A Good Ol' Fashion Cock Ring Story

In February, my exboyfriend asked me if I'd like to have drinks with him after work. We met at Marley's around sunset and drank our way through a bottle of Absolut over the course of several hours. Sometime after one a.m., Miranda Kellen, a girl from my undergrad advertising class who was still in college at the time, stumbled over, swung her arms around me, and vomited into my lap.

Outside in the street, my ex and I walked hand-in-hand and laughed about happier, less vomit-covered times, and he drove us back to his place. His apartment hadn't changed at all. On the wall near his bed, the frames that used to host pictures of us were empty. It had been one year and several new boyfriends since we broke up, but he still hadn't replace our pictures with anything.

"You should take a shower," he said. "You smell like Dina Lohan." I climbed into the shower, he followed, and then the theme music from Oz came on.

At some point, he slipped on a cock ring. I didn't even notice until I saw something shiny around his balls. I jumped out of bed, flicked on the lamp, and stood there staring at it, naked and panting. This was not your normal, run-of-the-mill cock ring. It was metal, and thick, and heavy, and looked like it could've been engraved with a Latin prayer. In all seriousness, one could seriously injure a person by throwing it at them.

Me: "THE FUCK IS THAT?!"
Him: "This? What does it look like?"
Me: "When did you start...using those?"
Him: "Stop freaking out. It's no big deal."
Me: "Why? Why do you need that?"
Him: "Fucking chill. It just helps me go longer."
Me: "You're 22! Why do you need help going longer?!"
Him: "Do you want to wear it?"
Me: "You've lost your fucking marbles. Is sex not enough for you anymore? I saw this coming when you left for study abroad in Paris. You're desensitized to normal sex!"
Him: "You're crazy."
Me: "I feel sorry for you. Toss me my underwear, please."

We fell asleep shortly after. And in the morning, we barely spoke on the ride home. I couldn't look at him. He used to be my boyfriend. Now he's a guy who wears cock rings.

A few months later, I dated a guy who aggressively liked for his nuts to be pulled. The first couple of times, it wasn't that weird. Then he started breaking out the toys – something that looked like a Koosh ball on a stick and an aluminum lobster cracker. The last thing I said to him was, "I'm just having a hard time accepting you as a person. It has everything to do with the ball-yanking thing."

Part of me feels like my role as a gay man should include advocating tolerance if not acceptance of personal sexual practices. But I still get skittish and uneasy when I discover that someone I like is into device-assisted sex. It's not for me. And looking back on my ex and his cock ring, I feel like I unfairly wigged out on him. He wasn't hurting anyone if you don't count his poor scrotum. Maybe I didn't like the cock ring because of what it stood for; discomfort and defiance. Or maybe it's something more metaphoric like the dichotomy of release by constriction.

Or maybe I'm a judgmental bitch who thinks rings and vices and butt plugs and Koosh balls are silly. And that my whore exboyfriend and the guy who likes his nuts crushed are craving something that clearly no human alone can fulfill and they're just begging for an ER visit.

Perhaps one day, I'll be walking down the utensil aisle at Target and come upon a lobster cracker. I might smile and think to myself, "Well hello, mister. You'd look good around my scrote."

No! Pick me! I tickle!

But for now, I'll stick with my child-size underwear and skinny jeans. My sperm aren't going to kill themselves.