RICHARD -- My Life as a Penis
Hump, in a bold display of independent initiative,
determined that he would be the first one of his group to purchase a copy of Playboy. Off to the drug store went he, head held
high, jaw fixed with steely resolve, knees knocking together in terror. He pushed open the door and headed straight
for the magazine rack. Determination
notwithstanding, Hump decided to delay his impulse to snatch up the Playboy
and head to the counter straight away.
Some reconnaissance was in order.
As calmly as any 14-year-old who was about to soil his jeans could, he
picked up the latest Archie comic book and began to surreptitiously survey the
collection.
Hump started prowling around the store in that slow,
hunched over gait he had developed since entering high school. His walk may have been slow, but his head
was whipping around on his neck like that girl’s in The Exorcist. His eyes raked over every shelf, rack,
and display, searching desperately for the elusive Playboy. And, finally, there it was! Playboy! The magazine of breasts and butts! The real thing, live and in person! The stories were real after all!
The Heart leapt, the Mind fairly exploded with joy, and I was all ready to
poke my head out and get a good look for myself. But, elation quickly evaporated.
It was behind the counter.
Hump was crestfallen.
The Heart and Mind weren’t much better.
I was, however, trying with all my might to figure a way to pull these
sad sacks along. I stood straight and
pointed the
way. But, they didn’t follow. Hump started to tremble. It was one thing to come in, grab the
magazine, place it on the counter and pay for it. But, this was something else entirely. He would have to ask for it. That would require speech, of which it seemed highly doubtful
Hump was capable. If speaking were not
challenge enough, there was the consideration of to whom he would be speaking –
Irene, a squat little lady who was probably only in her mid-40s, but to Hump, seemed
like she might be 70 or so. She had her
hair dyed the same color as Lucille Ball’s, but had the girth of Fred
Mertz. Irene wore a permanent scowl. It looked as if it were carved into her
forehead. So, even when she smiled, she looked as if she were about to bite
someone’s arm off. Hump was quite
certain that she had once done time – at least once.
He darted down the aisle with the greeting cards and
candy. He stood there for several
minutes, sweating, hyperventilating, and shaking like a dog passing razor
blades. The Heart was in
defibrillation, and the Mind was entirely locked-up, except for one word that
kept flashing over and over: RUN!
He would have, too, if his body had still possessed
the properties of a solid.
There comes a time in the life of every penis when he
must stand firm for the cause. As
Hump’s trembling hands clutched the Polish language birthday card he was
pathetically pretending to read, I realized it was my time. I stretched as far as I could. I swelled.
I throbbed. There was a lot of
throbbing. And it was rhythmic. In fact, if he were paying the slightest bit
of attention, Hump would have noticed I was throbbing in time to the Muzak
playing in the store. (It was Begin
the Beguine.) But, nuance is wasted
on the young. If I could just keep it
up long enough – the throbbing, I mean – I could focus Hump’s attention
on
what really mattered: my
satisfaction. It was a sort of
hypnosis. Don’t ask me where I learned
it; it’s a gift. But, the goal was
clear. I was here to see skin,
beautiful, young, firm, naked skin.
And not just arms and legs and bellies, but breasts and butts and
whatever other good parts I could see.
No more Redbook or Archie. No
more paging through the Reader’s Digest in delusional hope. No more getting stroked to a Lesley Gore 45
rpm picture sleeve.
I want real naked women, dammit! Well, real naked
My pulsations started to work on Hump. I could feel his tremors starting to
subside. The Heart regained something
like a normal rhythm and the Mind started to clear. It was imperative that I get the old boy moving before any
reasoning started.
Hump, still clutching the card with the language he
did not understand, moved toward the counter in an advanced stage of catatonia,
like those people you see in the Dracula movies. I’m quite sure he didn’t even blink.
Irene didn’t wait for him to set the card down. She snatched it from him and started to
punch the price into the register keys.
“Anything else?” she growled as she rang up the card.
It was now or never.
The Heart was weeping, “No.
Please God, no.” The Mind was
trying to be calm as it advised Hump that there was still time to call the
whole thing off. “Take the card and get
out of here. You can always learn Polish.” But, I hadn’t brought the kid this far just
to be denied. I started throbbing so
hard that I was sure I was making a noise.
Hell, if I had feet, I would have danced.
Do it, Hump! Go for it! Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Think of breasts, Hump. Naked breasts and butts.
“A Playboy.”
Hump mumbled it before he even knew he was speaking.
“What?” Irene asked in that voice that sounded just
like a parrot getting a rectal examination.
“I’d like a Playboy, please,” Hump repeated, in
a voice that was, regretfully, perhaps a shade too loud.
“How old are you?” Irene demanded with the same tone
Hump had heard in that movie when the Nazis interrogated the spy from the French
resistance, right before they shot him in the head. Hump felt all his bodily fluids evaporate. He barely heard the question over his heartbeat.
“Eighteen,” he squeaked.
Oh, yeah, she’ll buy that. Some
quick thinking there, Hump. You’re on
your own now, buddy.
I decided this was a good time for me to withdraw from
the proceedings, so I pulled back inside of myself for a little
protection. At the same time, I ordered the testes to draw back into Hump’s body. I knew that, in situations like this, the nads are often the
first to go.
Hump cleared his throat.
“Eighteen,” he repeated, like repeating it would make
it any less ridiculous.
“Like hell,” Irene shot back, really winding up on the
“like.” Nice touch. “What the hell’s a kid you age want with
smut like that? You ought to be ashamed
of yourself. Hell, you wouldn’t even
know what to do with it if you saw it.”
It was at this point that I had the momentary impulse
to take issue with her assertion.
However, Hump wouldn’t stand still for that. In fact, he wasn’t standing still for anything. He started for the door so quickly that the
windows rattled. And he almost made it.
“Hey, kid!” It
was Irene. Apparently, she wasn’t
finished humiliating him yet. “You
still owe me for the card.”
With a skin temperature of just under a thousand
degrees, glowing bright red, and sadly lacking control of his bodily functions,
Hump slunk back to the counter.
“Forty-nine cents,” she barked.
Hump dutifully handed over the required change and
reached for the bag Irene was holding.
Although he grasped it and tugged, she didn’t let go. Instead, she leaned into him.
“This is it,” the Mind said. “This is where she eats your face off.”
“Listen, kid,” Irene hissed, “The next time you want
to buy a dirty book, go somewhere else.
You come in here for Playboy again and I’ll call your mother.”
Hump wasn’t certain how Irene knew who his mother
was. But, she knew. All adults knew each other. Hump figured that, when you had a child, you
got the contact sheet of all of the other parents in the world, so you could
all call one another when one of your children did something stupid.
“Now, get outta here!” Irene let go of the bag, which Hump had been pulling on so hard
that he fell backward against the ice cream freezer. He regained his footing and bolted out the door.
He ran for several minutes. Fast. He wanted to put
distance between himself and Irene. He
knew he had speed on her and, if she decided to come after him and tackle him
or do a shoulder drop on him, he wanted a buffer zone for his escape.
Hump stopped running when he reached the end of his
block. He dreaded going into the
house. What if Irene had called his
mother and squealed on him about trying to buy the nudie book? How could he look her in the eye? She would never understand.
Nudie books were guy things. If his dad found out, Hump somehow felt that it would be
okay. His father would look at him
disapprovingly and, of course, they’d have to have one of those talks in which
Dad pretended that he was Ward Cleaver.
But, secretly, Hump knew his dad would be relieved that his son liked
girls. He also knew that, before he
threw the smut in the garbage where it belonged, Dad would personally inspect
the material carefully to make sure it was as immoral as he thought it was. And, of course, to read the articles.
But, if Mom found out, all bets were off. She would order Dad to kill him dead and Dad
would have to do it, because they’re married.
It’s probably in the vows. No
question, if Mom found out, Hump’s irredeemable soul would be damned to hell.
Hump stood on the corner for a very long time. I tried not to move, so I wouldn’t add to
his stress level. It’s not often a
fourteen-year-old goes into full fledged cardiac arrest on a street corner, but
I would’ve taken even money that it was about to happen. So we all just stayed very still and
waited. And waited. And waited some more.
It became clear that, given a choice between going
home and standing on the corner and waiting for his home to come to him, Hump
was going to choose the latter.
The Heart was
of no help, as it was too afraid to compel him to move. And the Mind was desperately trying to
devise a cover story, but was, in fact, just babbling incoherently.
So, once again, it fell to me to lead. I stretched out slowly, so I wouldn’t scare
anyone. Once I stood to my full height,
I started a nice, easy rhythmic throb.
Slowly, everyone was mesmerized by the beat. A sense of normalcy returned.
The Heart beat in time. The Mind
suddenly started to think of ways to get Hump’s hands on his mother’s new copy
of Better Homes and Gardens that had that sexy moisturizer ad.
Then, like Renfield in search of spiders, Hump started
home, without even giving a thought to how to explain the Polish birthday card.
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There were two rituals associated with weddings that
had nothing to do with the big day itself:
The bridal shower and the bachelor party. One of them was vastly more fun than the other. So, a stag
party before the ceremony was for the groom; everything else was for the
bride. In fact, the groom wouldn’t be
called upon to participate in any meaningful way until the honeymoon, and then
only if he were lucky. To be frank, I
preferred it that way.
The shower was of little interest to me, except for
giving me an opportunity to preview the bridesmaids. We were fortunate in that Beth had recruited three girls from
college, all beautiful, and all of whom she had slept with. For her maid of honor, however, she had chosen an unfortunate little troll named Stacy. Stacy was short and fairly squat, with a
face that made her somewhat resemble a slightly taller Hervé Villechaize, the actor who
played Tattoo on Fantasy Island, which was as close to a fantasy as
Stacy was ever going to get. She had
the distinction of being one of the few girls Beth had known in high school who
still spoke to her. All of the other
girls ostracized her in fear that she would steal their boyfriends, if only for
a night. She very often did. Stacy, not having the burden of a boyfriend,
felt no threat, and therefore bonded with Beth.
It was quite common in those days to see these odd
couplings in the female population.
The short, stout girl often befriended the beautiful, sultry girl in
hopes of basking in the reflected desirability and popularity. Then too, there was the chance of claiming
one of the castoffs. The rejected boys
were sometimes anxious to entertain the friend, if only to remain in orbit
around the bombshell.
It was of great comfort to me that Stacy, flying high
on the romantic euphoria that being the runner-up in a wedding party induces in
females, was far too busy to be an impediment.
She attached herself to Beth like a barnacle at the shower, and it left
me free to more closely examine the other guests. There were, of course, the three bi-curious bridesmaids, Beth’s
sister, assorted cousins, and one aunt by marriage. (Her uncle, on his third marriage, obviously kept trading in his
wives for newer models.) The rest of
the women were older, dowdy, and rendered asexual by years of marriage.
Alright, listen up, everyone! We’re going to play a little game. I’d like all the bridesmaids, cousins, and
the fine one aunt to line up on this side of the room. And the rest of you follow Stacy as she
leads you the hell out of here!
I did some of my best throbbing and pulsing, but it
was impossible to get Hump to advance on any one of the women to whom I was
pointing. Instead, he retreated to
where the makeshift bar had been set up, to chat with Gary, who he had chosen
as his best man, chiefly out of gratitude for introducing him to the erotic
world of Playboy. But, the
refuge was short-lived. There is
nothing so disturbing to a room filled with women than the sight of two men
talking to each other.
“Joey!” Stacy wailed.
It was one of her duties to summon Hump for Beth’s pleasure. “Come and sit next to your fiancée. It’s time to open the gifts.”
Wake me when it's over!
Dutifully, as if he had been a husband all his life,
Hump sat next to Beth, who began the soporific process of opening a mountain of
presents, almost all of which were wrapped in white paper with a silver wedding
bell pattern. There was an endless
stream of linens, towels, and bath accessories. Each one had to be opened slowly, paying special heed not to tear
the pretty paper and upset Beth’s grandmother, who collected each sheet and,
with some magical power that a woman apparently acquires when she passes age
seventy, folded it exactly as it had been when it came out of the store. Then each item had to be held up so that the
congregation could gasp appropriately at its beauty. That was followed by a moment or two of random discussion of the
value, luxury, and the myriad uses of the gift. Finally, it was passed from hand to hand around the room, so each
woman could personally inspect it, pass judgment on it, and hand it to Gary,
admonishing him not to spill anything on it, but to pile it carefully with the
others.
Linens and things gave way to household
appliances. Unlike sheets and towels,
duplicates were not allowed in this category.
Somewhere after the general presentation of the gift, and the personal
inspection pass around, the crowd broke into rowdy debate about which of the
two twin items was the one to keep, which was usually decided finally by the
ready availability of a receipt. There
were two toasters and three coffee-makers.
Coffee-makers had become the luxury item of the 70s. No more percolators on the stovetop. After decades of painstaking research and
development, science had finally developed a machine that knew just when to
stop boiling the coffee. A perfect cup
everytime! What a country! There were also, in all, four fondue sets.
Fondue sets were exempt for the duplicate rule. In the 70s, there was a general belief that
one could not have too many fondue sets.
Fondue sets were, for a time, thought to be the long-sought “perfect
gift for any occasion.” It’s estimated
that, for a period of about five years, in the mid- to late-seventies, a fondue
set was owned by every man, woman, and child in the United States. In Switzerland, everyone owned two. Fondue is a Swiss development, but they gave it a French name. They wanted someone else to blame it on in case the whole idea went horribly wrong. Essentially a
saucepan held above a can of Sterno, the fondue sprung from the philosophy, not
entirely erroneous, that everything tastes better when it’s covered with molten
cheese or chocolate. Every newlywed couple, between 1974 and 1985, hosted a
fondue party. Once. After a solitary night of having friends
gather around pots of bubbling cheese, chocolates, and sundry sauces, spearing
pieces of fruit, vegetables, bread, as well as the occasional house pet,
dunking it into the pan, popping it into their mouths and getting a rough
estimate of the melting temperature of chocolate, the pots were
scrubbed (with no little effort), dried, stored in the uppermost kitchen cabinet
and only removed again when it was time for a yard sale. So, Hump and Beth became the proud owners
of a quartet of fondue sets of various quality. I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t dunk me in cheese! Chocolate maybe – Beth loves chocolate.
The coeds in the crowd were the most astute
gift-givers. Theirs came wrapped in
various shades of red. One of them gave
a trio of scented massage oils. The
collective “aahhh!” for the oils was much louder than for even the finest
fondue set. One of the bottles was
opened so that the ladies could each put a drop on their fingertips and approve
the viscosity. Finally, a gift that
could benefit me! I prefer oils to
Pond’s cold cream or K-Y Jelly, or even lard. (Don’t ask me how I know.) Following the oils was a selection of
lingerie, baby doll pajamas, bras, and very small panties, each made from a
material only slightly more transparent than a screen door.
That’s great! You’ll look great in those, Beth.
Go try them on. Now!
Finally, Beth peeled the paper off a small box. When she saw the gift, a deep, throaty laugh
escaped her. “Ho, ho, ho,” she chortled
softly, and she blushed. She blushed. This is Beth were talking about.
“What is it, Beth?”
“Hold it up!” “Let’s see,
Beth!” The hens were cackling.
Reluctantly, Beth held up the box, which contained a
device that looked similar to a very small hand mixer. PERSONAL MASSAGER trumpeted the printing on
the transparent top. Included were four
rubber heads, all of which attached to the device, all of which had different
purposes. There was one for the scalp,
one for the face, one for the feet, and an ominous looking flesh colored nub
that unmistakably had a solitary purpose.
The entire room blushed, except for Grandma, who smiled knowingly. Beth hesitated, but then passed the vibrator
around the room, shooting a sharp look at Angela, who threw her head back and
laughed wickedly.
“Just a little something for you when Joey gets
tired,” she cackled.
Don’t worry about that, honey! You think we get tired? You wanna see stamina? How about you and I
go upstairs for awhile? You’ll need that
massager for your feet, to get your toes uncurled!
The massager made it around the room with more speed
and less comment than any of the other gifts.
But, when it got to Stacy, there was a decided pause, and I thought for
a moment they might have to pry it from her hands.
Following the gift parade was the obligatory cake and
coffee hour, during which every woman who had ever even passed Beth on the
street took turns sitting next to Hump, each one extolling her virtues.
“She’s such a nice girl,” crowed Aunt Sally (not the
hot one).
Oh yeah? Did I
ever tell you how the two of them met? Listen up, you’ll get a real hoot out of this.
On it went.
Each lady took her turn and together they spun the tale of every cute
thing Beth had ever done from DNA until that moment. They also included, at no extra charge, an endless stream of
predictions of all the cute things she would do until the end of time. And each one threatened Hump’s life if he
ever hurt her. There were even a few
threats uttered at me specifically.
Finally, it was all over. The crowd started to disperse, leaving in its wake a room that
looked…absolutely perfect. Had this
been a crowd of men, that room would have resembled downtown Hiroshima in
August 1945. But, the women, ably aided
by Grandma, who had collected the wrapping so neatly and efficiently that she
could have opened a gift shop right there in the basement, had been tidying all
along, which is what women do when they’ve lost interest in sex. Even the college girls had taken pity on the
elders of their tribe and helped them.
Not much, just enough to make it look good.
“Wanna go out for a beer?” Gary asked Hump as he
carried the gifts to the car. Those
fondue sets weighed a ton.
“I don’t know,” Hump answered. Tough questions like that always stumped
him. Then, as if he were in dress
rehearsal for matrimony, he said to Beth, “Honey, what did you want to do
tonight?”
Beth sidled up quickly to Hump and whispered, “I
thought we’d try out those massage oils,” and then nibbled on his ear. Getting gifts made Beth horny. Breathing made Beth horny.
“Can’t,” Hump answered Gary.
Damn straight you can’t! The first time you choose a beer over Beth, she’s gonna switch
that massager on and then it’ll be a whole new ball game.
“Alright,” Gary said, with that look in his eyes that
men get when they realize that there is nothing they can offer that will ever
be better than sex with a woman.
“Remember Saturday night. Be at
my place by seven.”
“What’s Saturday night?” Beth asked.
“Bachelor Party!” Gary answered, just a little too
enthusiastically.
“Oh,” Beth said quietly. “I forgot.” She said it
in a way that sounded more like “I was hoping Joey forgot."
She was quiet in the car on the way home for a few
minutes. Then, slowly, she
started to warm up as she reviewed the shower.
“It was a nice time, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.” It was
really nice.”
You have all the credibility of Richard Nixon. You better tell her now how much it
sucked. If you don’t, every single
holiday for the rest of your life is going to go pretty much like that, but
without the sexy underwear and vibrators.
“I couldn’t believe Angela bought me that
vibrator. You know, she has one just
like it.”
Hump didn’t ask how she knew.
You hear what
she’s telling you? You mess up, just
one time, and it’s going to be a big vibrator party with the girls. You’ll be the odd man out. And whither thou goest…
I don’t care where you're going to live, the place isn’t big enough for me and that vibrator.
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