Your toy, my toy, is it ever really OUR toy? A plaything — designed for fun–can a person be a toy? Boy-toy, or hoity-toity, the rich shall inherit the tickle-your-elbow (too good for Tickle-Me Elmo). Simple joy for a simple thing, becoming the eversomore complicated frenzy of joyous squeals in playing with yourself or your playfriend, boyfriend, girlfriend, friendwithbenefits.
But a simple toy, yes, that’s the best kind, like Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys in the dead of winter, like hurtling yourself head-down a backyard-hose-fueled Slip-N-Slide.
Slip-n-slide is the name of the game, start to finish, all our beginnings and all our downfalls. Yes, later you find the joys of “sexworld” toys, fun for girls and boys and girl-boys. Trannies are such a hit these days, and strap-ons are flying off the shelves, onto strapping young women.
Remember the train sets, as you run the show with on-off switches (if only it were that easy), avoiding collisions, or cheering them in the ruckus room as your brother sucks on a Matchbox car. Trains running through tunnels, imagine the tiny passengers, elated to find themselves on the other side, or maybe getting transformed in the darkness, crying in the bright fluorescence of Nine Months Later.
Baby-toy, toy-baby, your little girl grows up and you give her a big-blue-eyed doll all her own to play house. And later you find the doll facedown, naked in the dirt with one eyelid stuck open, and you know the time for resentment has begun.
Remember you did it too, you loved your little ponies, pink and purple hair flowing smooth and radiant under your fingers, and you emulated them in college with Kool-Aid over hard, fried bleach, dunking your head in, feeling the wetness of the summer’s Slip-N-Slide.
The amniotic gush of birth.