Regular readers might have been wondering what’s been going on in the self-love department since the last installment of DIY love (‘An Unexpected Journey,’ March 2018).
I am pleased to say we have not been idle and progress has been made!
For a start I have discovered that, in the pattern of all things technical, I should simply have gone to Tech Support for advice in the first place. Over coffee one Saturday the conversation turned to ‘cool things I’d seen online’ and wouldn’t you know it, he’d seen them already! Typical millennial.
You see, I had discovered the Fleshlight. For those of you who have been living under the same sexual rock as me, it’s a tube shaped device with a silicone lining meant to simulate the feeling of, well…an orifice. A soft, squidgy kind of orifice. On proceeding to the official website I made a number of startling discoveries.
Firstly:
There Are Lots of Naked Women on Websites for Sex Toys!
(I know, right? I was as surprised as you are. Most of the products are sponsored by actual porn stars. Go take a look yourself. Or don’t. Whatever).
Secondly:
Sex toys for straight men are really pink. They’re so pink I had to peer at the screen through my fingers. Honestly, it’s worse than the Barbie aisle at Toys R Us!
Thirdly:
Once you buy one, it’s not until you get it home and unpack it that you realise you need special sprays and wipes to clean it with which you THEN have to go back to the website and buy. What a rort.
Fourthly:
There are SO many different models, it’s mind-boggling. There’s even a stamina training model, for god’s sake! Choosing one reminded me of my last visit to the Telstra shop to get a new mobile phone (‘can’t I just get one to send texts and you know, call people?’)
Turns out Tech Support knew about the Fleshlight all along. Our conversation ran somewhat along these lines:
Me: I can’t believe you knew about this!
TS: I can’t believe you didn’t know about this!
Me: Why on earth didn’t you tell me?
TS: Mum, it’s embarrassing!
Me: I can’t believe you’re embarrassed talking about masturbation with your mother! Didn’t I raise you better than that?
Dear Reader, I bought one. The least pink one I could find. It looks just like a flashlight, it’s an innocuous black tube, but when you open it you get an eyeful of silicone orifice that is frankly rather alarming.
Which caused us to rethink our strategy.
I mean, if I had a willy I wouldn’t be putting it in there.
So it was back to the drawing board.
At this point I stumbled across a US Facebook page with a candid account of a mother’s attempts to teach her son to self-pleasure. She recounted stories of success using manual prompting. Many other parents responded with their stories, and some of their young men had to be helped because they were injuring themselves. We realised this was now much more important than simply teaching a fun new skill to while away a Sunday afternoon when there’s nothing on Netflix.
Shortly after this, HC came home on the weekend with carpet burn on his elbows, knees and ankles and bruising on his penis from rocking on the floor. This was serious. We had to teach him for his own safety.
Grasping the bull by the horns (if you’ll pardon the rather phallic metaphor), I sat down and wrote a social story. With help from our Coordinator of Supports, who was relieved only to be asked to provide Boardmaker images this time, and with photos of HC’s bed, we wrote a story with the key message that it’s OK to have private time, but not on the floor. The floor hurts. The bed is soft and safe. I took a picture of the lube, a picture of a hand, and a picture of his tissue box. I even found an ejaculation symbol.
Then of course I needed to buy lubricant. Reasoning that lids would be fiddly, a pump pack seemed optimal but surprise! Not available at Chemist Warehouse. So online I went again for the jumbo one litre pump pack at $22.95 including delivery. Pleasure is an expensive business.
Tissues obviously needed to be up to the job, so it was off to the supermarket. Who knew you can’t get man-sized Kleenex anymore? They must have gone the way of the ‘Feed the Man Meat’ campaign. Either that or men’s noses have shrunk.
So with preparations now in place, we all read the story with HC.
Mr A then sat with him and showed him how to pump the lube into his palm and move his hand up and down. He pointed out the location of the tissues for cleaning up afterwards and left the room.
Happy Chin kept at it for a little while but not…how shall I put it? Not to the point of needing to use the tissues.
Cut to a few weeks later though, and our young man is starting to get the hang of it. His male carers have been extremely mature and supportive. One young carer, not much older than HC, really helped the process along by explaining patiently, ‘just move your hand up and down, keep on doing that, it will feel nice’ and then leaving the room. HC now calls masturbation ‘Up and Down,’ and tells his carers he’s off to his room for up and down.
So far the state of underwear and bed linen indicate that we haven’t achieved completion, but I have discovered a whole new set of expressions to use with his carers when enquiring about his progress.
‘How’s the up and down going?’
‘Do we have lift off?’
‘Can we pop the champagne yet?’
We have also tried adult magazines. It was my job to buy pornographic magazines for my son when Mr August mysteriously just ran out of time to do it. I stood in front of the naughty magazine section for a good 10 minutes (having taken care to visit a newsagency in a different suburb where I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew), dithering over the choices. Playboy was full of articles (again, who knew, right?) Penthouse seemed tasteful enough. Perhaps a bit too tasteful? Also, quite expensive. But Dirty Housewives at $5.95 seemed a tad inappropriate (as if I was in a position to judge!)
Unfortunately, due to the poor quality of the paper, Penthouse failed to arouse, as Happy Chin prefers the high quality glossies. He likes the look and feel of flicking through expensive magazines, also the way they smell seems to be a trigger for him. If only Vogue or Harper’s would do a sealed section. Time to write to Anna Wintour I think!