by Nick Krieger
I curled my fingers into a ball and brought my fist up to join the triad, but the bump of our hands only solidified how different I felt from them. I was the anomaly, single for the seven years that they were in and out of relationships. They all had something that I did not—some level of sexual comfort with their bodies, some physical connection with others. I glanced at Bec’s crotch, could almost feel my hand on his package, except now I envisioned it as mine. On my walk home with Jess, I asked if she’d take me shopping for a packer.
The next morning presented the perfect opportunity. After brunch, a housemate ritual of Jess and Melissa’s that I’d passed up too many times for homework, I suggested a postprandial excursion to the nearby Good Vibrations. I was glad to have Melissa with us, considered her a sexual touchstone, a balance of perspective and attitude to ground me around Jess. She also knew about packers, although hers had fallen to the bottom of her toolbox when she moved on from the starter kit.
I was still working, or not working, with a milk crate that held a vibrator, harness, and a half-dozen dildos, all gifts for my twenty-third birthday from a friend who’d worked handcrafting toys at Vixen Creations. With little sex, I had little use for most of my gifts and a store like Good Vibes, but I’d stopped in occasionally, mostly to kill time when meeting people in the neighborhood. Well-lit, tasteful, and expensive, the place reminded me of Whole Foods, except with iridescent purple erections on display.
At the front door, I left my two escorts and followed the beacon of unnaturally vibrant colors to the back wall. I quickly passed over the marbled and glittered dildos, similar to those in my milk crate, and anything that twitched rabbit or dolphin parts. I ignored anything that contained “lady,” “fem,” or “mermaid” in the name and paused briefly to inspect the realistic bad boys, big guns with names like Bandit and Outlaw. Jess occasionally packed hard with one of these, but she said if there was going to be more than an hour between dinner and “sexy time,” the perma-erection would be uncomfortable, not to mention obvious, like popping a Viagra too early. Made for harnesses, the strap-on parts were useless for a bachelor like me.
I picked up a plastic bag holding a Mango Packer, a three-and-a-half-inch dick-like urinating device, and wondered if trans guys really used that kind of thing to stand at the urinal in a men’s room. Next to the Mango Packer was something referred to as a “pack ’n’ play,” a semibendable, half-mast rod similar to the one Bec had whipped out the night before. Still curious as to the kind of “play” it invited, I imagined it should carry a sign like those found at the ski resorts of my youth: Experts Only—Expect Hazards. I figured you needed to be as smooth as Bec to brave the uncertainty and I moved to the end of the line, the beginner-friendly soft packs—just for me, no partner required.
They came in clear boxes with three ice cream flavors as color choices. I couldn’t pull off “chocolate.” I eliminated the pale “vanilla” for being, well, too vanilla—an unfortunate branding decision by the marketing department—and carried the “caramel” over to Jess and Melissa. I raised the clear box up to my face. Inside, a silicone penis flopped over uneven wrinkly balls. “Does it match my skin color?” I asked with an exaggerated smile.
Melissa laughed louder than Jess, and they both shook their heads dismissively. The fact that the caramel color didn’t match my complexion was perhaps inconsequential, since the entire package clashed with my breasts.
“Don’t worry, I’ll use my library voice next time,” I whispered loudly before heading back to the wall.
I found an accessory with a waistband and a single flap of leather, crossed with thin T-shaped elastic bands. Intended to keep the packer in place, it looked like a testicular torture device. Oww, I thought, resisting the urge to cover my crotch with my hand. Then I remembered something Jess said: it didn’t matter whether she was packing soft or hard, she felt a connection to these bits (as she called them) like they were her own flesh. I wanted to feel that connection, the weight and heat in my briefs, not some extra barricade of leather against my skin.
To replace her original soft pack, now worn with use, Jess purchased the same VixSkin Mr. Right as me, ignoring my jokes about our matching twinkies. At home, she offered me a black jockstrap to hold mine. “I only wore it once,” Jess said. “It’s too big for me, but it might fit you.”
While I didn’t understand how something too big for her could fit me, since we had similarly sized bodies and the same-size dick—five and a half inches including the one-inch base, which I’d heard was cheating to count—I considered “once” like the “five-second rule” for salvaging dropped food and happily took the jockstrap off her hands.
I flipped it around, looking for an opening. “Where do you put the cup?” I asked.
“It’s a gay boy jockstrap. For arranging your package.”
“Oh,” I said, disappointed that my new jockstrap wasn’t white, smelly, and made for protection during sports.
In my room, I arranged myself in the jockstrap and put my jeans on over it. I opened my door to the long hallway where both Melissa and Jess waited. I felt exposed without underwear. “Can I wear my boxers over the jockstrap?” I asked. “Or is it wrong to cover it up with three layers and a sweater?”
“I like to pack in briefs,” Jess said.
I thought of her silk leopard-spotted briefs, the ironic ’70s porn-star style, and her more serious, pink metrosexual manties—neither of which I’d ever attempt. I stepped toward Melissa, imploring her with my eyes.
“I haven’t packed in years. But boxer briefs work too,” Melissa said. “You can do whatever you want.”
“Packing does take some getting used to,” Jess added.
They followed me into the living room, where I checked both my front and side view in the mirror. Facing forward, I grabbed my crotch and readjusted my bulge. Goddamn, I look good, I thought. But unlike my first binder sighting, I wasn’t compelled to blurt out this self-congratulation. I was no longer shocked that a reflection of myself presenting dude-like anatomy made me feel attractive. Seeing my flat chest along with my package elicited a quiet euphoria. “I like it already,” I said.
For the rest of the afternoon, while hanging out at my house, I kept my soft pack in the contour pouch of my tightest pair of boxer briefs, trying to get used to moving around with it. When I walked, it slipped to various locations around my pelvic area, and each time I sat down, it rose up in a slightly different location, like a mole, or maybe like a dick. There was no denying it was odd to have an artificial object resting loosely in my underwear, but the weight I’d anticipated replaced a visceral emptiness that seemed more tangible now that it had been filled. Where there had been nothing before, there was now something. The dead zone of my doll crotch had been awakened. I had substance. Junk that I wanted to see and touch.
In front of my own private mirror, I checked myself out as if it was my job and my job was modeling like Marky Mark. With the button of my jeans open and the fly unzipped and teasing, I offered my shy boy-next-door smile; with both hands cupped around my stuff, I gave my modest, caught naked look; in silliness, I briefly pulled the dick part over the top of my underwear as if I might pee; for a while I just kept grabbing my package and making badass faces. It was liberating to finally have a private part I wanted to engage with and get to know. We even sat on the couch and read together. It didn’t matter that nobody else saw us, or that the mirrors had been put away. The simple awareness of what was in my pants made me feel secure and happy.
When I saw Jess in the kitchen later that night, I was so excited about connecting with my packer, I had to share. “Guess what,” I said. “I’m still wearing my penis.”
She wagged her head disapprovingly. “It’s not a penis,” she said with the same hard edge she reserved for talking about men.
“Okay,” I said, figuring I must have offended her with my correlation to the group s
he detested. “Then what is it?”
“It’s a cock,” she said. “We’re tough.”
I felt scolded and confused. “But the packer doesn’t do anything.”
“Then you can call it a softie.”
I didn’t want a cock, a word that signified much of what I despised in men, and occasionally in Jess: cockiness, superiority, egotism. For the first time that day, I wondered if I was doing something catastrophic by appropriating a body part that didn’t belong to me if along with it came an attitude of power, control, and arrogance.
I couldn’t wait for a social event, a reason to pack in public. The first opportunity came the following week, an A-gay holiday happy hour at their local neighborhood hangout. A monthly visitor to their circle ever since grad school started, I’d been steadily losing interest in them as a group, only to have it dissolve completely after the pool party a couple months earlier. Had I not been on school break and eager to show off the new me in my pants, I probably would’ve stayed home.
I heard Tori immediately. Her brazen holler greeted me as I stepped through the front entrance. She’d make the perfect test case, I thought. She wasn’t a man-hater, and she wouldn’t accuse me of falling for self-loathing dick replacement—I’d seen The Vagina Monologues too many times for that. There was always the risk she’d say something offensive, but that only spared me the worry over offending or alarming her. I chatted her up about work, life, nothing at all, really, just waiting until she noticed. I kept a few feet between us, giving her eyes the opportunity to roam below my waist. I even brushed my hand against my fly a few times, hoping to draw her attention there. Finally, I grew impatient and placed her hand on my bulge.
She flinched and her jaw nearly hit her chest. “Are you . . . ? Is that . . . ?”
“Packing,” I said, nodding.
“That’s quite a . . .” She did an about-face and gripped the bar with both hands. “Wow,” she said, before turning back to me.
“Cool, huh?”
“I had a friend, a drag performer, with one of those, what do you call them, packers?” she said. Tori began to ramble about this friend and I pretended to listen while my frustration grew. I wasn’t packing for a show. I wanted her to acknowledge, validate, or congratulate me on my man stuff, or at the very least, ask something that pertained to me.
“You want a beer?” she offered finally.
I held up my half-full Budweiser. “You just got me one.” We stood there silent and awkward as the chasm expanded. An eternity passed before a few friends, including my boss Beth, delivered a telegram from Zippy—my presence was requested on the back patio.
“Zippy’s here?” I asked. “For real?”
“Surprise!” Beth said.
For a brief moment, I was sad that Zippy hadn’t told me about her visit. But then I realized Christmas was approaching and I also hadn’t bothered to call her to see when she’d be arriving into town. Neither of us would make a big deal about it, which is why our friendship worked. And if there was one person who’d play along, interested in all my experiences and observations, it would be Zippy.
I speed walked outside, spotted her alone in the corner of the courtyard, and put my head down to avoid the pod of smokers and the requisite round of “What’s up, lady?” hellos. I marched directly up to the wooden bench where Zippy sat, let her “Hey, girl” shoot directly through my ears, and before she could rise to greet me, I jammed my bulging crotch toward her eye level. I turned in profile and then forward. “Do you notice anything different about me?”
“Goo!” she said, rising. “Either you have a sock in your pants, or you’re happy to see me.”
“Of course I’m happy to see you.” I hugged her, throwing in a friendly grinding hump.
“Oh, baby, oh baby,” she cried. “That ain’t no sock.”
I told her exactly what I had in my pants, everything about the size, shape, color, price, shopping excursion. Her amped-up energy only heightened my enthusiasm. She clapped her hands together. “I wanna see. I wanna see,” she said.
I wrapped her hand in mine and pulled her across the stone courtyard, away from the men at the picnic table, and into an empty corner behind the unused patio bar. I shot a quick glance over my shoulder, as if I were about to display a selection of dime bags, and reached down into my jeans without opening them. I removed my packer from my boxer briefs and held it low, cupped in my hand.
Her eyes expanded like flowers blooming in time lapse. “Coooool,” she said, reaching out with her fingers.
I pulled the packer away from her. “Do you really want to touch that?”
Zippy put her hands behind her back and interlocked her fingers to prevent an accident. She leaned her head in for closer inspection. “It looks so real.”
“It’s too big to be real,” I said proudly. I gave her a few seconds to stare uninterrupted and then looked over my shoulder again before returning the packer to its home. I tucked it underneath slightly, so it wasn’t overly conspicuous.
“Did you name it?” Zippy asked.
“Name it? What are you talking about?”
“All guys name their ding-dongs.”
I pondered this and then decided she was wrong.
“I bet your brother has a name for his,” she said. “Call him.”
Even if some boys did name theirs, I figured it was those macho types, insecure about their masculinity, not my brother. The kid was tough all right, especially in sports like ice hockey, but he was the kind of guy who proved himself with assists first and goals second, never fists and dick. I pushed “Bro” on my phone and he picked up with an animated hello.
“I’m sorry. I can’t really talk,” I apologized. “But I need to ask you something. Do you have a name for your, um, ding-dong?”
“No, of course not,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Like maybe when you were a kid?”
My brother was almost four years younger than me, and he didn’t ask door-opening questions. He knew that I wore men’s underwear, and that when I asked him whether my latest haircut made me appear boyish, the best reply was, “Do you want to look boyish?” Even when I answered yes he didn’t press the issue. He thought I lived on a lesbian planet so different from the one on which he lived that more information without a spaceship and translator would be of no use. Little did he know that I was on a puddle jumper to a smaller, yet queerer place.
“Dude, I just don’t refer to it,” he said.
“Do other guys name them?”
My brother asked the guys watching football with him if they had names for theirs. I couldn’t hear over the sportscaster in the background how he’d phrased the question, what words he’d used, but no one admitted to a name.
“Call his girlfriend,” Zippy said after I hung up. “I bet she has a name for it.”
Although I contemplated calling his girlfriend, we would have to catch up before I could ask her, and I’d lost interest.
Even if she and my brother had a pet name, he didn’t need a name to bring his dick to life, same as he didn’t need to whip it out in a bar to prove to a friend that it existed. He didn’t need accessories or language to make himself known. I was not and would not ever be a boy like him. Although now that the area around my balls itched, I felt like a jerk for all those times I yelled at him to stop adjusting himself in front of the TV, especially when I tattled to our mother.
And I was beginning to think that I now shared a responsibility with him. With my packer, my awareness burgeoned with the complications and consequences of relating to a body part symbolic of so much more than anatomy. I told Zippy about the “penis” reprimand I’d received from Jess, how uncomfortable I’d felt when Jess had banged out the word cock.
“Come on,” Zippy said. “The only place you can ever use the word penis is in a d
octor’s office. Is this why you don’t get laid? Would you ever tell a chick she has a hot vagina?”
Zippy had a point. “You know, the last time a guy offered to show me his cock, I gave him a blow job.” I continued to speak through her giggles. Talking about boys and sex was one of our favorite pastimes.
“I just don’t want to be some douche-bag guy,” I said. “And sometimes Jess comes off like that to me.” For all her talk about not wanting to be a man, it had to be their privilege that made her bitter, because to me, she talked about sex like the dominating, callous men I wanted nothing to do with.
Zippy told me a story about being at the dyke bar a couple years ago. Jess was playing pool and, trying to line up her next shot, she ended up near a small crowd that included Zippy’s girlfriend. “Jess leaned into her and he was all,” Zippy dropped into a mock deep voice, “ ‘Excuse me, is my stick in your way?’ ”
I was shocked to hear Zippy use the male pronoun for someone who wasn’t in the process of a transition. This was so outside her realm of understanding, it had to be an insult. “He?” I asked.
“He sounded like a male pig,” Zippy said. “Being a dyke doesn’t mean you can act like a prick.”
Actually, in Jess’s world, I was starting to think it did. The very reason Jess kept female pronouns around was to avoid direct association with men, so that she’d be a subversive queer with a stick, an equal to women, rather than a dude with a dick, the entitled enemy. To me they were one and the same when delivering macho pickup lines, which I found obnoxious regardless of gender. But that was Jess’s job as my older brother, to test out the boundaries for us both. She had given me her jockstrap; she was family, and I didn’t like the way Zippy was talking about her.
“What if Jess just wanted to go home with someone who liked the pole, not the hole?” I argued.
“Aren’t there better ways to express that?” Zippy said.