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New Year’s Day 2017—purposely a day of celebration, but always the worst day of the year. Why do we always bring in a fresh calendar of opportunities with a raging headache and a glass of Berocca? Why can’t we celebrate anything nice without inflicting dozens of tiny tequila stabs to the liver? Do we actually just hate ourselves?
As I woke up, in the cesspit of the previous night’s house party, I rolled to one side and nearly dipped my head in a bowl of spilt spiced rum and coke, garnished with cigarette butts. Disgusted, I flipped 180 degrees and saw them—my first love. My heart gave my ribs a little kick.
We were in our third year of university, before we were spat out into the unrelenting, anxiety-inducing, ever-more-expensive “real world”, and if I really think about it, it was one of the last times I can truly remember feeling peace.
They had been away on a year abroad, Seattle, USA, which if you look at a world map, is the other end of the earth. We’d been together since first year, and at this point I hadn’t known anything like them, and didn’t think I ever would.
Back for two weeks only, before jetting eight time zones away again, we’d promised to make the most of our time together. Refusing to spend our NYD hoovering, I booked a lastminute.com bargain at a swanky hotel on the Strand.
Entering the double room with fresh linen sheets and oversized towels, it seemed like the best time to unveil their leaving present. It was the perfect memento of our time together — something that they could be remember me by – a mould-your-own-penis dildo.
The situation was perfect, we were in a private (supposedly) sound insulated room away from the party remnants, housemates and Eric the cat. As we began to arouse each other, it seemed like an opportune moment to construct the gift — kill two birds with one proverbial bone.
The process involved making a cast of said penis, by creating a foam mixture, using some hot water and a plastic-packaged jelly substance.
It seemed like a breeze. I hadn’t been this horny in months, and there was nobody who could interrupt us. But as the kettle boiled, my penis crawled back into my gut, scared.
A false start, maybe it would be solved with a bit of hand stimulation?
Maybe some fellatio would help?
After managing with great difficulty to hold an erection for a minute, it was now or never. I forced the foam around my penis, and inevitably as soon as it hit the warm, clayish foreign substance, it failed.
With my genitals encased in a rapidly hardening plasticine casing, and no mould to speak of, I slumped into the king size mattress, knowing that the gift – and the moment – was gone.
They went away the next day, and it was five months until I saw them again. It would never be the same, and I knew that with the death of the dildo, was the death of our relationship.
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