David-McRaney
Moderator  Posts: 5 Registered: 6/13/2007 Offline
|
6/13/2007 at 17:53 |
In the mirror, more gray hair than black pushes through my scalp.
I am not the oldest to go for this sort of thing. Billy could tell you how often, while waiting to get the jar ready, we've watched as a man in a wheelchair got his bruised, distended sack released from a clump of rubber bands or a stack of canisters designed to extend his sagging bag by nearly two feet.
For me, all of this started before grade school. That is, I do not remember having any sexual thoughts before then.
Picture me running around a sprinkler on a summer day, everything light green and bright blue. Imagine a little boy soaked, hopping one leg then the other over the water, when out of nowhere a bee flies up his swim trunks.
Now, see it sting him right in the side of his tiny mushroom penis
My mom and dad were working, so it was my grandma who tended to my swollen tallywacker. It lay against my thigh, a red pulsing eggplant, as my grandma rubbed it with bleach to deaden the sting.
It wasn't a sexual experience. She swabbed me in clinical, detached manner.
Then again, there are a lot of freaks who like the whole doctor, mommy thing. So, sure, I guess it could have twisted me like that. But, it really never registered with me until later my grandma was tending to my genitals.
I walked around the rest of the day building up enough courage to show my older female cousins the overstuffed boiled sausage in my pants.
The two girls were playing in the living room with my Tonka trucks, except they were not pretending to do construction. They were racing a bulldozer versus a dump truck around a track made of encyclopedias. It was absurd.
I told them about the bee, and they asked to see it. So, I showed it to them. They acted all grossed out and laughed to each other as they ran to tell my grandma. But, what I remember most from the experience is the way their eyes widened, their heads craned forward as my thumbs pulled down the front of my trunks.
Their mouths parted a bit and they pushed up off the ground to edge even closer right before they looked at each other and started acting goofy about it.
There isn't much else to remember except the pain in my bladder and in my junk when I peed.
My dad told jokes about it; my mom told no one.
I wash myself, shave my scrotum and pubic area, take my time, because this is my livelihood.
Do pianists get manicures?
Mr. Temple answers his phone with a laugh. As he tells me what to expect, I sit on the bed and look in the closet mirror. If he could see it now, he would faint.
The door to my apartment locks with the satisfying sound of mechanical scrapings.
St. Croix linen slacks hug my thighs above Mezlan alligator shoes, both black. The pants are crisp, and the shoes reflect the reds in the evening sky. My shirt is a loose Ike Behar, tucked in the front to reveal a Dakota Chevron eel skin belt, one of many hanging in my closet. My hair is an exquisite tumbling throng. My skin is olive and fresh with lavender and spices.
My shoes create satisfying taps against the pavement as I head out.
At Marco's Jamaica Blue coffee fills my belly. I eat nothing because I sometimes get flushed and sick after the procedure. There will be food all around me tonight.
The day's paper is a bore, the news stale by now. Paul brings me up to date about his cats. I strain to dribble pee.
The taxi driver wants conversation, so we talk about the president. He takes my side, and we laugh about it. While he's going on about China, I start preparing my dick.
I slip my hand inside my pants and push my fingers into my scrotum. I have to dig to find purchase. I tug my organ out of my body and wrap my thumb and forefinger tight around the base, and then I milk the shaft away from my body. In some places this is called jelqing, and it is not masturbation.
The idea is to force the blood pressure to increase near the glans and inflate the corpus cavernosa beyond its natural limits.
Done incorrectly, scar tissue will build up inside. People end up with crustaceans between their legs or a balloon filled with oatmeal.
Usually my privates are wrapped in a steaming hot towel before and after to open up the vessels. Strong coffee on an empty stomach is almost as good. Healthy men - men with more than a thimble down there - find the penis becomes fat and puffy with little effort once the tissues are used to the practice.
If this is not done, Billy will have nothing to work with.
Night begins. The driver blabs. I prompt him to go on every once in a while as I inflate. I pay the driver to stay.
Inside Billy's tattoo shop, we shake hands and I hug his wife, Denise. He teases me about my clothes. She tells him I look good.
The sign outside says Dragon's Tooth Tattoos and Piercing. The signs inside announce the risks involved. Hazy glamour shots of labias with intricate crisscrossing piercing reflect the fluorescent lights near the bathroom door. Next to the phone, a photo hangs of a pimply guy with a wide manic expression and a tattoo of a demon above his bald genitals. In the picture, the guy with a tongue tattooed down the length of his studded erect penis is giving the photographer the finger.
After another piss and wash, I am welcomed into the back room. No one is here but Billy and Denise because of my appointment and payment in advance.
A dentist's chair covered in vinyl tilts back toward the corner of the room. A light above suspended by a mechanical arm overexposes clean white countertops and metal tools. Billy mounts a squeaking stool on one side as I take off my slacks and underwear. I fold them, careful to preserve the crease, jelqing with my free hand.
Billy turns the music up, some sort of independent punk band, mostly power chords and loose snare. Denise grabs a fallen stack of magazines and leaves the room. Billy takes off his t-shirt then stretches on powdered gloves. Prone on the chair, goose bumps ripple down my arms and legs.
You cannot Google what Billy and I are about to do. You can watch old men food fight with their shit or get instructions on how to cut a hole in your forehead, but not this. I doubt we are pioneers, but if anyone else is doing it they have yet to step into the light.
Denise locks the front door and joins us. Projections, horns bursting forth, implanted under her half-shaven head throw shadows down her face. A pastel series of My Little Ponies runs down her right arm. She carries a mason jar with a magazine over the opening.
A female Vespidae wasp vibrates inside, furious. Checkered yellow and black armor covers her body. She is the loudest thing in the room.
Billy's gloved hands search a drawer. He places a few things on the table next to him. My eyes are with the wasp, only partially aware of his swabbing and disinfecting.
He taps me on the shoulder, and into my mouth I accept a plastic ring.
Then Denise holds the jar over my puffy dong.
Biologists believe the Vespid's sting is a prime example of convergent evolution. The wasp is not related to the scorpion or the jellyfish much more than I am. But, just the same, for some reason it was beneficial to its species to develop stingers and venom. Spiders, snakes, wasps, they all reached the same conclusion; life is easier when you are born with a weapon.
Hers is a modified ovipositor. Males do not have one. Even if I was born a wasp I would still be inadequate.
There is a wasp that injects a neurotoxin into the brain of a cockroach, drags it back to its nest, and plants eggs on the zombie. Later, they hatch and devour the roach alive. It seems horrific, but most wasps use their ovipositors to stab and inject eggs into unwilling hosts.
Our wasp is not so wicked. Her venom contains acetylcholine and serotonin, both neurotransmitters our bodies produce. The acetylcholine causes spasms in my cock's blood vessels. They will bloom to enormous size, engorging my already bloated tissues. It will also cause me to release histamines into my dick, plumping it even more.
I forget what the serotonin does.
We do not use bees because they only sting once and die. Also, the barbed stinger must be removed.
My jaws clench, my teeth puncturing the plastic as the hornet stabs, we lose count of how many times. Everything in my skull sloshes from side to side. Denise holds one hand, Billy the other. The hornet circles my johnson, creating a jagged dotted line of wounds.
I have been to pounding parties before where guys overdose on Cialis then hit each other across the top of their genitals with hammers until they come on wooden workbenches. If they were to invite nails into the fetish, it would not hurt this much.
Denise removes the jar, pinching a magazine against my swelling rod and the rim to keep the insect trapped.
Billy inspects the damage.
He tells me it looks good this time as he cleans and disinfects. Denise brings me some apple juice with a bendy straw. She talks me out of the murk and wipes my forehead with a cold, damp washcloth.
Billy brings out a syringe and administers a cocktail of mostly Novocain under the brim of my dickhead. The final touch is the click of a flesh-toned cockring.
Standing before them, a distorted beast bobs beneath my waist, veins branching out, crisscrossing. The shaft almost swallows the head; red splotches run down the sides and it feels heavy. It looks like a fiendish centipede painted by Boris Vallejo.
Billy smiles. Denise pushes it down against my balls like a spring-loaded cereal toy. When her finger slips away the thing dances around as if sniffing for food.
We talk for a while about their new television, a flat screen, plasma. Then I work my way into my pants. It feels like typing with your hands asleep. My underwear gets stuffed into my pocket.
Back in the cab I lie down. The driver asks if I need a doctor.
I give him an address.
Being independent, having no boss, is great. While performing magic for kids in the hospital, before starting this, it seemed like I was really helping people. A crew of magicians canvassed the city for me. An incredible woman who wanted to put the show in front of an audience and be my lovely assistant stood by me.
We were fucking really hard when it happened. She was on top, trashing, when I heard a pop and my dick went numb. When she dismounted there was blood in the condom.
She drug me to a doctor after it began to look like an oozing rotten fruit, black and pink, pulpy to the touch.
After healing, my dick shriveled, dried up like seaweed at low tide. It hid inside me. I hid in my apartment. There would be no need for a lovely assistant.
Most men think their beef bus is too little. Psychologists have done the foot work, and the results say most men who think they are small are actually of average length. Still, penis enlargement is a billion-dollar business.
Silicone or collagen injections and surgically implanted inflatable sacs work half the time. I was not going to do anything like that.
Pills made my poker stiff, but it was like a fat thumb over my balls trying to cheer me up with encouraging gestures. Nothing worked, even when it worked, because I could not longer ejaculate.
I could feel it. I could pinch it, so to speak, and tell it was still real.
I could take my prescription, pop it out of its cave and rub it raw. But, nothing happened. Some doctors were baffled; others recommended psychiatric remedies.
One thing was sure though; I was not delusional about my little dick. It was as worthless as my appendix.
The cabbie tells me where we are. I sit up and see pinwheels of light instead of the inside of the cab for a moment. When it passes, he gets paid. He thanks me. I thank him.
At the side entrance to the house four grunts in slate suits stand. I walk up to them, my legs swinging in crescents as if I were pregnant.
I explain myself. A grunt clicks his two-way. Mr. Temple tells them to let me in. He emerges from behind the door as the grunt opens it.
He grabs two handfuls of my shirt and yanks me to him. He kisses my cheek and laughs.
"Oh my God, I'm so happy you're here. Just look at you."
He steps back and pats down the places where he wrinkled my shirt. He looks at the hump in my crotch as the door closes behind me.
"Jesus. I'm so happy you're here. This is going to rock. Come on, follow me. Let's get you ready."
His hair is complicated. He wears some sort of exaggerated white tuxedo like John Lennon, or Siegfried. While looking ahead he turns his mouth toward me to tell me about what else he has planned for tonight.
The hallway opens into a kitchen. Metal tables reflect the color of our clothes as we pass a conveyor belt. A man in a chef's hat nods. I return the gesture.
We pass through a curtain into a dim, empty room. Discreet lamps mounted on the walls shine down onto paintings of figures arching their backs and reaching for one another. The walls are white. The paintings remind me of vegetable soup.
Two banquet tables mounted on locking wheels hover in the center of the room. A cloth covers the legs. On each table, food surrounds a cot and a pillow.
Mr. Temple asks me if I like it. I tell him I do, although it looks as if roasted pigs with apples stuffed in their mouths should be in the centers instead of beds. He takes this as a joke, his laugh bouncing between the walls and columns of the room.
"Oh, Rich," he says. "Come over here."
He leans over a pile of glossy brown dinner rolls and pulls apart the shorter end of the table. He wheels it away, revealing two steps leading to the cot. He laughs.
"There you go. You'll be comfy. Go have a few drinks or whatever." A celery stick filled with something yellow drops to the floor.
"Oh Jesus," says Mr. Temple as he darts over to the table. He pinches a napkin and leans over to capture the celery inside. "Yes, have a few drinks. The bar is through there. Just tell them who you are."
His two-way chirps. A grunt tells him someone else has arrived.
"Ok, look. Everyone will start getting here soon, but you have plenty of time to get relaxed. Go have a couple of drinks, and when you're ready come back here and find me. This is going to be great."
My bladder feels full.
"You ok?" he asks.
I tell him to go do what he has to do, and he laughs. He gives me a rapid series of flat-palmed taps on my arm as he returns to the kitchen.
Desmond Diamonds is already at the bar. His real name is Devon Davis, which sounds just as made up to me. He smiles and stands to shake hands when I approach. His teeth look so white against his skin I break eye contact to look at them.
He tells the bartender to give me a rum and Coke.
The space surrounding the bar feels like a private poker room. The carpet radiates. The walls seem distant. Fake iron lampposts glow red near chubby couches and modern coffee tables. Two sets of chairs set in semicircles take up each end of the room. A man reads a book at a piano draped in the kind of red fabric used to hide the base of Christmas trees.
Desmond Diamonds offers me a closed fist.
"Viagra?"
I smile and refuse as I straddle the barstool. On my fifth rum and Coke I ask him what else he has. He turns over one of his shot glasses and puts a purple dot on top. He slides it over to me.
"So you work without stiffies, huh?"
I tell him they make me sick. He calls me a pussy. I call him a fag and ask him what the dot is.
He tells me it is like ecstasy, and I will feel great in the morning. I put it on my tongue. My tongue goes numb.
He tells the bartender he wants one more shot and says to me, "You know, I'm not gay either."
I tell him he is full of shit. I tell him what people have told me.
"No, man. That's just acting. Well, you know, sort of. Whatever. It's just make believe."
I tell him to shut the fuck up.
"What the fuck ever man. I'm making more money than the president."
My glass runs dry again.
"With what you're carrying around, you could be rolling just as high," he says.
What am I carrying around? Before it was sucked back up into my body I used to use a pump on it. While flipping channels on the television I would let the plastic tube swallow me whole, pulled along the edges until royal purple. My dick would leak afterward.
He tells me he must get my secret recipe for erections. He holds up a bony finger. He answers his cell phone.
Before being forced to sleep on my back for a summer, I used to take pony-tail holders and strap a lead weight to the end. I tried to pull it up with just my hard-on muscles.
Desmond puts a hundred dollar bill on the bar.
When the swelling goes down I must run back to my apartment like Cinderella. My magical cock will turn back into a pumpkin. It will telescope into my balls. It will almost be a transsexual vagina by the time my eyes open tomorrow.
I will never need a stage name.
"Mr. Temple is ready for us."
I tell him to hold on. I want to ask the pianist a question.
Mr. Temple argues with a caterer while we wait. My mouth is only capable of producing a bad Bill Cosby impression. Desmond tells me some stories about hang gliding, but it's hard to keep track of what he is saying. My nodding head keeps him talking.
My skin feels as if it is dripping off my arms when we finally disrobe in front of Mr. Temple and his assistant. We climb onto our cots and fluff our pillows. My knees graze hors d'oeuvres, sparkling shrimp, polished breadsticks.
Our clothes are placed on the floor near a painting of a woman gazing into a pond. I watch her hand move back and forth over the water, her fingertips making contact. Ripples cross the pond, the frame, the floor, Mr. Temple's polished white shoes.
Straining forward, I look down as the assistant closes the table at my feet. The smell of fondue mixes with the sting of celery.
My log sways like a massive soft coral in harsh current. I hear the clamps come off the wheels. I want to talk to him, but my tongue is as dead as my tool. We seem to be racing backward. The paintings blend together. An orgy of colors detonates against my retinas. The assistant's eyes trace the nodding of my third leg as my teeth press into my bottom lip. My eyebrows furrow, and the tension of my forehead is everywhere in my body.
The shrill piano chips at my spine as we get closer. It sounds like he is playing with his elbows. The room is a Warner Brothers cartoon filled with men in top hats and women in evening gowns. My eyes swim around, failing to truly focus on the people moving around me. I swear I recognize every tabloid victim from the last few visits to the supermarket.
When we come to a stop, my meat slaps me on the sternum. The crowd gasps. They whisper. They laugh.
Closer to the piano, through a crack in the spectators, I see a ring of men push chairs up to sitting women. In the center, beyond the cheese and the beluga, I see Desmond's colossal penis. It looks like the comically oversized cigar included with a cheap hobo costume. Under its pebbled, leather jacket skin thumps a vein as big as an extension cord.
Then he is gone. Men are pulling out chairs around my table.
My head will not lift. I scoot it by inches across the pillow until faces come into view. I have paid to hear some of these people sing. I have read reviews of some of their movies. A woman with bangles down her arm pokes my rod with a spoon.
Someone tells her to calm down.
My heart feels too big for my chest. The blood in my feet hugs a corner and returns to my body.
An Academy Award winner grabs my dick and starts singing into it. He croons like Sinatra. Laughter rattles my eardrums.
I run out of saliva. I cough.
The singer misses a beat when my member jumps.
My eyelids slide down revealing tunnels leading away from me in all directions. I see myself floating face down on the surface of a lake.
I have angel lust, a death erection.
A documentary voiceover tells me how, when I was alive, my heart distributed things evenly. Once this mechanism was silenced, only gravity acted on the blood. As with any mass, the blood settled at the lowest point of my body and caused edema. The discoloration caused by this is called lividity.
Fish come to the surface to feed on it. They nip until a pink cloud forms. Streamers of flesh and artery spiral as they become frenzied.
The lids come up; I strain to see myself around a pineapple dessert. A lady with makeup in her wrinkles sucks on me. Someone behind me tells someone he is impressed. She chokes me down further. I feel nothing.
My eyes flick over to Desmond. A ring, the kind a juggler would use, soars from across the room and misses its target. He turns to face me; there are those ridiculous teeth again. I see them in the eyes of the pianist. Desmond's tongue darts out between his ceramic tile grin. A purple dot at the end blinks on and off.
My heart plays slap bass, drowning out the piano. A man in drag hikes his skirt. I see him preparing to grind down on my post. A grunt pulls him off the table and everyone boos.
My eyes sink to the base of my skull. I feel the warm rush of sleep on every living surface connected to my brain except the province under my navel.
I am being dragged along the floor of a cave by my cadaver-gray pud. My arms trail behind me, limp. My butt is high in the air. My legs curve over and dangle while my bare feet rebound against rocks and bones. Wings larger than my body hum above me. A modified ovipositor scrapes the ceiling.
I can hear the party raging outside. I see the eggs being laid on my chest, but can hear people chanting, "Cum, cum, cum."
Larvae in their translucent membranes are churning, pushing.
Something stirs in my lap. Hands clamor for traction on my foreskin. My thighs tingle from the pinch of fingernails on my sac. The clock is striking midnight.
The pianist hits a sour note and goes silent. A hoarse male voice shrieks. I hear the wet piling of vomit nearby. My eyes are open.
The skin of my penis has split and the glistening innards are pushing out the sides like raw chicken. It collapses in a pool of brown mucous as I orgasm.
It is better than my first orgasm. It is a god's orgasm.
I am coming harder than I can kick.
With the pressure gone, the cock ring holds nothing back. My strawberry milk ejaculation shoots horizontally, landing as a thick string stretching across spiral cut ham, down a tiny umbrella and onto the lapel of a Tony Award winner.
My scream eases down into a moan.
Blood spills over my hips as people are pushing away from the table. Cell phones light up around me.
They dwindle into pinpoints, stars on a lake.
In the hospital my bandages often turn yellow. The nurses are clinical, detached. Between naps, I wait for the young one. She must have skipped a few grades.
When she cleans my wounds, I watch. Her lips part so slightly she does not even notice. The heels of her Keds come up off the floor just enough for a matchbox to fit underneath.
On 2007-06-13 at 15:40:28, David-McRaney craps monkey baby
|
| |
Acidburn
I am El Chupacabra   SSHOLEPosts: 804 Registered: 8/1/2004 Offline
|
6/14/2007 at 02:48 |
Godamn motherfucker. If it were 3 lines longer I might have bothered to stop my life and read it.
____________________
No you can't have my rights. I'm not through with them!
You got Down Syndrome so bad you probably have up,left and right too.
(\__/)
(='.'=)
(")_(")
This is Rabbit. and it kills everyday.
|
| |
rorybreaker
Tender vittles  Posts: 4 Registered: 6/14/2007 Offline
|
6/14/2007 at 05:54 |
Nice. Not really my kind of tale, but still very well done.
I used to write my own versions of penthouse forums on desks in the back of classrooms in junior high as a sort of way to give back to my fellow students, never anything as well done as this mind you. I think that it's a whole genre of writing that is totally misunderstood  Cheers! |
| |
fastcart
Tender vittles  Posts: 1 Registered: 6/15/2007 Offline
|
6/15/2007 at 16:11 |
i think it's good...but too long...me no have brain big enough to comprehend....
____________________
Someday I will sig... |
| |
Steel
If you want to keep your tongue, don't lick me in the Winter!  SSHOLEPosts: 512 Registered: 10/14/2004 Offline
|
6/15/2007 at 17:58 |
^ Dude, are you really saying you cannot read more than 4 pages of text in any given sitting? Or you thought the formatting could have been different or what?
I for one am really happy to see this turn here... Mr. McRaney I loved your interview with the American Flag when I read it ages ago and really enjoy your style!
How often do you get to read a work that you really enjoy...or not enjoy I guess and get to praise or piss on the author right then and there? Fucking Fantastic!
Thanks Lownotes! |
| |
|
