Getting married isn’t cool, but neither is moving to Australia.
In a bid to keep hold of my Aussie girlfriend, and keep me away from the most culturally irrelevant place on the planet, I got married at the age of 25.
It’s a Sunday evening and we’re too broke for more than two Sam Smith’s pints, there’s fuck all on telly and it seems the only answer is to finally get around to that wedding gift that stuck out from the rest. I mean the frying pan was great, and the cold hard cash paid the rent, but a 'Clone-A-Willy Kit' is something that really breaks the mould.
Concerns are many with a project like this. How will I be at my formidable best? Will all this crap give me a mad rash? Will a housemate walk in and have their eyes forever soiled? I mustn’t worry about these things, it’ll only affect performance. As I embark on this crafty ‘make’, now seems like a good time to tweet Richard Bacon and bring up the time he got fired from Blue Peter. This is definitely the kind of thing that’d get made if they did a kids show on chang.
Anyway, so this is being done as a duo, because that’s what married life is all about. We watch the instructional video, which is a pleasant soft porn movie, and read over the complex instructions. There are some fine margins in terms of time, and there’s an early acknowledgment about the logistics of the thing; the recommendations are to use a ‘penis pump or cock ring’. I love how the dick-word changes. I have neither, but I do have a very attractive wife, so that’ll just have to do.
The ins and outs of getting things stirred up shouldn’t really move out of the marital bedroom, lets just say I ensure my wife’s patience and she gets to work on mixing the molding gel
Before we start any of the wet part of the process, there’s a tube to cut to length, which also begins the thoughts of: “I’m not the lengthiest man in the West.” The ins and outs of getting things stirred up shouldn’t really move out of the marital bedroom, lets just say I ensure my wife’s patience and she gets to work on mixing the molding gel. At least it’s not plaster, I’d definitely think about getting my dick stuck in that shit. To mix the gel, the water must be at a very specific temperature, and there’s a handy little thermometer in the kit.
It is clearly stated on the instructions that from the point the water hits the powder, there’s only 2 minutes to play with. The powder needs to be mixed, poured in the tube and I need to jam myself deeply in there afterwards. All the while maintaining an erection worth casting. This is not an erotic time. Still, I try my best and with a little help from the wife, time ticks away and everything goes smoothly, to the point I’m shoving my dick into some pancake mix. That’s a good night in. Fuck X Factor. Idiots are WASTING their time. Anyway, I get it in and I’m already ahead of the couple that gave us the thing:
"It’s fucking difficult man. You’ve only got 2 MINUTES. I only got my head in."
At this strange, strange time we take photos, because I’d like to be taken seriously as a journalist. The image of my hairy midriff and dripping cock made it all look like a bizarre bukkake event.
When the time is right, I pull out, importantly intact. My wife’s key concern on discussing the project was this point:
"But how does it come out? The end is like, like a mushroom."
She needn’t have worried, all is well but my dick feels mildly abused. Better clean off all of this dry rubber porridge and finish the bang that has been entirely disjointed by this whole venture.
As my wife sleeps, I wait for the mould to dry and smoke a zoot with a house guest. I tell tales of Manchester and he comes up with the 'Betwixed' - a mixture of a Bounty and a Twix. Lean as tits, I’ve got to finish this off. I’m busy making plans for a post-apocalyptic movie (stoner noir, obviously) but leave it alone and head to the kitchen where I’ve set up a dildo building station on the table.
A lot of rubber spills and there’s a lot left over. I knew I didn’t have serious length... At least she’ll have something to remember me with by when I’m gone.
Two pots of liquid are mixed with a wooden stick (provided) in a plastic cup (not provided). The liquid is poured into the cock-shaped cavity, and a vibrator is inserted. I use a beer mat to hold the thing in the right spot. A lot of rubber spills and there’s a lot left over. I knew I didn’t have serious length. And my girth was poor today. I should’ve got some Viagra to guarantee ferocity. It’s hard to stay hard when you’re worrying about taking the temperature of tap water. TEPID ERECTION MEETS MYSTERIOUS RUBBER. At least she’ll have something to remember me with by when I’m gone.
Is it cool for me to be making this on the kitchen table? Everyone’s experienced cocks. And it’s still unused. Next step of the process: wait 24 hours. For now, I’m gonna watch World’s Wildest Police Videos, eat a cheese and hot sauce sandwich and write a slice of bullshit about cloning my modest member.
It’s not ‘til a few days later that I get to check out over the finished product. I’ve been working away, so the dildo has already had its debut dip, yet there’s still a little moulding gel on a spatula in the kitchen. When I pick up the fake flesh, I’m pleasantly surprised with the result, though I don’t think it’s too solid a likeness.
As a couple, we’re fairly sure that my dick clone will never see any real action, but at least we can say we did it. We followed instructions that were more difficult than flat-pack furniture, something endlessly more difficult than marriage.