Pure Slush

flash ... without the wank

The Spindle of Necessity

<  Chiowaga On The Path

by Sally Reno      The Serious Writer And His Hamster  >

 

I am a writer. I write things down. Often I do not know what I am recording until the thing has gone by me several times and the spindle of necessity is finally revealed.

We were 11 years old at the Cineplex. In the dark, Chrissie whispered to me that the man next to her had a knife. I eased across to see him better. His arm was moving up and down. I looked down, something flickered and caught the light. I looked up, the weird-looking guy and I stared at each other. “It’s not a knife.” I said. It had looked like a knife in the sense that a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat in the moonlight might look like a knife.

When I was 19, a guy showed me his cucumber in 5 p.m. foot traffic on Broadway. He gave me the same mournful stare as the guy with the knife. As I was about to brush past, he opened his raincoat on a big, green, waxy, warty cucumber from a produce stand, sticking out of his fly.

Last night, a fellow was telling me he loves to whip it out and shake it at some particular woman, especially in witty rejoinder to something she has said. As, if she has said something about “Prince Albert,” he would say, “Here he is!” Sometimes he will encounter a woman saying something like this and he will not whip it out. Then, months later, he will see her again somewhere and say, “Remember me? You mentioned Prince Albert and here… he… is!” Often the woman does not seem to remember. Sometimes they scream. He likes to whip it out and shake it at guys too, because so many guys are so homophobic they can’t deal with it. Sometimes they scream too.

He is displaying and I am examining, the member in question. It does not look like a knife, or a fish or a cucumber. It is a large, no, very large, well-formed and handsome organ. It is easy to picture the inner child who purely and joyfully would want to bring such a fine artifact out for show and tell.

The piercings must have been painful…the heaviness of the hardware, the progressive size of the balls and rings. They are hogs. Each glinting steel ring laced into his shaft from the base to just below the head is bigger than the last, like a nested set of heavy metal folk dolls.

He unscrews the ball on the biggest ring, turns it and slips it out. I wince. The hole is neat and symmetrical. It winks at me wetly like a tiny pink vagina. He says he got the idea for his hobby at a time in his life when he felt like no one was paying any real attention to his penis. He figured this was something he could do something about.

 

published 18 October 2011