My first Cock

(written somewhere over Montana, on a break from reading S. Bear Bergman's "Butch Is a Noun" that I will review madly once I finish it, but I had to stop in the middle of hir essay "Cocks" to write this.)My first cock was named Natasha.I was barely 15 years old, and I had fallen in love with a trick turning lesbian diva named Caroline who had melted my heart after a mud flow had stranded me in Portland, OR after a devastating evening with my then barely ex boyfriend and first Top, Toby. For folks who have heard the tale, the infamous “slurping his soup” evening. I had fled into her arms for a night and fucked like a champion, but she had commented that I would need a cock of my own (and not borrow hers) if we actually dated, if I was going to be her boyfriend, girlfriend, lover, partner.So one particularly unspecial afternoon, we caught the bus to Its My Pleasure, at its old location, this was back in 1995 after all. There was a leather butch doing construction work of some sort out front and we both ogled her like hungry dogs, and pretending to be older than we were, we walked in without being questioned.I’d been in sex shops before, but Its My Pleasure was different- a women friendly dyke operated place not unlike Toys in Babeland in Seattle that I had been to many times as well- but never with, well, a girl who LIKED me. Who loved me. Who wanted me to buy my first cock.I tried to play it cool but ended up making a cursory look at books before zooming like a bee into the back room where the hardcore smut and all the dildos were kept. I fondled each one with love, imagined each perched between my legs, danced with the idea of each one- ok, not the ones that looked like vegetables or dolphins- those I just laughed at. After a few minutes Caroline came over and joined me and we laughed together, whispered together, and finally settled on one specific make that was just right for us.I have never been a big cock guy, well, ok, I am- but not when I imagine “what my cock should be”. My flaccid cock, in my mind, is about two or three inches long, and certainly doesn’t hang down lower than my balls (thus the issue with my current replacement packie from Vixen, they sent me the large, and wow, its not me- It is my packie, not my cock, like I called my old one). I have no need to have a giant phallus hanging down between my legs, unless I know that its going to fill the crevices of my partners desires, or if I just want to look like a Tom of Finland boy. I love being fucked with huge cocks, but my cock identity is far more modest.It was black, vaguely penis shaped (Caroline did not want a “real looking cock”), had three tiers of bumps as it went up, no slit, no balls. It was about 7 inches long, and only an inch and a half wide, maybe 2 inches, at the base. We asked the store clerk if we could buy one.“Sorry, that’s our last one.”Caroline sighed. I thought about it.“Can I buy this one?”“You sure? It’s the floor model. It’s been fondled by thousands of dykes at this point, ya never know where its been.”Yes, I’ll take it. Please let me take it. The charge in this thing was like wild fire, you could feel the passion of the women and men and everyone else who had held it throbbing in your hands. Singles and pairs and groups of friends had all gathered around this cock and daydreamed, lusted, giggled, moaned, laughed, and dreamed of being fucked by it. And I was going to own it.We took it home that night, along with a leather texas two-strap harness from Stormy Leather (I was a baby dyke considering transitioning genderqueer masculine thing, but at least I had taste), and we broke it in with zeal. That night my cock was christened Natasha, the superspy, the partner to my Boris. She could dive where I would dream, slink in her black dress into the hearts of femmes and fags alike, give me power to my blumbering beardom always conquered by moose and squirrel. She knew the way, and led me to it.Two years later, after my breakdown over Thanksgiving weekend in 1997, the weekend of the suicide/attempt, I realized I’d broken up with Caroline in my pain and fury and drunken rage behind a sea of blades and blood. She flew back to Portland and destroyed Natasha, and the harness… or so I was told. They died in a fire… or so I was told. Not long after I decided not to transition, not if I couldn’t have the cock I wanted, but for those of you who know the tale of that breakup and my inner turmoil around my choices that winter, I think you understand better the other reasons why.12 years later I just read an essay by S. Bear Bergman entitled Cocks- and I had to stop mid-essay and write this tale, on a plane, over the Midwest. I hope Caroline knows I never stopped loving her, and to this day I am still proud of owning Natasha mach 3, worn and broken, who I’ve shown, in her little black dress, to more newbies than I care to admit, helped break in virgin asses with, and though she was never fondled by thousands of dreaming dykes, she still holds many of my dreams firmly to her silicone bosom.