Silicone Dick

I went on vacation to the beautiful Bay Islands in Honduras with my girlfriend Laura for some fun in the sun and scuba diving. Little did I know that I was going to leave the island with a new nickname under my belt.

Our adventure started when we each ate a huge burrito in between dives and I thought Laura was going to die. Her face turned all white fifty feet under the ocean and she looked like she was going throw up right into her regulator. A regulator is the mouthpiece that helps the diver breath underwater. After a few minutes of deep breaths Laura regained color in her face. She did not die, thank God, but we did learn a lesson: Don’t eat a ten-pound burrito before throwing yourself into the middle of the ocean.

After a few days of gorgeous weather and frolicking in the Caribbean ocean, it finally rained—hard! Our friend Melissa had just flown in to join us and the three of us perched ourselves at the beach bar for a day filled with lots of beer and tropical drinks as we waited for the rain to pass.

But we weren’t alone at the bar. Across the way I noticed a guy sitting all alone looking our way. Always a sucker for a good-looking guy with no girlfriend in sight, I began to flirt. I’m the world’s most awful flirter but after having a few slushy drinks I grew the kahunas to tipsy flirt back and forth with this guy who would later be known as Silicone Dick.

We will start calling him SD for short because I must have blocked out what his name is. SD walked over to us girls and bought us a round of drinks. He and I talked for what felt like hours. I learned that SD was travelling alone (“yes!” I thought), he was from New Jersey (“I’ve finally met an American guy and this might not be just a hello and goodbye in passing!”), and he was an avid scuba diver who had squeezed in an impressive forty dives in the time he was on the island. SD was a bit older than me but I didn’t let his age stop me from accepting his invitation to have dinner in town later that night. A date in a foreign country! How romantic!

Honduras is not know for its crime-free streets. Earlier that day, a cruise ship employee was shot for sleeping with a local’s wife. I was very nervous taking a taxi into town in the dark on a rainy night with no cell phone service unless I turned on my roaming, which I swore I would only turn on if it was an emergency. If I was about to get kidnapped and sold into some Central American sex slave industry, the gazillion dollar roaming charge would have been priceless.

The taxi wound its way down these little dimly- or unlit roads for what felt like an hour. We finally made it into town (phew!) and it was pouring something tsunami when the cab dropped me off at the agreed upon meet-up destination.

However, I was dropped off twenty minutes early and had no way of contacting SD. I couldn’t call him because I didn’t have his number. All I could do was pray he would show up as planned. I stood under the awning of a closed bar for what felt like half an hour. Hoping no one would think I was for sale, I pretended to be texting. All the time I kept thinking, “What the fuck am I doing? I’m all alone in a non-English-speaking country where most of the tourists, who are Canadian, are in bed by now or back at the beach-lined resort!”

Finally, SD showed up. He smelled good—bonus points! I love a guy who can choose the right cologne and not smell like an Old Spice commercial.

We walked to a lovely restaurant perched right on the harbor, conveniently located directly in front of his motel. The ambiance was incredibly charming and quaint. Even better, the rain stopped!

Conversation flowed until I started asking him about his life back in New Jersey. SD totally beat around the bush about his home life. He continued to reel the conversation back to his construction management job. He dodged off all questions relating to relationships. I found his actions to be a bit fishy. I have been out with enough losers to smell married wafting around the Caribbean air. I can sense a married man from a mile away. But SD swore up and down that he wasn’t married and that he was just a guy travelling solo to have a few beers and get in some bottom time. Bottom time is not a sexual term. It is a diving term used for the amount of minutes one spends under water. SD even said he was so hung over one day that he actually puked in his regulator! Gross! But at least I knew that if Laura had hurled into her mouthpiece a few days earlier that she wouldn’t have drowned.

There was a lot of alcohol-induced flirting during dinner and after we finished our meal we crossed the street a whole twenty feet back to his motel.

The motel definitely had a certain seediness level but I figured the motel was like the Ritz Carlton compared to the hostels that lined the street.

I was greeted by two double beds in his room. Weird, why would someone travelling alone have double beds? SD said he booked the room last minute and they only had rooms with double beds left.

Eventually the lights went down and so did we—on the small ass bed made for a college dorm. Oh, well, vacation hookups are supposed to be fun, spontaneous, and wild, aren’t they? After a lot of tipsy heavy petting and subconsciously trying to figure out who was going to go below the belt first, I finally slipped my hand under his boxers where I was greeted with something…VERY different (MY MIND BEGAN TO RACE). I kept feeling his dick to make sure that what my mind was processing was correct. “WTF am I feeling?” I thought to myself over and over again.

I felt lumps. Yes. You read that correctly. The guy I was attempting to give a hand job to had lumps in his penis. I almost got a bruise from trying to work my hand over the lumps. WTF? Is it a tumor? Is it a birth defect? OMG—is it an STD and if it is how the hell do I get back across the island to my hotel to the comfort of my own beachside bungalow minus lump guy? Do I say something? Like in New York, when you see something, say something? Does that rule apply in another country?

Finally, after idle, touchy-feely, middle school things, I asked SD why his penis has lumps. I had to ask. I couldn’t go any further. I kept envisioning my body full of lumpy warts and it was bad enough I wanted to place my hand in a pot of boiling water. I felt SD should have come with a disclaimer: “Do not freak out; my dick has lumps protruding from it and it is totally okay. You will not die and will not contract an STD. This is totally normal.”

SD explained that many moons ago, he worked at a construction site overseeing a team of Filipino construction workers. The workers wore sheer asbestos suits and SD noticed (I don’t know why he was looking) that many of the guys had stones implanted in their penises. SD wanted to gain the respect of his workers so he had two or three silicone pieces surgically implanted into his own member. I later Googled this practice with my friends back at our bungalow and learned this lumpy practice is called pearling. I wanted to throw up after I clicked Google images.

I honestly had no idea what the fuck to think at that moment. We did not have sex. We maybe made it between second and third base (use your imagination) and after a half-hour of him begging for me to stay the night with him on his twin-sized bed and me insisting on a cab home he finally relented and called me a cab.

I couldn’t wait to tell the girls about my night the next morning on the beach! I told them I didn’t need the condoms they sent me off with and went into the whole sordid story about lumpy-silicone-dick guy. I can’t make this shit up!

According to the know-it-all dictionary, Wikipedia, pearling is a form of body modification.

Copy and pasted from Wikipedia:
Pearling or genital beading is a form of body modification, the practice of permanently inserting small beads made of various materials beneath the skin of the genitals—of the labia, or of the shaft or foreskin of the penis. As well as being an aesthetic practice, this is usually intended to enhance the sexual pleasure of partners during vaginal or anal intercourse.

[I am so happy I didn’t have the opportunity to experience that thing inside me!]

Pearling, called “bolitas,” has become a common practice among Filipino sailors, especially among the older ones.

Us girls had a good laugh!

That evening was our last and we took the water taxi across the island to watch the sunset at a beautiful beach bar where mostly ex-pats and locals hang out. And wouldn’t you know it, my luck, SD was there! I never thought I would see him again—awkward!—but it is a very tiny island. My beautiful sunset was muddled with pictures of penis lumps! Melissa also smelled married all over SD and so she got him high so she could easily pepper him with questions about his life back home. She almost got him to spill the beans!

SD never did admit that he was married but we all knew it. He was the worst liar ever. As for me, I got in some awesome quality girl-time, lots of diving, and a very entertaining dinner on the Caribbean ocean. It was a pretty well-rounded trip. However, I could have done without the lumpy dick and maybe I could have at least had sex!

There’s always the next vacation!

PS: Please, I repeat, do not google pearling. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!