Yeah, you. You with your hand in your pants. Or you with no pants. Silky pants. Vibrating pants. Vibrating hands. Vibrating hand or pant replacements. Or however you handle it, I’m not sure of your particular thing.
You with the entire world to play. You with the universe of words. You with actual photographs of the edge of our existence. You with the evidence of whispered creatures from the hidden seas. You with a translator to any scene.
You. Who seated before the great black void, ask Google (and Google immediately turns and whispers your little secret to the nearest database) for clarity on such things as:
using ﬁsh as a dildo
deer boob tattoo
“knoxville, tn” “sex”
To you, I owe an apology.
You are here, but you do not want to be here. You launched your pod this particular night, to ﬁnd a scratch for your itch. So you shot some combination of words into the inter-lands and in the hunt for what ﬂicks your ﬂame, you landed chez-moi. And my guess is that a website of ridiculous essays on cancer and bus travel and concussions – won’t do it for you.
And please feel at ease, I’m not here to judge.
Though some of you are quite obviously fucked in the head, (“fattened for fucking”? Ugh. And worse. You know who you are). Seriously, really really really fucked. As in your thought production line is kaput. Go ﬁnd someone, something, or somewhere to help pressure release your ideas before they fester and manifest into something that resembles plausible action.
Just also please know that neither I, nor any other soul that ever rolled on this glorious orb is any better or worse than you. I mean hell, what’s a “normal” monkey? One that throws poop.
So let me make amends (except to YOU. Get help).
Allow me to humbly take the reigns of your quest for knowing. I’ve been around a bit. Seen some things. I have idle hands and a devilish disposition. Loose morals and a thirst and tolerance for poisonous things.
I was raised in an era when if you had a sexual bend, oh boy, you had to work. Too young to enjoy the dying embers of the seventies, when touching one another wasn’t a roulette wheel for viral death. And just at the very beginning of the age with instant access to way, way too much information, way way too early. And everything photographed/sent/received/archived on devices that nestle and vibrate in pocketed nethers, every fraction of a second, all over the world, (At this point should our yearbooks be composed entirely of mirrored cleavage shots and dick pics? Maybe actor head-shots at least).
In my generation’s puberty (old man gravelly), it took 48 minutes to download a picture of a single boob. And you didn’t know whose boob you were getting until you got it. And your computer was the size of a small refrigerator, prominently displayed in the back of the family kitchen. And that’s if you were spoiled.
If one of your parents didn’t have a middle drawer stash of nudie mags, then you had to settle for the underwear section of mailing list department store catalogs. You had to outlast everyone’s consciousness to watch low volume scrambled signals of soft-core cable shows. You had to rely on the National Geographic loophole of topless ‘indigenous’ photographs. You had to go to the nearest university to research the Kinsey report, or essays (written only by dudes) arguing about the existence of the mythical g-spot, all under the spotlight of a librarian’s rolled eyes.
My group of junior high friends once passed around an audio tape of a man and woman getting down, with as much care and awe, as the Russians once manually typed out and surreptitiously snuck each other copies of banned literature under Stalin.
In other words, I have experience researching this shit. I’m willing and available for you and your winding, muddled, overworked search engines. You didn’t want to ﬁnd me, but hey, let’s make the most of it. Perverts and lost causes! I will be your huckleberry.
Let me guide you in the lowlands. Let’s walk for a while on our weary way.
Let’s start with an easy one.
Which came to the old Fattened Paradise via a Google request from the island of the Queen. A wondrous land of prim and proper total fucking pervs, bless them. Also, some tough sons of bitches.
Now, ‘using ﬁsh as a dildo,’ is an interesting query for so many damn reasons, but mainly because you are essentially asking not only how, but what type of ﬁsh would be best to sleep with. And there are so many ingredients to that soup.
Are you looking for a relationship, or a one time thing? Something based on what you know works, or something that piques your interest, but have yet to try? Something that you could share a conversation and a meal with, or merely pound cake for the boudoir? Something that you can admit to yourself, or something that has to peek out in an immediately deleted, dim lit eve?
It’s really a question of attraction. And not attraction to a mate with which you could share a city condo, or tax forms, or duplicate half yourselves, which is usually the point. And not even attraction to a mammal, which is where this type of fetish usually draws the line. But attraction to something you can’t really caress, and in fact, is nearly impossible to hold but for the hook end of strings.
What’s important? Attitude? Size? Texture? Stamina? The ability to remain alive in an oxygen dominated environment?
We have a pretty straight forward relationship with ﬁsh.
We look at ﬁsh, or ﬁsh look at us. We feed ﬁsh, or ﬁsh feed us. They live in a tank or open waters. We visit sometimes.
Do we really want to complicate what we have? How many things in this life are easy?
But ﬁne. Okay. Let’s hit the proverbial microﬁche (have your phone look the word up, kids). Here is what the internet tells us we know…
RESEARCH (USING ONLY HALF AN ASS):
This from Yahoo Answers: In the summer of 2009, an avatar proclaiming to be a young woman ﬂying on Red Bulls and “…” dared to ask the Answers community what the “sexiest ﬁsh” might be. 31 answers. Merman (doesn’t exist- on this planet). Star ﬁsh (not a ﬁsh). Scorpion ﬁsh (ouch). Anglerﬁsh (YOUCH). No help there.
Also from Yahoo Answers: In 2011, another avatar named “?” (here’s a simple equation for modern online life: “?”=53YROLDDUDE), asked whether ﬁsh or eel could be used as a dildo. Very few answers, mostly in the we hope you’re not serious range. Little help, but for this gem:
“Better use something which is not life.”
Which nearly brought me to tears, and might be the answer to every question ever.
Also from Yahoo Answers: The fact that there is nothing on the face of the planet more worthless than Yahoo Answers. Otherwise, you’re doing really great things Yahoo! (He says in the same tone he uses with Philadelphia.)
This is the offering from Urban dictionary: A pretty straight-forward debauched mainstream porn point-of-view. I need some more passion and cuddling from my deﬁnitions, personally.
Here is a band – Penis She Wrote – that, understandably, is so proud of its song ‘Swarm of Dildo Fish’, that it listed its sweet ass lyrics here. Some of their other songs are ‘Anaconda Cock’, ‘Babymaker Vagina’, and ‘The Cheese Sandwich Test’, – which is probably the love ballad. Best of luck to them.
Here are a couple bottom barrel offerings from Youtube. Anytime I need to watch a German teen expound on his philosophy of things, ﬁltered through a Sherman’s March style strain of self importance, I consult Youtube. Said a guy who writes a website of personal essays.
And ﬁnally, there’s this guy, Mr. Biguttatus, who was callously nicknamed the hornyhead chub due to a head condition. But who is really a sensitive soul that spends his life building towers of pebbles for his love. What the hell have you done?
Okay. So here’s where things shake out, as far as I can tell. First of all, the ﬁsh has to be alive and well for one to make love to – because sex is an interaction between willing participants, and must be entered into with some decorum, as it is the only true handshake of this world. Just ask astronauts or aliens or anyone who has had a good long view from above.
Now, the matter of whether they’re attracted to you is another question entirely. You’ll just have to ask them, I’m afraid, or suss it out in the usual fashion. And, of course, there should be safe-words, and an agreeable out for the both of you.
Like a good muscle car, they are arched and full bodied as if priapism were a personality. They are usually large, and can be huge, but even the small ones have potential to hurt. They are misunderstood. And feared. And for good reason, but also not.
They are wonderful swimmers. They move like something powerful should, that lives with the constant availability of all directions. Incapable of atrophy, linear, opinionated, alternating between unfettered rage and a shoulder weighted dormant awe of things. They love without regard for tearing off pieces. But they don’t mind if you take some too.
Have no delusions, they will eat you. Even if you are not good food. They come at you from under belly. They will attack once, and give no second chances. They will leave you to bleed dry.
And in those few short moments, you will have punched and kicked harder than you thought possible, or maybe somehow found a way to just let it all go. But, at the least, you will have been certain of this life.
Also with sharks, you always have to schlep to their place.
They don’t have scales, and they look the part, so, there’s that. They are good with holes and some are electric, so there’s that too.
They are lithe like a mountain man who only ingests rye. They are all over the place. Some days you’re the best thing that ever happened to them. Some days they cower in the smallest of crannies. Some days they’re going to make sure they get everyone before everyone gets a chance to get them.
They’re nocturnal, so they’ll be calling at odd hours. They can become dependent almost immediately if you’re willing to provide the sugar. And they’ll get irritable, lounging on your couch, when you’re not johnny on the spot with what really is a privilege but damn if they ever ﬂash an ounce of recognition for all your effort and care.
They can survive out of water for quite some time, so there’s that as well.
But often that only means they have more ways in which to leave you.
Salmon always talk about sweet home home home. And it’s like, well why’d you leave it then jack? And they always talk about predetermined destiny destiny destiny. So you better prep for an affair as though you’re going to bed a 18th century poet. E-v-e-r-y-thing is going to mean EVERYTHING.
Only they’re no true poets (Scottish brogue), but ladder climbers. Ambitious bastards whose lives are consumed by their ﬁve year turned thirty year because the real estate market isn’t what it used to be dammit Margaret you know I hate staying late at the ofﬁce and having to schmooze clients with Jeff and Alan under heaving neon lit breasts but that’s just what it takes – grand plan.
And what the hell does it get them? All that leaping and wiggles and wags and at best they end up exactly where they started. So if you catch them on the climb, don’t expect an investment of their time. Just get what you want out of them. And if you catch them when they’re okay to chill – do not expect a casual thing. They will require the whole domestic shebang – a few thousand kids, a crib in their old neighborhood puddle – that kind of thing.
So when the tryst is done, be prepared for a slight overreaction. As in shriveled to bitters, life is the void, I’m going to die now that we’re through. And then they do. Die, that is. Damn ugly, too.
Pufferﬁsh are famous for being ass slow, but they can juke like crazy because they have ﬁns for every conceivable locomotive whim. Even the little mentioned, but highly useful, anal ﬁn. Also, they can see wicked good and are able to get the ball rolling early on that whole not getting eaten thing.
And famously, as a last measure they are able to bloat their esteem with air or water or tequila or sake, and perform undeniably impressive feats. And when inﬂated they are also a bit arrogant and prickly, which can be good or bad depending on the activity and the skill of application. When swollen, though, they’re generally a good time.
Fair warning though – deﬁnitely not as fun de-puffed. Either prepare yourself for a world class why me whinge or ﬁnd an excuse to catch a cab home during the night.
Oh and as one of nature’s wonderful – okay, but I’d rather have kick-ass claws or fangs instead – defense mechanisms (you know – goats fainting, chinchillas shooting their pee), they are wicked poisonous. Only surgeons can eat them. And… their spines will shiv the throats of predators that caught them unawares and managed a bite. They’re still dead, yes. But they’re just around the corner, giggling, waiting for you.
I know, I know, the name is appealing. But really, only if you’re interested in trying the group thing.
So, after careful consideration, United Kingdom, I feel fairly conﬁdent in advising you that the best way to use ﬁsh for a dildo is to please please never, NEVER, ever use ﬁsh for a dildo. Strap a shark ﬁn ribbon to your favorite phallus or phallus substitute. Or use one of the many available animal themed sex toys (otherwise marketed as marital aids – society’s implicit admission that monogamy is destined to stale, I guess). Because nothing revs the old motor like a bunny rabbit navigating your hoo-hoo.
Or you could become a furry. Or rather the ﬁsh equivalent of a furry. Which I guess would have something to do with scales and mucous, and if that grosses you out then I would suggest that you never read anything about the human body ever.
But if you’re dead set on re-purposing a citizen of the water world as a functioning penis – then, courtesy of my time studying in the paciﬁc northwest, there’s really only one thing for it. You’re welcome.
And that, dear travelers, is as too far as I’m willing to already go.
NEXT QUEST: THE BEST NIPPLES YOU’VE EVER SEEN.