At some point early on in our relationship, Barb and I bought a strap-on. Actually, I shouldn�t say �Barb and I� because really she�s the one who bought it. I refused to go into the store with her because I was a fucking chicken that way. I think we were probably 18/19 at the time.
Anyway, she brought the strap on home with her, where I laid eyes upon it for the first time.
You guys, this thing was fucking H-U-G-E. I�m not exaggerating, either. It was giganta-dildo. I remember thinking that there was no way in hell that thing was going to fit anywhere. No way, no how.
After a while, we nicknamed the apparatus Mr. P. I couldn�t tell you why we felt the need to name the damned thing. Maybe it just seemed friendlier and less intimidating that way. Who knows?
Mr. P was rarely used. In fact, I think we even threw him away after a few years. No matter what, though, the thought of Mr. P made us both laugh. It still makes me laugh�
So you can imagine my reaction when I found out that one of the characters on The L Word has/had a cat named Mr. P.
I looked at this cat and I just laughed. It was fucking hilarious.
The best part was when the cat passed away and they go to this shot of the open casket with �Mr. P� embroidered in the satin of the lid.
The whole thing made me feel guilty. Should Barb and I have buried our Mr. P? Do you think he�s jealous that he didn�t get a �Mr. P� casket of his very own?
I can just see this gaggle of forlorn looking lesbians gathered around the coffin of a strap-on. Can you imagine the eulogy?
�Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate the passing of an ingenious piece of latex and leather��
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