What is The Fleshlight?

My Date with The Fleshlight

It’s probably a dubious honor that I’m the person picked to test-drive a tasty little item called the Fleshlight, but when I learned that the inventor spent two million dollars developing it, I was hooked. It’s amazing that a budget normally reserved for the space program or the Pentagon was funneled into a sex toy — promotion that’s capitalism minus the Cold War, I guess. Figuring that men like tools, the inventor designed the stealth exterior to look like a flashlight. But inside, the material is supposed to be nearly identical to the texture of actual labial flesh — it’s the Mother Goddess of ersatz pussies.

I rush to my girlfriend’s house and proudly exhibit the Fleshlight on her kitchen table. “Yup,” she agrees. “Looks like a flashlight.” But when I unscrew the top, there’s this bubble gum–pink puffy sphere with what appears to be a coin slot. We poke at it with our fingers. Hmm. Feels wet, but doesn’t really make your finger wet — like that “goo” stuff for kids that comes in a little plastic trashcan, only substantially more adult.
“What’s that smell?” my girlfriend sniffs inquiringly through her mid-January Kleenex-buffed nose.
I breathe in deeply. “Vanilla?”
“Christ on a crutch!” She squeals. “You’re gonna put your dick in that thing?”
“Why not? You wanna watch?”
“Yuck. Do it at your house.”
“I can’t do it at my house. You’re supposed to warm it up in the sink by pouring hot water over it. My roommates will find out.”
I open the bottom of the Fleshlight and discover a hard plastic tube that runs down the center. I pull on it and it sticks to the pink, sticky “flesh.”
“What is that?” she mutters. “Vulva-on-a-stick?”
I look at the brochure. “The stick maintains the ‘vulva’s’ shape.”
She runs her fingers through her hair and squints at the ceiling, groaning, “How symbolic.”
The brochure also warns not to share one’s Fleshlight with anyone. No problem. I’m not even sure I want to share it with myself.
She leaves the kitchen and climbs into her bed. Her ass cupped inside a pair of velour panties causes my “all-natural” flesh to swell into an arc of longing. I look at the Fleshlight cupped in my hands. One glance at its gooey, pink, coin-slot eye and I’m soft again. I crawl into her bed and spoon myself around the warm hips that house her real pussy. She clenches my hands between her breasts. Ah, better.
“What about your date?” she asks.
“I left her with the toaster.”
Next morning, while she’s in the shower, I’m nursing a coffee at the kitchen table. The sun’s first rays cast a pleasing light across the room and the Fleshlight, standing tall and majestic on the table, casts a shadow like a sundial. Maybe I will do it tonight.

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References
^ Maynard, Joe (1999). “My date with the Fleshlight“. Nerve.com.