The thing was huge. When Paul pulled it out of the closet and waved it under my nose, I jumped back, jaw open, disbelieving. Dildos just aren’t that big!

This mammoth, rubbery love stick had ended up hidden under piles of recycled paper and unclaimed sunglasses in an adventure outfitter’s office in northern California, but it originated in Mexico. When I heard this true story, I just had to pass it on, a story that as yet has no end: This dildo keeps showing up at the most unexpected moments—almost as though it has a life of its own.

Paul leads adventure tours to Baja annually. Last winter, the group was heading back to the States and had stopped at a hot springs overnight somewhere near San Felipe. Wencil, one of the trip leaders, is a handyman-sort-of-guy. After fielding a bunch of complaints that the toilet in the men’s camp bathroom didn’t work very well, he went to investigate.

Something was blocking the flow of water. When Wencil lifted the tank lid, he adjusted his eyes in the dim light and couldn’t quite fathom what the object was that was stuffed into the tank. Pink, long, wide. A gargantuan dildo, just hanging out in the toilet bowl tank.

Wencil gingerly removed the obstruction. He didn’t want the others in his group to see him sporting this rubber wonder, so he wrapped it in a towel and made sure its head wasn’t sticking out. Not knowing what to do with it, he hid it under his sleeping bag and zipped the tent shut.

Sitting around the campfire that night, Wencil was having a hard time keeping this new-found thing a secret. He invited Paul to his tent when most of the others had gone to bed and presented this new addition to Paul. After five minutes of disbelief and a running stream of “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” Paul, who is very social and loves to stir things up, took the torch, so to speak, and presented it to the people still gathered around the campfire.

After rolling around in the dirt for a while in hysterics, the group voted to place the almighty lingam on the breakfast table and deck it out altar-style for the breakfast crew. Flowers, candles, and beads all adorned the now out-in-the-open phallic totem.

The next morning, the camp chef and her acolytes arose and discovered the altar. For some reason, they didn’t think it was funny at all. Was it because they were all women? Or was it because they hadn’t consumed coffee yet? A minor war of words ensued, in which Paul took the brunt of the blame, and faced-up to accusations of being an insensitive lout.

Paul decided to have a hanging, a purging. Lynch the plastic terror before anyone else felt traumatized by its gross size and innuendo of sadomasochistic sex. They wrapped a rope around its head and it swung from a tree for the rest of their stay in Aqua Caliente.

When it was time to pack up and head north, the group couldn’t just leave the thing there for other campers to ponder, so Paul cut it down and threw it in the woodbin on the side of the trailer.

Everyone forgot about it until the roadblock. The Mexican police were pulling people over and inspecting vehicles. Things went fine as the officers walked around the van and the trailer that held Paul’s tour group. 

 Until one of the officers reached into the woodbin and pulled out the dick. 

He stood in glaring sunlight, holding the sixteen-inch-long wand of love in his hand and asked, “Que es esto?” or “What is this?” The other officers turned and looked. They laughed uproariously for ten minutes, threw it back in the woodbin, and waved Paul and his tour forward. They didn’t really want an answer.

The next morning, as the chef got out half-and-half for coffee, guess what was on ice? Mr. Pink himself. Someone in the group with a sense of humor had decided it was an organ transplant and needed to be preserved, especially since it had saved them at the roadblock, which often requires a bit of bribing to pass through.

It resided in the ice chest next to the eggs and milk until the group reached the border. Because it had been so popular with the last gang of Mexican police, Paul decided to show the dildo to the customs officials. Unfortunately, his Spanish was at the halting, present tense stage. He whipped the dildo out of the ice chest and said,  “This is a lethal weapon. Ha ha.”

“Weapon?” the officials asked suspiciously. A few hours of explaining (still in broken Spanish) later, Paul and friends were back on the road. This time, the dildo was thrown in the trailer. People were getting tired of it. The novelty was wearing off. The group, who had been touring for two weeks, wanted to get home and get out of the van. 

Weeks went by for Paul, with business as usual, including more trips for him and his adventure company. The new secretary back in northern California didn’t like the way the office was decorated, so she decided to rearrange things a little. Clean the place up, get rid of the piles of magazines and catalogs cluttering the floor. First, she needed a place to put it all out of sight. The closet. 

She saw the dildo. 

No one knew how it got in the closet.

She screamed and tossed it—heaved it—over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. But it didn’t make it over the fence. It got stuck in a tree limb above the office entrance; a definite eye-catcher. It had to come down, but no matter how hard she shook the tree, it was lodged there. Finally, she called Wencil. Wencil brought a construction ladder. The dildo went back in the closet.

It disappeared a month ago when Paul wanted to show me the star of this story. I had come to his office to pick up gear for a river trip.  He was miffed; where did it go? Then, last week I asked about it again. Paul dug around in the closet. He gave a grunt of surprise—there it was, back on the shelf beside the office supplies. He whipped it out. 

I jumped back, mouth hanging open, intimidated by the size of the monster dildo from Mexico that just won’t go away.

This story is included in my book Exotic Life: Travel Tales of an Adventurous Woman.

copyright Lisa Alpine 2019