a more equal exchange.

She kept the drinks coming, so I politely listened to her wax poetic about her ex’s penis. She promised she’d show me the replica once we deplaned but, in the meantime, she did her best to describe it. Basically, she claimed this penis was perfect in every way — it was a once-in-a-lifetime penis. So I was surprised when she said she was planning to stuff the mold of her ex’s stupendous penis down his garbage disposal.

If this penis was such a revelation, why destroy it? Perfect penises don’t grow on trees. Why not stick one of his prized possessions, like his hookah, down his garbage disposal? (I learned her ex had a hookah to which he was quite attached). But she said she needed the poetic justice that could only be attained by mangling her ex’s penis in his own garbage disposal.

Surely, I thought, there must be a way to clone this dildo. Like how you can make a copy of a key. That way, she could keep the original clone and shove the clone of the clone down the garbage disposal, and no one would be the wiser.

I told her that her ex was lucky to have a garbage disposal. I’ve lived in three NYC apartments, and none of them had one. I guessed he didn’t live in a pre-war building. Her eyes widened. Wait, he did live in a pre-war building, she told me. And she couldn’t recall actually seeing a garbage disposal, she had just assumed there was one. She began to panic. What the hell would she do if there was no garbage disposal?

There were plenty of alternatives, I assured her. For example, she could roll the dildo in peanut butter and birdseed and toss it on the ground in Washington Square Park. The pigeons and rats would handle the rest. But she wasn’t open to suggestions. Defeated, she nodded off and didn’t wake until we were at the gate. And then she acted as if her and I were complete strangers. I was a little hurt that she couldn’t even make eye contact with me. But, mostly, I was saddened by the knowledge that I’d never get to see her ex’s knob.

Ultimately, I don’t think I’d make a cast of my own parts to give to a lover, not when I’m pretty sure that having sex with me is like having sex with a pile of paper clips. Treat yo’self!: Acco Recycled #1 Paper Clips (10,000 Count)

Even if things sour between us and you no longer desire to have sex with a heap of flimsy steel wire, at least you’ll never want for roach clips. And you’ll always be able to access the reset button on your router. Functionality first. But if it’s closure you’re after, for the record, I do have a garbage disposal.

Posted on

Not Without My Tumor

Last summer, I found a lump and had a needle biopsy, and it was diagnosed as a benign breast condition for which my doctor prescribed non-surgical treatment. This treatment did nothing for my lump, and so in November I met with Breast Oncology Specialist “Dr. H.”

Dr. H looked at my imaging, read the pathology report, felt my lump and said: “Nope. This pathologist is getting a phone call.” She was clearly unimpressed by his work, so I asked her if I should leave him a bad Yelp review. You know, the kind that begins with: “If I could give negative stars, I would.” She said “sure” and, also, that the lump needed to come out immediately.

I don’t care for general anesthesia. There are only four people on the planet I’m okay being unconscious around and none of them are surgeons, unfortunately. But Dr. H said she could snatch out my tumor while I was fully conscious, and so I made an appointment for the following week.

That night, I thought about the tumor and also about the multiple lesions that’d been recently discovered on my liver. I summoned my mother (a former hospice nurse) and sister (a current hospice nurse) and had them feel my lymph nodes for the hundredth time. They weren’t enlarged. Still, I thought it a good idea to express my wishes in the event of a worst-case, end-stage diagnosis. And that was to forego chemo and any other unnecessary, painful treatment. Instead, I wanted a big party where I would say goodbye to everyone while no one could tell yet I was sick. And then I expected my mother and sister to help me die comfortably. I felt like people did this kind of thing all the time.

Much to my surprise, the both of them flat-out refused. They were appalled at my ignorance and used the occasion to try and educate me on the tenets of hospice. I was reminded of that scene in “Ocean’s Eleven” when that casino owner learns his vault is being robbed and so he tells his guy to “make the call” and I assumed he had an elite team of badasses that would take care of things, but the call was just to 911. WTF? This guy had to rely on the police just like everyone else?

I was similarly displeased with how my mother and sister — whom I’d always considered to be both professional angels of mercy and the two people closest to me — were going to hypothetically handle a hypothetical late-stage diagnosis. “This is bullshit,” I lamented. “I’d do it for you.” They were unmoved. “I’d do it for you,” I said again. Nothing.

Well, I mused aloud, I could always disguise myself as a dog and call one of those in-home pet euthanasia services and tell them I needed someone to come put down a Mastiff. My mother and sister concurred that I had neither the presence nor the temperament of a Mastiff but could possibly pull off a high-strung Weimaraner. Yet, Weimaraners don’t weigh more than 90 pounds, so they agreed it’d be best if I told the service I needed enough euthanasia drugs for “an anxious, knock-kneed, 140-pound Great Dane.” And that was the end of that conversation.

The following week, Dr. H injected my breast with lidocaine-epinephrine and cut into me. All the while, we chatted in that easy way I’ve heard other women and their hairdressers chat. I watched her pull the tumor out of me, and it was like witnessing a birth. I named my tumor Rio, like the song.


After she stitched me up, Dr. H placed Rio gently in my hand, and I was suddenly overcome with the desire to stop-motion animate it. I had the stop-motion equipment. I even had the sand for Rio to dance on. Dr. H didn’t seem the least bit shocked at my request to keep Rio. She just shrugged and said: “Well, I’m not gonna fight you for it. But don’t you wanna know?” Then she left the room and returned holding a specimen cup containing some other lump of tissue she had removed from a woman that day. It wasn’t going to the pathology lab. It was benign and going in the medical waste bin, she said.

This tumor wasn’t as big as Rio, but it had its charms. It was like a delicate piece of cooked lobster — innocuously smooth and pink on the outside and pearly white where it had been partially bisected. I turned the cup around in my hand and admired it for a few moments. Then I handed it back to Dr. H, thanked her, gave Rio a parting glance and walked out the door.

In the end, my tumor and the spots on my liver all turned out to be benign. And so now I’m left to wonder what became of Rio. Is it floating in formaldehyde? Has it been incinerated? Did someone from the lab take it home to do God knows what with it? My sister, who makes claymation characters, says she’ll one day recreate Rio. But I have my doubts. As I found out, it’s hard to get her to do even the simplest things these days, such as administering a lethal dose of morphine after a boss ass party.