A cocktail cock’s tale

If I’m being totally honest, I would never have had the idea if not for the massive, animatronic dildo standing on a glass shelf inside of a sex shop on Auburn Boulevard.

Allow me to explain.

I was a freelance writer on assignment, back when SN&R included a “Sex & Love” section in its Best of Sacramento editions. Popping into a sex shop seemed like a good idea to drum up ideas. As I neared a corner display, the mighty scabbard stopped me cold.

It was impressive. Aside from the gratuitous level of detail that some craftsman—nay, artist—nay, HERO—devoted to this rubber sculpture, the vibrator also boasted technology that pushed it to the edge of sex-toy neorealism. Scanning the box, I saw that there was a small hatch in the base of this thing where you could funnel a tiny amount of liquid. What for? I read on. Once the battery-powered phallus was activated, rattling and frothing like some undead baby arm, the liquid would work its way up the central nervous system and erupt from the tip. There was even a recipe, so the lucky owner could whip up a milky white concoction made to resemble, well, you know.

As I stood there, waiting to see if it flinched, I forgot all about my assignment and started plotting a bachelorette-themed birthday party for my brother. A prank and bacchanal in one demented package.

This accidental art installation would be the centerpiece. Guests would sip spirits from its flesh-colored chalice. There would be a contest to see who could drink without spilling.

Then I glanced down at the price tag:

Ninety-nine dollars?! Plan B: Make my own suggestive cocktails. Sometimes, this is how inspiration works.

The friend who tagged along convinced me to buy up a bunch of cheap favors—plastic penis straws, plastic Zorro masks with penis noses that looked more like pig snouts. My accomplice handled the bachelorette-themed decorations and appetizers, a friend’s girlfriend called dibs on baking the penis-shaped cake (she already had the pan—long story), allowing me to focus on the drink menu. This was about seven years ago, so my memory is a little fogged by time and shame. But as far as I remember, the names came first.

Drink No. 1:

Whiskey Dick

Made up of equal parts Bushmills Irish Whiskey and Mountain Dew—a perfectly good hooch befouled by my childish need to land a joke:

I don’t know if this rumor is still plaguing middle schools, but when I was a little snot, word was that doing the Dew shrunk a gentleman’s peas and carrots to the size of mere seedlings. We didn’t know if this was a permanent state or just temporary—we had not yet learned the empirical method—and so we avoided the syrupy swill altogether. As for the boys who threw caution to the wind, legends were written.

Anyway, the Whiskey Dick was a putrid beverage and no one drank it. I gave it the old college try, but then hallucinated a vision of my 11-year-old self screaming at me about what I was doing to “our nards.” I put the glass down and backed away.

Drink No. 2:

Pink Taco

(Get your mind out of the gutter, it was named after a friend.) One-third Stolichnaya vodka, one-third pink lemonade and one-third strawberry-kiwi-flavored Capri Sun, this beverage was unobjectionable and unmemorable.

Drink No. 3:

???

One-third Sailor Jerry rum and two-thirds A&W Root Beer. I honestly can’t remember what this drink was named. A friend who was there says it tasted the best. Considering the alternatives, that’s tepid praise.

If there’s a moral here, it’s to leave the fancy recipes to the professional mixologists. And never get your ideas from a rubber mallet.