Getting Realistic
“For it to no longer be my strap, but to be my dick, my cock. For it to be an extension of me.”
I bought my first strap-on in 1999 at Babeland (then Toys in Babeland) in Seattle. Though they had the best selection of toys I had ever seen, most of them were un-realistic insertable toys with flared bases in cute shapes like dolphins and astrological signs that seemed specifically marketed specifically to lesbians — or, at least, all the lesbians I knew. They all insisted that strapping on was good queer fun, but would never dare to have something that looked even remotely like a factory-installed penis.
That was the requirement of my former girlfriend when we went shopping for a strap to use together: she said, “Nothing realistic, and absolutely no balls.”
I left with a bright red silicone dildo named Leo.
It took years for me to figure out that I wanted something realistic. And it took even longer for the shame of wanting something realistic to fade. Part of why it took me so long to come around to realistic dildos was because I was worried about what it might mean for my gender if I wanted something that matched my body better. Wanting a realistic strap-on might have to do with my gender, but it doesn’t have to. That’s a puzzle I am still figuring out. Equating penetration with masculinity reinforces the gender binary at best and can be flat-out transphobic.
Whether it was transphobia, misandry, homophobia, or something else entirely, I got the message very clear early on that lesbians and realistic strap ons don’t go together.
But now, more than 20 years later, I don’t believe that at all.
It has helped that I’ve been an avid consumer of all things strap since Leo — and that things have changed significantly in the last two decades. There are so many more realistic options now than I’ve ever seen before. Prosthetics (generally marketed toward trans men) are not just in realistic shades and shapes, but hyper-realistic, with veins, foreskin, and other features. Dipping into the prosthetic options has brought a whole new relationship to strapping on, feeling more and more like it’s my own, an extension of my body, and maybe even like what I would have if I had one.
The features of realistics often mean more sensation, too. Some have skin that slides, or bases that are wider and with texture to rub up against my own body in delicious ways. I’m always in search of more sensation, and to feel more like it’s part of me. Because that’s what I really want: to embody my strap. For it to no longer be my strap, but to be my dick, my cock. For it to be an extension of me. I like when it compliments my skin, when it feels like the right size, shape, and weight for it to be part of my body. It’s easier for me to add it to the mental outline of my body shape, to feel it in my proprioception when it is in concert with my body.
It’s helped to disconnect the desire for a realistic, functional cock from my own gender, and someone else’s gendered expectations. It helped to move into a nonbinary gender expression and identity where I understand don’t need to categorize things I want as belonging to any particular gender. I want what I want, I crave what I crave, and I try to let myself have those things. Regardless of gender, there are ways to penetrate a body, with fingers and tongues and appendages that we buy in stores, and some folks have bodies that like to be penetrated. Penetration doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with gender, it has to do with consent, pleasure, exploration, and connection. We each get to find out the ways we like.
There are so many things I like: to feel the contraction and pulse of someone around my fingers, my tongue, my cock; to witness that moment of opening and surrender when someone relaxes and releases; to look down and see a cock that suits my body. What I like, perhaps most of all is to feel like the dick I’m wearing is part of me, whether it’s a brief quickie or long luxurious hours that I’m strapped on.