Between A Crematorium and a Dildo Shop
Julie Anna and Her La Petite Mort
Trisha was working her shift at Truc Chaud (Hot Stuff—it was a French neighborhood) when Julie Anna came in.
She always lets the customers browse a while before offering any help.
Ooh la la, the varieties!—thought Julie Anna.
It had been a couple years since she’d gone sex toy shopping.
Wonderfully, the advancements in science and technology were not being limited to more detached digital ways to connect but also to extending three dimensional touch—as was evident in all the faux penii and toys she was now surrounded by.
The shapes and colors and sizes were staggering. There were many varieties of beige vanilla—what Crayola used to call “flesh”—up through mocha latte, caramel and olive, all gradients of brown, and into black. Many of the latter were, to quote Lenny Bruce, “the size of a baby’s arm with an apple in its fist”. There were now a number that were intact, reflecting the growing trend in the USofA of abandoning the unnecessary barbaric surgery of circumcision—some with actual moving foreskins.
There were two-ended dildos. Ones with testicles. Flexible and rigid. Packers—soft penii worn to give the appearance of having a penis and male bulge—trans men toys…
