Not A Professional Cock Caster, Of Course

The first time I met Husby, who obviously went by a different name at the time, I was under the impression that I was going to see a world-famous artist, who was generally too important to even speak to me. Therefore I was very impressed by the fact he generously agreed to spare me a bit of his time which he could be spending on schmoozing with the celebrities and being interviewed by popular press. The only thing that I actually knew was that he made chainmail, and I wanted to work with metal, so I was positively excited about the idea of chainmail. I imagined it involved a lot of excitement, fire and knights coming over for measurements.

Husby introduced me to his chainmail indeed. I also saw leather-wear, resin work, textile work, bits of dead animals, necklaces, scale shirts, loincloths, rubber thongs and many other things, and with each of them my eyes opened wider. Which means that we met by accident and were connected by Art. It’s a nice story to tell your grandmother on Easter, unlike that of my friend John, who met his partner during a sex party of variety I would rather not expose my poor readers to and every time a cousin twice removed asks him the dreaded question he has to remember which version of the truth (or, more accurately, not truth) he told to other people present.

At some point I happened to be wearing a chainmail mask, which for some reason felt very interesting, as I have never even seen a chainmail mask before. Then I found out it was used for sexual purposes. (Humans will use absolutely everything for sexual purposes, and if you still don’t believe that, say “hamster” in front of Richard Gere and observe his reaction.) What Husby did not know was whether it’s possible to kiss in it. I immediately said “there’s only one way to find out”, which is something I say a lot and that is how I found myself being spanked with a horse riding crop by a strange man in a Cologne bar full of patrons once, but I digress. We determined that it was indeed possible to kiss while wearing the mask, and also having taken it off, but unfortunately I had to leave, which means that I can tell people* we didn’t have sex on our first date, adding to the aura of mystery and romance surrounding our relationship.

The second date involved me making chainmail and us ruining the opportunity to tell people we didn’t have sex until our third date. I wanted (and succeeded, about which later) to become a blacksmith, which involves fire, hammers and anvils. Making chainmail involves patience and pliers, and while Husby offered to lend me two pairs of pliers, I do not possess any patience among my fine qualities and he is strangely stingy about his. Therefore in our relationship he is the one that makes chainmail to satisfy all our needs for it, and I am the one with multiple second-degree burns, and both of us are very happy about this state of affairs.

Third date involved a proper introduction to Husby’s bedroom, which was (and remains to this day) unusual.

“So don’t get stressed out or anything, but I have sixty cocks on the wall here.”

“Uh, why do you have sixty cocks on the wall?”

Husby visibly saddened. “Because I didn’t have space for hundred.”

This required further explanations. It transpired that body-part-casting was a thing, which included baby arms, vaginas, boobs, feet and basically every single body part you can think about possibly including intestines and the inside of your nose. And, of course, cocks. “I don’t do it professionally, though,” he assured me. “And I didn’t have sex with all of those people. Because I have standards.” This obviously made me feel much better, because among the sixty casts on the walls there was at least one** that did not satisfy Husby’s standards, so my performance anxiety has diminished by at least 1/60 which is like almost two percent. Hallelujah!

Preparing to perform a sexual intercourse while being quietly observed by sixty white, rather literally rock hard plaster penises is truly an experience I will never forget. Apparently it was hard (…) for Husby to get the first few models, but then word went around and they were literally queuing outside his door, which allowed him to pick’n’mix to his heart’s content. Eventually the entire thing has been exhibited in an actual gallery, which I missed, because at that point I was busy being a respectable, somewhat less tattooed member of society and did not attend such festivities.

I am pleased to report to you that 1) my personal effects have never hung from a wall (although when you visit it’s better if you don’t look at the side table too closely) and 2) all hundred penises live in California now. Which doesn’t mean we now have free space on the walls, because being penniless, not famous yet productive artists generally leads to having no free space on the walls, floors, ceilings or anywhere else really. We’re saving for a big house in the country with all the walls we can possibly imagine and a big fireplace in every room to indulge my personal fetish. So far though we only managed to save enough for the toilet. Perhaps if Husby actually did cast cocks professionally, we’d be rich enough to buy the kitchen as well, which would be handy because I owned a Dutch-sized toilet before and from experience I know that you can only fit two posters in there. Unfortunately I don’t know how many plaster penises you can hang in there, because I haven’t taken precise measurements before they happily departed to California, but I would imagine that in a cramped space they would feel strangely reminiscent of sideways stalactites. I sort of got used to them existing, penises, not sideways stalactites, but I felt strange relief when they moved overseas to decorate somebody else’s bedroom. It’s not that I am afraid of competition, I just prefer my bedroom cocks slightly more alive.

(By the way, FedEx DID open one of the boxes and it led to a very interesting phone conversation between Husby and a very, very unlucky lady.)

(And this is how I managed to start a new blog by writing the word “penises” approximately 517 times.)


* I can’t tell grandma that we didn’t have sex on our first date, but that’s because she’s dead, not a prude. This sounded wrong. I assure you she is NOT dead because I discussed having sex with Husby in front of her. She did not know about his multiple wall penises either. Maybe I should stop now.

** When I say “at least one” I do not mean that he doesn’t know, although that is entirely possible, what I am saying is that I preferred not to ask.

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