If I could, I’d swap my penis for a vagina. Just for a day. I’m both physically and emotionally attached to my urinary and reproductive pleasure nodule. But I’d be lying if I wrote that I’m not curious as to what it’s like to have a secret garden. This curiosity does not call into question my sexuality, nor does it suggest that I’m an enlightened man who longs to experience the burdens of the feminine condition. The female reproductive organ is a source of endless fascination to men. We desire its sensual folds, fear its bloody mysteries, and owe it our very existence. One day I think it will be possible for men and women to trade genitals for fun and recreation.
In the distant future, humanity will probably be genderless anyway. Just brains floating in saline solution-filled aquariums attached to solar-powered lawnmowers. But before such dire evolutions take place, I foresee a funky future for sex, where vaginas come in cans, penises grow on trees, and sex robots are more than just Roombas that talk dirty. There are actually scientists who have written about a tomorrow when temporary, recreational body modifications will be possible.
So it’s not wildly out there to imagine a time when I could waltz into a local bioengineering parlor and rent a vag. This will be the least bizarre thing going on at that place, as people will be walking out with bat wings and fluffy raccoon tails. My fantasy is grounded in serious science-fiction, people. The only real reason to support stem cell research, besides that whole “eradication of horrible diseases” thing, is so that my great-great grandson can get gills.
That I would be down with experiencing what it would be like to possess a woman’s reproductive assets shouldn’t be surprising, as every woman I’ve ever been friends with has at one time expressed a desire to have a penis for day. And why not? Penises are great.
I think one of the main differences between the sexes is the fact that one set of humans has this junk on the outside, and the other has it on the inside. This has got to influence behavior. Perhaps men are less intuitively introspective because we spend our formative years happily tugging on our dangle. It’s an appendage we’re constantly aware of, that begs to be scratched, whipped out, and shielded from runaway kickballs. I don’t think women are quite as obsessed with their bits, at least early on. The vagina isn’t as ornamental as the penis. Of course, come adolescence, boys and girls both discover their privates can do other stuff. For boys, it can produce a new and fascinating liquid that is pleasurable to summon. For girls … well, I imagine it’s never any fun to ever see blood outside of your body. Men have little spears in their pants, and that’s why we, generally, go through life trying to stab things, figuratively and literally. Women have more complicated machinery. I don’t think I’ll get much argument from men that women, on the whole, are more complicated than men in almost every way. This is a compliment.
Which is why I only need one day to try out the merchandise, in the event that it became scientifically possible to put my dong on ice and take a woo-woo for a ride. First off, I’d ask for a “jungle bush” version and I wouldn’t trim or wax my new muff. I love bush, and I’d want to walk around with the full Amazon. Once I get my pooo-say, I’d spend a good three hours or so just playing with it, getting to know my labia, toggling my clitoris, exploring the vagina itself. I’d be very scientific about this exploration, of course. I’d need mirrors and lights and stirrups.
Once I’d taken an accounting of my new parts, I’d get right to masturbating. I don’t know if this would make me a lesbian or not. I imagine that in the future, if a gay man rented a hey-nonny-nonny, he’d have to fantasize about male organs in order to get turned on. I mean, I wouldn’t be a lesbian, I’d be a straight man with a temporary, bioengineered vagina. Yeah. So, I’d immediately start rubbing one-to-eight out. I’d use my fingers, shower nozzles, vibrators, hand massagers, anything I could conceivably and safely used to get myself off. I’d take mental notes: how long does it really take a woman to get turned on? How long does it take that same woman to reach orgasm? Is the female orgasm really better than a male orgasm?
After that is out of the way, I will want to experience peeing sitting down. Which I can do now, but I’d like to know what it’s like with out my jacklog hanging down. I would also experience what it is like to wear pants without having to adjust the nuggets. I would nickname my little trumpet, obviously. Either “Athena Wondersnatch” or “Duchess Red Hot.” If I had a girlfriend, I’d tell her that we live in the future, and attitudes have changed, and that if she loved me, she’d ride her hover Segway over to my pod and perform oral on her boyfriend’s Frankenquiver. I would then spend my final hours staring lovingly at an organ that defines one sex. A small part of the body that is neither the heart or the brain, that is of such importance to so many people. The next morning, I’d have my penis (“Samson Beefrocket”) returned to me … but not before I considered renting an Octotaur prick.
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