A Penis Darkly
September 23, 1999
Rachel and I did not keep our date to buy the dildoes with harnesses on Tuesday morning, nor Tuesday afternoon, nor again on Wednesday. We used all those excuses wives employed in the 1950s to avoid assignations with real penises headaches, too much to do around the house . . . On Thursday, Rachel claimed “sudden out-of-town guests,” but when I asked who, she said, “Uh,” and then paused for a really long time before blurting out, “Someone named Lecter!”
“Rache,” I said, “I was with you when you re-rented Silence of the Lambs, remember?” Then I confessed that there hadn’t been any real “doctor’s appointment I’d forgotten about” yesterday, and that I didn’t know if I could go through with it.
“I didn’t know you were embarrassed, too!” Rachel said. “We have to do this, Leese, we have to get it over with. It’s been hanging over my head like a dark cloud.”
“A dark pink cloud,” I added. “In the shape of a penis.”
“Everyone’s gonna think we’re gay!”
“We should put our purchases on the counter and yell, ‘We’re
So we resolved to do it that night nothing more would come between
I changed my outfit six times, and finally settled on a turtleneck, ski pants, glasses and my hair in a loose bun. Then I took a walk to check out Floyd’s damage so far. The river was swollen and brown. It had climbed up the trunks of the trees on the riverbed till it touched their leaves. The tops of trees looked like toys bobbing in a bathtub. The river made me nervous. It looked nervous itself, like it didn’t quite know what to do with its newfound size and strength. Then the wind broke my umbrella.
I drove about five miles an hour on my way to pick up Rachel. It was pitch black out, even though it was only early evening. Whenever a car came, metallic light spread across the road, and rectangles of light would rise up, like a one-dimensional silver bear rearing on its hind legs, inches from my windshield. This was the perfect night to either rob a bank or buy a dildo.
“It just seems so . . . unnatural,” said Rachel.
“Well yeah,” I said. “It’s plastic. Or rubber.”
“I think it’s probably illegal.”
We sat in comfortable silence while nature roared around us.
“Maybe we should use ’em on each other,” I proposed. “That way, the
In our great agitation, every suggestion sounded reasonable. I asked Rachel what she thought of the outfit I’d settled on. “I figured this would make me look like I wasn’t inviting the men to have sex with me,” I said, “but now
“No, no,” she replied, “You look good. A turtleneck! You look like an
Next we addressed the dilemma of size. I learned that Rachel’s man likes three or more fingers up there at a time, while mine’s much more genteel he looks like he’s about to cry with only one. So I wanted to get a nice small one for him, yet I did not want to look laughable. I wanted to impress Dave with my penis. We decided I’d get a medium and she’d get a large. Then Rachel reminded me of some mean things Dave has done and said to me, and I contemplated
“I don’t know! Just get us out of here!”
Once we were on the highway, she calmed down. “Hey Leese, feel this!”
“Wow,” I said.
“Realistic, huh?” She laughed. We thought we were hot stuff
It felt a little lonely once I dropped Rachel off. Just me, all
I didn’t want to use it on him tonight anyway. I was tired and wet. I wasn’t even in the mood for normal sex. I wanted to be alone, on the couch with a quilt, a hot chocolate and a Harlequin Romance, afraid of nuclear power plant mutants and burglars, turning my head quickly and saying, “Oh my god! What was that noise?” every twenty minutes or so, deep, deep into the night. I’d fought my way through a hurricane and back, and suffered the indignities of paying money for an unnatural penis. A prosthesis! I wanted to get to know it better before using it. I didn’t want to make any tentative thrusts, or have the thing slip off. I wanted to buck confidently, knowingly.
When Dave pressed his erection against my thigh in bed, I told him not to plan on getting lucky tonight. I was feeling very in-control with my new penis, even if it was back in its box. I wanted to call all the shots, when and how any thrusts would be occurring. Dave asked what the new Fifth Wheel Man looked like. Knowing how he likes to picture me in the arms of other men, I tried to remember every detail. His skin was the color of sunset, I told Dave, or earthenware in Arizona. I believe the word is “swarthy.” He’s about forty, has all his hair still, and big biceps. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but just barely like David Banner halfway turned into The Incredible Hulk, his clothes seemed about to bust at the seams. He was a celebration of masculinity. (Now that I reflect on it some more, he might not really have been all that muscular . . . he might just have given off a heady impression of muscle.) While Dave is very handsome and lifts heavy things and all, there is something very ambivalent about his sexuality. It’s not that he’s undecided he’s just not . . . enclosed, I guess. Well-educated and lascivious, it’s impossible to picture him doing cowboy things. But the new Fifth Wheel Man, now that’s a man. He was born a man and he’ll die a man, and be nothing but a man thoroughly at every stage in between. I don’t believe he does anything kinky, even though he works in a porn shop. I think he just pumps you with his extra-large cock and formidable thighs. Puts his meaty hands on large breasts, or just squashes them with his forearm, for expediency. (Dave was on top of me now. “What else?” he gasped.) He’s pure, I said, like the Marlboro Man. There’s not a lot going on there. Just a pure fucker. I picture us at a country music bar, maybe we’ve been making out. I hike up my skirt and slide my panties to one side so as to better rub against his suedeish pants. He’s sort of batting me out of the way. He’s going to take me home and give it to me for sure he just wants to finish his drink first. He sees a friend he needs to talk to for a few minutes. He lets me thin, writhing helplessly stay on his thigh. I’m not so much of a distraction that he has to remove me from his pants in order to have a conversation. Finally, he takes me home. He lives in a trailer. I get into his bed, under the rough blanket, but he’s doing something first. Maybe he’s washing the dishes. He’s a neat man.
“Oh my god,” said Dave, and stopped moving. Then he rolled off me. He’d come in his pajamas. He was embarrassed, and tried to pretend he’d simply lost interest. I thought it was cute. Then I wondered if he’d done it on purpose had sex with (well, on) me when I said don’t, and then shot out like a victory cannonball (or snuck out like a spy) what my purchased one never can emit. I thought about being mad at him, but laughed instead: I’d been thinking I was so in-control with my new penis, that I’d call all the shots, and instead I’d been molested and lied to (“Did you come?” I asked. “No!” Dave said). Gloat while you can, Pajama Boy, your time will come. I’m going to wear my black bullet around under my pants tomorrow, I thought happily, staring at the ceiling. Just walk around with it. I like to feel tumescent, poised. I’m like the Marlboro Man, the New Fifth Wheel Man in the bar: I’m definitely going to use this thing. Dave’s gonna get it all right, but I’m going to finish my drink first, talk with my friend. Listen to some music and just feel it there, against my thigh, ready.
Lisa Carver and Nerve.com