Yet again we are prepping for an episode of ’11 Questions with…’ This time it’s going to be a bonus sized edition with legendary filmmaker John Carpenter on Monday April 2nd 2012!
So, as happened before the inaugural piece with the lovely, I’ll be doing a post a day until the big unveiling!
Starting with this bit of lovingly crafted TMI for you all…
A few months ago the boyfriend and I were lounging by the pool of our palatial estate and suddenly, as we are often wont to do (in between thinking it wise to throw railroad spikes off bridges and to scale large mountains made of wet dirt, among other things) thought it would be amusing to “clone” my penis.
Mind you not because there isn’t (according to its admirers, not myself) more enough of the actual one to go around (not that it GETS around) but merely because “why not?”
A decision of the “Let’s use this as a creative coffee table decoration” mentality, if you will.
Thereby, Adam, being more knowledgeable in this area than I am (somehow) having remembered seeing a “Clone a Willy” kit in Spencer’s Gifts ages ago, decided we should go this route as it would presumably be easier than the home made, Tom Savini route suggested numerous places online (and desired by myself.)
So, off we skipped gaily to the market for our Dick Making Kit, hand in hand, singing show tunes. (Cause that’s what homosexual men (and really, ANYBODY) are supposed to do when shopping for this sort of thing, right?)
Things are never as easy as you’d expect them to be…
Much to our shock and dismay, Spencer’s and the various stores of that ilk in our general vicinity no longer carried readily accessible methods for which to make a copy of your own genitals.
I mean, who would have thought that of mass consumption stores, in public malls, in the US, in the South? UNREASONABLE!
Naturally, after making piles of sad emotions for days and spoon feeding each other copious amounts of half melted Hagen-Dazs in a bathtub of our own tears we manned up and went to the best source for everything… The Internet.
We ordered 3 Clone A Willy sets (cause yknow, if the first one worked, we needed more to mail out to our unsuspecting friends) and played the waiting game… for 2 days (Amazon Prime rocks, by the way.)
Using the Clone a Willy set is very similar to doing old fashioned plaster /algenate, special effects casting, except it involves your cock, a complete loss of dignity and is just as hazardous to the state of cleanliness of your carpet as if you were making a replica of someone’s torso for later cinematic vivisection.
In a nutshell the official instructions for the set have you 1. Get a boner. 2. Cut the EXCESSIVELY large plastic tube to approximate size of said boner. 3. Mix up the casting material. 4. Pour material into tube, filling it to the brim. 5. Place filled tube onto boner, while standing. 6. Wait two minutes. 7. Remove junk from now hardened junk mold. 8. Fill with rubberizing goop. 9. Wait 24 hours, or the length of one episode of The Brady’s 10. Have fake penis.
And, I must say, in an equally similar nutshell, all of that is not in any way true.
The method listed above will result in many things, but successfully creating a prosthetic dong isn’t one of them.
First, you will end up with a giant spot of plaster on your floor, where previously there was only matted, cheap carpet. Second, you will feel dumber than you ever have in your life for not realizing that this wouldn’t in any way work. Third, nothing kills a trouser tent faster than soul crushing embarrassment, coupled with mind numbing failure.
And, on that note…
Erections are hard to keep when part of a science experiment designed to make you cry…
I am known, aside from my dashing good looks and irascible wit, for being something of a ‘horn dog’ (and incredibly humble.)
As in I get boners a lot and maintain them for longer than usual periods of time (often for the strangest of things.)
Seeing an attractive, unclothed, male arm might do it. A gust of wind on a warm day can sometimes tickle my fancy. Even a well timed tracking shot has been known to jolly my roger.
In short… I’m never one to come up short in that department.
That is, I WASN’T until Clone a Willy came into my life.
The first one went ok, willy wise, at least to begin with. But, once it became abundantly clear that it wasn’t going to work, my manhood withered up and died faster than Billy Zane’s career.
For round two, which we mistakenly tried IMMEDIATELY after the first, I decided to follow the instructions exactly as written, except to this time lie down in the bathtub and thrust up into the tube of shame.
Naturally, due mostly in part to this little thing called gravity, it failed again… By it I mean, both the Clone a Willy kit and my tallywhacker.
After much rage, tears and cookie eating while showering and sobbing we opted for our own method of wood reproduction using the last remaining kit of hatred.
I created a makeshift cock ring (instructions admittedly do recommend such things,) using a nearby hair band, to keep myself up for the entire performance. Then, Adam ingeniously cut BOTH ends off the tube, creating more of a cack sleeve than a penile prison as it was before; I inserted my now fully at attention member and then he poured the casting material in through the top.
There was no leakage and all went well, despite again, some more unfortunate deflation on my part. Two inches is an ETERNITY to keep one’s self hard by the way, when you are balls deep in a thin plastic tube filled with lukewarm tapioca pudding that smells like faux powdered animal breast milk (and, really, at this point an injection of Viagra straight into my balls probably wouldn’t have helped.)
You’re going to lose some inches in translation…
Not to toot my own horn, but I have (once again, according to its admirers, not me) a decent sized and shaped Jack Johnson.
On the official scale of such things it is considered “Above Average.”
On the official scale of the final product of the Clone a Willy set, it is considered “Smurf in Stature.”
The (excessively rigid, sickly colored and unnatural) thing that came from this unholy endeavor ended up barely weighing in at a depressing (and disproportionate to me) 5 inches.
Meaning (depending on who’s talking about it) I lost 2-3 inches of anaconda in this ordeal, in addition to ALL of my self-respect.
Clone a Willy kicks you when you’re down basically is what I’m saying here.
Also, to quote (and make this article more awkward and disturbing than it already was) L.I.E. “5 inches is a hell of a lot of rain, and a hell of a lot of snow, but it sure aint a hell of a lot of dick.”
I may not be as big as some have accused me of being, but I am more than the 5 inch heart break that is now sitting in a plastic bag on our dresser dammit!
Much like losing your virginity, it wasn’t fun, somewhat painful, and emotionally scarring, but afterwards you definitely want to do it again (if only to get it right)…
As the above meat of this article would imply, using the Clone a Willy kit has resulted in One; creating a pile of shame, similar in shape to a penis. Two; the need on my part for some severe psychological therapy and sexual prowess reaffirmation. And, Three; filthy carpet.
And, it did indeed do all of that. It ALSO has instilled in me a savage desire, nay, a need, to do it again.
I want to prove Clone a Willy wrong. Kick it in the balls the way it did me, with my own penis. And, one day… I shall.
In the meantime… here’s the fruits of my labors for you to not enjoy.
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