I Wore A Strap-On For A Week To Know What It's Like To Have A Dick

I had a dream I was f*cking someone. Not getting f*cked. F*cking.

I had a dick and a hard-on and an insatiable urge to have sex. I was thrusting, pulsing and f*cking like a man.

Then it was over.

I woke up and realized I’d never actually know what it’s like to have a male orgasm -- to come every time.

I’d never know what it’s like to be a male. What it’s like to be number one, the dominant sex, the pronoun carrier.

I would never know what it’s like to hold something so treasured, so sacred, so goddamn important.

Then it occurred to me; like some women have done for thousands of years, I could fake it.

Maybe if I had a dick, I could understand why men continue to behave like them. Maybe if I had a dick, I could stop being treated like a pussy.

If there was anywhere I was going to go to get a true strap-on, it was Babeland. No questions asked.

With the support and selection at Babeland, I was able to choose life-like strap-ons of both flaccid and erect penises to wear throughout the day. I wore the flaccid one inside a pouch sewed into a pair of spandex boxers throughout the day and night.

And if I were to get the chance to actually use it, the erect dildo came with its own harness and own set of rules. But, unfortunately, I did not find a willing participant.

So there it was. Strapped on. Sitting there. Bulged and big. My skinny jeans tight around it. But I was doing it. Oh yeah, it felt like I had a d*ck.

As liberated and confident as I convince myself and everyone else around me I am, I can't deny that even if I don't care what other people think, I still notice.

I still notice what they're doing when they look at me, how they react to me and once in a while (okay, maybe more) I do fall victim to their judgment.

So when reviewing my diary of the seven-day penis trial, I noticed most of the points made were how I reacted to the reactions of those around me.

And those reactions came to shape the entire experience. So here's exactly how it went down with...

My boyfriend

I promised my boyfriend I wouldn’t wear the dick for his birthday weekend (cue eye roll and the beginning of what would be great insight into the male ego).

I then found myself fighting with him over the right to wear it in bed.

He’d ask me not to as if he were asking me not to text my ex. He'd make me feel like I was actually disturbing him, my fake dick making his sleep less likely and straining our relationship.

When he hugged me in the morning, he jumped away, as if he'd just found a spider crawling up his stomach.

I asked him what was so wrong with feeling something there.

His exact words were, "It's like coming into work every day to a designated parking spot, and one day, you come in, and there's a car in your spot. It's just... disorienting."

I asked him if he’d still like me if he found out it was real. Since he's inherently honest, he just refused to answer.

Strangers

It was Monday, and I was on the subway. The long cardigan I wore to cover the bulge had risen above my hips as I grabbed the handlebars of the moving car.

The man sitting under me was at direct eye level with my silicon masthead.

He looked at it. I looked at it. I looked at him looking at it. I looked at him squirm in his seat. I looked at him look down. I looked at him look at it again. I looked at him look at me. And suddenly, I felt uncomfortable.

Even though it was fake and I was playing a role, I felt like I was doing something wrong. I felt bad about myself. I felt exposed.

I got off the subway and found myself hiding it whenever I walked. Awkwardly swinging my hands in front of it. Hunching to keep it from looking so prominent.

I didn’t walk down certain streets once I got off the subway and made sure all the pants I wore were baggy and loose.

My friends

Obviously my friends were happy to hear about it, my fake dick adding spice to their monotonous routines of work, bad TV and vodka sodas.

But when it came to actually talking about it, looking at it or going out with it, they weren't as accepting.

They laughed. They joked. They fooled around but never actually asked me how it felt. Never asked what it was like.

I was the butt of the joke, the anecdote at cocktail hour and the comic relief during moments we didn't know what else to talk about.

My coworkers

There were few people I told about the experiment, and of those few, all were women.

They understood, being other writers and inherently original people.

But when it came to walking around the office, making myself coffee and going to the bathroom past the guys who sit on my path to the women's door, I found myself hiding it even more so.

I could only imagine what the men of the office would start rumoring if one of them saw a strange bulge protruding from my skinny jeans.

I thought about telling them but realized I didn't even want that attention.

Fake or real, I didn't feel like having their eyes on me, or it. I walked past my own peers hunched and uncomfortable.

I didn't stand and talk to any of them unless directly approached, and then, I usually shied away very quickly.

By the end of the week, I found myself desperate to take it off and get back to normal life.

What I found wasn’t about being born male but being born uncomfortable.

Being born outside of your skin. Being born against how you want and feel you are. Being born with something attached that isn’t attached at all.

I can’t begin to claim to know anything about the struggle of transgenders from seven days with a fake dick, but I can say I’ve unknowingly walked a few steps in their shoes.

I felt the awkward tension of hiding something so many men are proud to expose. I felt the burden of not feeling like my true self.

This isn’t about Caitlyn Jenner. This isn’t about “Orange is the New Black."

This isn’t about LGBTQ month; it’s about something that happened accidentally that coincides with our need to understand purposefully.

And that became that. I know this was supposed to be about f*cking and feeling like God’s gift to earth and assuming once I put it on I’d understand why women should get paid less and why I want to f*ck everything that moves, but I’m happy it turned out this way.

I’m happy I unknowingly entered another state of understanding, gained another point of empathy.

I’m happy that instead of just finding out balls really do sweat and men really are threatened by fake dicks as much as real ones, I found out about the real struggles and the real complexity of gender and sexuality.

I’m happy Babeland so generously provided me with the opportunity to strap on and walk a few miles in someone else’s dick.