I Made an 'Exact' Replica of My Dick from the Comfort of My Own Home

I don't know why anyone would want to make a replica of their cock. Doesn't it require a truly undeserved sense of self-satisfaction to believe your penis is unique enough to be permanently immortalized in rubber? Regardless, Empire Labs markets their do-it-yourself in-home penis molding kit "Clone-a-Willy" as a fun gag between couples who enjoy a bit of kink. I'm single, but I still had to try it.

When it comes to Empire Labs' genital-molding business, there are so many options available. You can make a lime green, glow-in-the-dark copy of your cock; there's also chocolate molding kits, and a version that will also let you mold your balls for $10 extra. The company has been around since the mid 90s, and at this point, it's clear these guys have thought of every hypothetical angle for immortalizing an erect penis.

The process is fairly straightforward: The kit comes with a long plastic tube, a bag of molding powder, and a jar of gelatinous rubber. You measure out a cup of 90-degree water and mix it with the powder, which gives you a lumpy, thick, starchy slurry. Then, you transfer that jelly into the plastic tube, get your dick hard, and shove it inside. When the mixture hardens, you pull your penis out, leaving a hollowed-out phallic cave. Pour in the rubber in the hole you just made, and voilà! You can retrieve your molded cock 24 hours later, marveling at your tremendous hubris.

That might sound pretty simple—but the entire process needs to happen in about two minutes. The molding gel solidifies really quick, so you need to get your dick hard and in that plastic tube fast. Empire Labs sent us three kits, but if you scroll through Amazon's user reviews (where 36 percent of users give just one star to the product), you'll see a number of frustrated people who fucked up the mechanics in some tragic way. On YouTube, you can find some truly Boschian monstrosities spawned from a simple miscalculation of physics or chemistry.

It seemed pretty difficult to quickly balance several enzymatic agents with a hard-on all by myself, so my friend Alex, my ex-girlfriend Kelsey, and I designated a lonely Saturday afternoon to perfect the alchemy. Our battle plan was simple: They'd do the mixing while I sat in the bathroom trying to get as hard as possible. When the mixture was ready, they'd hand off the plastic tube to me, I'd shove my penis inside, and we'd bask in my victory together.

Molding my cock was, without a doubt, one the most uniquely stressful trials of my life. That's the beauty of the experience: It offers a level of anxiety that will be forever unmatched by any horror movie or haunted house. So I was alone in my friend's bathroom watching porn on my phone, desperately coaxing my very average, very American dick. I was a wreck, like I was just asked to play in the Super Bowl.

I finally achieved a floppy, 75 percent erection. Kelsey and Alex told me the mixture was ready and handed me a curdled, lukewarm tube of plaster; I looked down at it and immediately went limp. I've never had any major struggles with performance anxiety, but apparently the pressure of the moment was greater than my virility. I knew I had maybe 45 seconds left before the plaster would become too solid to penetrate, so I engaged in one of the most harried jerk sessions in history.

My dick was still flaccid and the plaster was hardening, so the hopes of achieving anything resembling a respectable erection were waning. I could've taken an L and lived to fight another day, but instead, I crammed my sad wilted dong as deep inside the tube as I could manage. I sat there as the cold, floury water began to solidify, and my mind went blank. I thought about all my sins. I thought about my mother. I thought about the extra semester I took to finish my journalism degree.

I returned to the kitchen to mix the silicone and start the 24-hour process. I chose the hot-pink color, because I think that's how a mold of an enfeebled penis ought to look. Unfortunately, I must've blundered the science, because my mold never solidified. Instead, I was left with this weeping volcano of liquid plastic, which I like to imagine is God's way of rejecting me.

The error was probably on me: There were a number of jars of silicone on the table, and we probably mixed the wrong one. I tried a second time using a different cast and had better results (see video above). It doesn't look great, but at least it turned into a solid.

And you know what? I'm totally OK with not having more than one version of my cock around the house. It'd be different if I was dating someone, and she deeply wanted a dick-mold of mine for safekeeping—but if you're buying one of these for anything other than pure altruism, you should reconsider your priorities. Nobody should trust a man who thinks his penis needs a twin.

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