phetish | The Giant Black Cock and the Inflatable Sheep

Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.

After seeing Hatchet Harry in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels:

I recognized a need I’d never noticed before – I needed a big, double-sided, black plastic cock.

So I drove down to the adult store behind a nearby U-haul and picked up the Doc Johnson Black Giant Double Dildo.

I’ve been partial to Doc Johnson ever since I endorsed the Juli Ashton anal starter kit:

And while I continue to support the latter and have weaponized the former, I must say that Big Black must be wrapped in Saran Wrap at all times, because the smell is abominable. It reeks of rubber, like a freshly opened pool toy, and even with years of regular use, the smell will never fade.

While I was in the shop, I also noticed the Love Ewe.

At the time, I had a roommate named Eric. Eric was a nice guy – a little on the heavy side, but he was a great cook and a lot of fun to be around. But, since he didn’t have a girlfriend, well…there was only one thing for a good roommate to do.

At first, I thought I’d rent him an escort, but there was the simple obstacle that we lived in the same house, so when her pimp cased the joint, he’d be casing my house, too.
So, I googled alternatives, settling upon an inflatable doll. When I googled “hot inflatable dolls,” I found this hilarious review.

NinjaPirate.com is an awesome site, and his quest for sex (Example 1 and Example 2) reminded me so fondly of all the single men that I knew that I felt confident in taking his advice.

On the subject of inflatable sheep, he wrote the following:

A lot of guys pretend blow-up dolls are jokes. As if they’re ugly because nobody takes them seriously. Until it’s their bachelor party and someone gifts them a blowup doll. And then the bachelor is like, “Oh! You got me a blowup doll! That’s funny shit, Nate. Nate, you old dog you. Buying me a blowup doll. That Nate. Thanks Nate.” Then the guy goes home and fills it with water and fucks it. Of course he does.

A few years ago my friends got me a Lovin’ Lamb for my birthday party. I reacted like it was funny and I pretended to take it as a complete joke. But the whole remainder of the party, all I could think was, “I can’t wait to go home and fuck that Lovin’ Lamb.” Then I went home and filled it with water and fucked that Lovin’ Lamb.

That’s right. I went to town on that faggoty gay little lamb. And I know you’re jealous and you’re going to go out and buy one right away.

But here’s the thing. When you purchase a brand new Lovin’ Lamb or maybe Lovin’ Kangaroo if you’re Australian, it will be stiff and obnoxiously loud. Your family or whatever will hear it in the other room, they’ll think you’re making balloon animals. What you do to make it soft is exactly like a new baseball mitt. You put it in the dishwasher with a bunch of rubber bands around it and your dick stuck in it so it conforms right. After three or four loads, it’ll be pliable and soft so you can pitch it to that doll until it somehow, against physics, has an orgasm. And if you want, you can try the black sheep. The black ones are much more warm and sensual, but usually more noisy and only work if you drape gold chains on them.

So, I knew Eric would pretend to be disgusted – and he did.
And I knew he would take that sheep back and fuck it to death, so I gave him the above advice, and then the sheep disappeared.

One day, several months later, I was cleaning the house and ventured into his room in search of dishes and soda cans. I peeked under his futon and – lo and behold – there was the Sheep, sad and deflated.

Wanting to rekindle the joke, I pulled at the inflation device and began to blow it up.

To my surprise, wind blew out the butthole of the sheep like a low sigh.

I dropped the sheep for a moment and stared in disbelief. Then, I picked it up and ran to Eric.

“You fucked it to death!” I yelled.

Eric, who was standing in the kitchen cooking dinner, was more than a little puzzled.

“The sheep! You killed it with your penis!” I accused.
“What?” my other roommate asked.
Composing myself, I explained, “I was cleaning up in Eric’s room and I found the sheep. I went to blow it up and air started blowing out the…vagina. Look!” I pointed at them with the gaping hole in the rear of the sheep, “There’s supposed to be a sheath there, where the penis goes. The sheath has been ripped out from the inside, which means you fucked the sheep so hard that you tore off its little inner fuck sock and now it’s just a popped balloon!”
“It wasn’t me!” Eric insisted, wide-eyed.

What you have to understand about my house is that people came over all the time to hang out with us, watch movies and play video games. There were literally anywhere between five and fifty unique bodies inside those walls every week…which meant that it wasn’t inconceivable that someone had entered Eric’s room and, presumably with his permission, raped his sheep to death.

“You let someone fuck your sheep?” I asked.
Eric said nothing.
“On the futon?” I asked, suddenly glad I’d given him that futon with no expectations of a return.

This evolved into a multi-month rape mystery as we investigated, like a pornographic game of Bestiality Clue, who had raped the sheep to death.

We never did solve what will be one of the great unsolved mysteries of my life, along with “who stole my severed foot.”

But that’s another story.