The dildo was stuck to the television screen by the suction cup on its base and was currently turning David Brinkley into a unicorn. “So what are we going to do with George, there?” I asked. “George?” “I need a name, I can't just deal with a nameless dick.” Dave started laughing. “Puts you one up on Kim, then,” he said. Teres glared at him. “That was rude. George it is, then. So what are we going to do with it?” I couldn't help it. “Let's sleep on it,” I said. The kids were getting dropped off home the next morning, so we brought George upstairs and laid him, reverently, on a pillow. Well away from the bed. The next morning I came down to breakfast to find Teresa sitting on the living room floor, making a sign. I leaned over her head enough to read it.
Found: Very PERSONAL Item on B Street. Please call or contact us to identify.
“Very nice,” I said. “Suggestive without being too embarrassing, just like our wedding pictures.” “I thought so.” “I think you chickened out by not including an artist's conception.” We posted the signs, all the while looking about furtively in case the Religious Right was hiding in the bushes, ready to leap out and arrest us for trafficking in penises. It was an odd feeling, skulking about in the daylight like that. “You know no one's gonna have the nerve to call, don't you?” I said. Teres asked, “Would you call?” “Of course.” “So do you want to pass up the chance to meet someone as twisted as you?” Our public service done for the week, we headed back to the house, confident we'd be throwing George out within a few days.
By 10:30 that morning we had 32 calls.
We had to resort to scheduling visits throughout the day Sunday and quickly filled the 10 am to 5 pm slots with only a very few gaps. “We can use those for sort of an open viewing,” Teres said. She seemed to be enjoying this, so rather than bitch about our lost Sunday I relaxed to the inevitable and suggested we cater it. First thing was to arrange for the whereabouts of our boys. They're good lads, and very savvy about the ways of life, but despite our open attitude and sincere appreciation for honesty in parent-child relationships we still didn't feel completely comfortable having them present as we invited a series of forlorn sex maniacs into the house to inspect a massive false penis, if only because rushed explanations would have been unfair to all concerned. Arrangements were made to ship them off to Phen's place to play with his daughter, hopefully in a reasonably sex-toy-free environment. Kim was contacted to stand by as a consultant, in case she was required as an expert witness. She came over Saturday night and the three of us spent an enjoyable evening trying to decide on appropriate food to serve. Hot dogs or bratwurst seemed gauche, but barbecue was too messy. Teresa suggested tacos, as sort of a counterpoint, while I leaned towards cheese logs combined with cheese balls for an overall effect. We finally settled on fried chicken and chips to be the most neutral food and the most likely to stay edible all day. The rest of the night was used to set the stage.
The Sunday sun rose proud and true, flinging its rays through our windows to see what it could see, which was a heavy-duty construction-size doohickey of the male persuasion lying in state on its velvet pillow and surrounded by flowers and ribbons. No word on how the sun felt about that. The rest of the table had been cleared and polished and provided an elegant setting for viewing. “Shouldn't we have velvet ropes set up,” Teres asked. “in case there's a line?” “No need,” I said. “I think you could see George from space.” About five minutes before ten the first appointment showed up. We were nervous; it was one thing to laugh about this, but what kind of people were we inviting into our home? Not that owning a sex toy equated to perversity (or, more to the point, not that perversity was a problem in our household), but we weren't sure what sort of person would face the embarrassment rather than just buy a new one. Either these would be people amazing in their mental stability and remarkably comfortable in themselves, or… Or, like our first supplicants, they were too whacked out to care. James and Martha (no last name offered) weren't quite dead ringers for the people in the American Gothic painting, but only because they weren't dressed as well. They were so nervous it put us at ease, if that makes sense, and they seemed relieved that we weren't out to blackmail them or take pictures. According to James, their missing device was something they had bought through a catalog after 46 years of increasingly boring sex. Turned out that battery-operated vibration was just what both of them needed and now not only were they at it night and day, they had developed a seething rivalry (and a serious dildo jones). “James here needed it for his prostate, you know,” Martha confided in us, lowering her eyes. “And since I insisted on boiling it after he did that, you know, before I'd touch it, it got so we'd both try to make sure we were the first one to get to it in the morning. In just a few weeks we were fighting over it night and day, hiding it on each other and calling each other the most dreadful names.” James hung his head as well. “I'm ashamed to admit it, but I once left it in me for three days so she couldn't get it. Wasn't easy driving the truck like that, let me tell you.” Teres glanced back towards the table, then at James. Her eyes got very wide. I stood up and, with some trepidation, offered my hands to both of them. “Would you like to see if this is yours?” Martha sat, clutching her handbag. “I, I don't know.” She looked up at her husband. “We were getting to hate one another. I don't know that we should have it anymore. I remember locking myself in the bathroom for a whole week last Christmas and I just can’t stand it.” “She's right,” James said, and touched her hair affectionately. “We've lost something in our marriage, and I think we need to work on getting it back. The sex was great, though.” He kneeled before her and took her hands. “C'mon, Martha. Let's go get it and leave these good people alone. We can deal with this ourselves.” She nodded once, bravely, and then they walked over to look at George. There was a long pause. Martha crossed herself. Finally James said, “Nope, that ain't ours. We lost ours while we were fighting in the truck during our weekly battery run. Looked for it for hours with no luck, but that one I think we woulda seen, easy.” “Does that one vibrate?” Martha asked, a bit fearfully.
10:30 brought us Gail, a 19-year-old girl who entered our house, nodded at us, looked at it, shook her head, and left without saying a single word. She was blushing bright enough to set off smoke alarms. Our 11:00 was a timid little man in a cheap suit who introduced himself as “John.” “I like to look like I'm, you know, packing, when I go out,” he said. “I slip a little extra something in my pants leg and hit the town.” He admitted that George did not belong to him. I could tell; if he wore George he'd have no room for his leg. Kim stayed quiet until he started to leave, and then her curiosity kicked her sense in the head and spoke up. “Excuse me,” she said, “I don't want to pry, but why do you do that? I mean, what good does it do to pick someone up on the basis of something that's gonna drop off as soon as you drop your pants? Doesn't that kind of break the mood?” “John” smiled nervously. “I don't really know,” he said. “It hasn't worked yet.” Before he left he insisted we put him on a list to claim it if nobody else did.
11:30 brought a good-looking gay couple, both named Steve. “It's pretty handy, actually,” the blond Steve said, laughing. “I can yell my own name out without sounding narcissistic.” One of them (I forget which) had been bringing a new present home for the other and lost it somewhere along the way. “You know how you see something in the store and you just have to see it in your lover?” We agreed that we did. “Well, this was just perfect. Perfect shape, perfect size, perfect.” The one we had, however, was not. “Nope,” said Steve. “It was much bigger than that.” The other Steve smiled sadly, and they finished their drinks and left. We left noon open to have lunch, but some unannounced hopefuls showed up anyway and kept us busy. One 9-year-old boy who had stolen his mom's “massager” had lost it while showing his friends (apparently, in a perfectly sensible move, they had decided to see if they could get it stuck in a tree) and now had to find it fast, was particularly devastated that this wasn't it. He tried to talk us into giving it to him anyway, in the hopes that she'd like it better and not kill him, but we told him we needed parental permission before we handed a 10” lifelike dildo to a minor. We’re just the old-fashioned type, we are. A 6'2” man in full leather and chain biker regalia hefted it experimentally but finally pronounced it wrong. A lady Teres recognized as one of our younger son's grade school teachers crept quietly in, shook hands with everybody, and then burst into tears when she saw it. A gentleman arrived and announced several times that it wasn't his; he was there on behalf of his client who had described it to him perfectly. One woman that would best be described as “trailer-trash” stormed in with a big book under her arm, looked at the thing, opened her book, and compared the dildo to the hundreds of pictures she had carefully arranged in order of size and function. It wasn't hers, but I couldn't imagine why not. A small group of elderly ladies, still in their church clothes, milled nervously around the front door until one of them was shoved by the rest into coming in to look. “It's not ours, girls!” she called out the door as she left. “This one's white!” By three o'clock we had been visited by four more women, three men, two couples, a youth group, and a city council member who asked to remain anonymous. We were getting discouraged. “I don't believe this many people lost a sex toy,” Kim said. “Suddenly I don't feel so perverted anymore.” I sat down next to her. “Will you be all right?” I asked. She hove a deep sigh. “I suppose. A few days and I'll start feeling dirty again, I'm sure. Do you believe these people?” “I know,” Teres said. “My favorite so far is the lady that tried to shoplift it.” I chuckled. “Or the guy who said he couldn't recognize it unless he tried it.” “What are we going to do if the real owner never shows up?” Teres asked. “If no one claims it within 30 days, it's yours, hon,” I said. She snorted. “We could always take it to the next PTA meeting and ask if anyone’s missing a dick.” Kim suggested we auction it off. “We could give the money to charity, like unwed mothers or something.” Our 5:00 appointment was running late, so we started packing up. “We can leave the sign up and people can call,” I said. Teres looked up, horrified. “Oh, no, I'm not taking calls for this thing if you're not here. What if I get attacked?” “Hit 'em with George.” Kim left to hit the bathroom, just as a car pulled up in the driveway. “Whoops,” I said. “Your table might be dickless tonight after all.” The woman waiting outside our front door was trim and elegant, well dressed and beautiful. She was in her late 40's, had auburn hair that looked natural, and was clearly fit. Her eyes were hazel, her suit was Donna Karan, and she voted Republican. No, I couldn't tell that from looking. Kim had told us once that her mom voted for Bush. To her credit, she didn't seem as flustered as I would have expected, not that I would have expected Kim's mom to show up at our house at all, much less in search of cock. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. My, I didn't expect this.” Teres recovered before I did. “Won't you come in, Mrs. Sullivan,” she said. “We were just cleaning up.” Mrs. Sullivan entered the room with such poise and grace that I momentarily forgot she was here to lay claim to a rubber dick. “You've got such a beautiful home,” she said. We stood there uncomfortably for a moment, and then she saw the table. “Oh my God, there it is.” She walked briskly over and snatched the penis off the pillow, cradling it in both hands and looking it over for marks, for all the world like a she was judging a prize-winning zucchini. Maybe she was. “Not a scratch on him,” she said, amazed. Next to me Teres was fighting desperately to keep from giggling. I was simply in shock. Not as much as Kim was, though, when she walked back in to see her mother kissing the head of nearly a foot of cock. “MOM! What the hell are you doing?” I assumed it was a trick question. Mrs. Sullivan stood up straight and lowered her penis. “This is mine, dear,” she said. Kim stood there, open-mouthed and breathing like a distance jogger. “But… you… Daddy? Does Daddy know you have… one of those?” she asked, pointing. “I'm afraid he does now. He found it in my makeup case Friday night and went ballistic. Yelled something about him not being good enough for me and then he drove off with it. He was right, of course, but that’s no excuse to steal my property. I suppose he thought this was remote enough where no one would find it, or have the brains to do anything if they did. No offense,” she said.