Jeff Stryker sent me his action figure. I said, “JEFF STRYKER SENT MEEEEEE HIS ACTION FIGURE!!!!!” I am such a starfucker, but then again, when you are a star yourself (I am being totally sarcastic) then you should be allowed to drop names like bombs over Baghdad.
It came in the mail, which sounds like one of his many films, with the return address marked JEFF STRYKER, and you know I tore that box open like a foster child on Christmas morning. The box is not unlike a Barbie, special edition of course, and it is no less imposing than the man himself.
I had the Jeff Stryker dildo once, which was impossible for me because I just don’t have that big of a pussy. It’s like a spray can of Lemon Pledge, with testicles. That was the major selling point – moveable balls! What a moveable feast. It also featured a handy suction cup at the base, so it could be attached to any level surface. I found that it worked best on the refrigerator door, because it was smooth and shiny. Assuming that the veneer kept the suction cup in place, it would probably work just as well on a hardwood floor. Since its size really kept me from utilizing it to its full potential, I never tested the stability or the stamina of the suction versus the velocity/ferocity one would choose to interface with it. All I can say is that it would make an annoying roommate give notice faster than “Single White Female” playing constantly, over and over on the VCR.
My friend Dennis once gave me a copy of “The River” and signed it – “To M, Love, Jeff”. How could we have known then that I would one day have the real thing – the real autograph, I mean.
Jeff Stryker, if you are unfamiliar with the name, is a legendary porn star. A man who was clearly born to be an icon. He has the most important member in all recorded history, surpassing Dillinger, and toppling John Holmes by more than a few centimeters, not only in length, but also girth.
Jeff Stryker is also beautiful, a better looking Tom Cruise, with even more boyish charm and innocent, earnest expressions. His body of work is impressive, and he never succumbed to the darker side of the porn industry, letting the game work him to an early death like the tragic Savannah or that poor Joey Stefano or even the aforementioned John Holmes. Jeff Stryker is a survivor. He has done Off Broadway shows, wildly successful, so well received he has gone on numerous international tours. He has branched out into merchandising, which has given him the status that he enjoys today. Artist, entrepreneur, cocksman, star, legend, yardstick, longtime masturbatory fixation of generations of gay men and not more than a few women, and you know some straight guys too.
I have yet to open the box. The comic book geek-like tendency to keep collectible toys in their pristine cardboard and plastic bubble makes me never want to disturb the packaging, for the bottled genie, if left untouched, will grant wish after wish, no longer limited to the regulation three wishes. If I were to grant wishes to Jeff Styker, they would be continued success and happiness, further joy in his work, optimal health both in mind and body, hard ons that won’t quit – which I doubt he will ever need any help there, a calm home and restful sanctuary – the life he might want outside of the glare of the public eye, absolute and honest true love, long and prosperous life, small everyday surprises that bring him immense sweetness, depth and mystery still making everything interesting, sunsets that leave him breathless, with the orange and purple hues that God makes at dusk, the holy symphony of nature that we routinely ignore while living on earth, and everything. All and everything that he wishes for, dreams of, loves.
I love you Jeff Stryker. Among other things, you also have a gigantic heart.