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.