To All the Penises I've Ever Known Read online

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  This “open letter” was one of the first short pieces I wrote after deciding to become a writer. Of course, once I’d written it, I had no idea what to do with it. Clearly it wasn’t a story for the literary journals – although I did try a few. It was too graphic for most online magazines, and not graphic enough for “adult” sites. Then I happened to stumble across The Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette online. Featured on its front page were a flash fiction story and a handful of naked ladies. That, I knew then, was the right market for this piece.

  Sexuality can be a difficult subject to tackle, and it’s something I’ve struggled a lot with in my books. Not because I’m uncomfortable writing about it, but because sex in literature is often relegated to the realms of pornography or erotica, and my work, while often sexually explicit, rarely falls neatly into either of those categories. But sex in writing does not have to be all about titillation. It doesn’t have to be all about arousal and consummation, nor about the quest for some idealized partner and the ever-elusive simultaneous orgasm. It doesn’t even have to be dramatic. It can be stupid. It can be funny. Why not? Sex makes us stupid and funny. There are many ways of exploring sexuality, that endlessly fascinating aspect of our lives as human beings. “To All the Penises I’ve Ever Known” was one of mine.

  ME AND FAT MARGE

  I look with pity at my old friend Brent, his warm brown eyes so filled with sadness that tears are threatening to trickle down his usually buoyant cheeks. It’s the first time I’ve visited Middle-of-Nowheresville since my friend’s wedding nearly a year before, and my heart aches to find him so disconsolate.

  “Where’s Marge?” I say, looking around for his new bride, a pretty, plump, charmer of a woman with a sparkling personality and a passion for creative cookery.

  He swallows. “In there,” he says, shrugging a shoulder towards the slider opening onto the living room.

  I look at the enormous woman sprawled sideways upon a full-sized bed, staring mournfully at an empty tray as if willing it to refill itself. She’s draped only in a loose sheet and I’m not surprised; it must be both difficult and expensive to find clothes for a woman so large. Her breasts alone are the size of honeydews and as I stare, my eyes popping, at the nipples poking through the thin cotton I wonder, in spite of myself, if they’re equally as sweet.

  “That can’t be healthy,” I observe, yanking my mind forcibly out of the gutter and attempting to calm the sudden, unexpected itch now tickling my own modest breasts.

  He nods glumly. “Her doctor’s worried about her heart and I am, too. The psychologist says it’s an oral fixation or something. She barely even talks now, but she can’t stop eating. I don’t even take her out anymore; the neighbors can’t afford to feed her.”

  She’s staring hungrily about, and I can’t help but think that I know what I’d be chowing down on if I had enormous tits like those, gigantic enough to reach with my tongue. The itch starts in again but I force it down so I can ponder my friend’s problem instead.

  Within seconds I’ve got an idea. I guess it doesn’t take long when your mind’s always moving in the same direction. I’m not quite sure how to say it, so I straighten my hair and glasses, tuck my hand up under my chin as if I’m deep in thought, and then give it to him with all of the scientific seriousness I can muster.

  “Has she sucked your dick lately, Brent?” I inquire politely.

  “What?!” he yelps back.

  “Your penis,” I clarify, thinking that maybe “dick” is a colloquialism unknown in this decidedly rural part of the country. “Have you been giving it to her to suck on?”

  “Well, uh…” he says, his cheeks reddening as if suddenly flushed with fever. “Under the circumstances, no, not lately.”

  “I was just thinking… seems like that would suit her oral fixation, doesn’t it?” I prod.

  “I guess you’re right!” he exclaims suddenly, beaming. “Marge! Oh, Marge!”

  He throws open the sliding door to the parlor and I follow, waving to Marge from the doorway. “Good to see you, Kat!” she calls, the expulsion of air causing those tantalizing breasts to sway like an inviting backyard hammock caught in a soothing summer breeze.

  I watch as Brent settles his hips in front of her face and thrusts his dick ardently into her hungry, open mouth. She swallows it as eagerly as a vacuum cleaner on shag-pile carpeting and he groans in response. I try hard not to be jealous, but they’re both making a lot of wet mm-mmm noises and pretty soon I’m wondering if the mailman will be coming by soon or if I should order a pizza and hope for a nubile delivery boy.

  Just as I’m starting to think I’m going to have to call on a neighbor or, even worse, take care of things myself, Brent lets out a loud “Yahhhhh!” and forces his cock up to the balls down his wife’s wide-open throat, whereupon she swallows noisily and then lets out a satisfied, gurgling sigh. He pulls away, drizzling little droplets down Marge’s fine, full breasts, and do you know what she says next, this brilliant, adorable woman after my own heart?

  “More!”

  “Thanks, honey,” Brent says placatingly. “But you know I can’t do that again so soon, right?” He lays a hand on his wiener and flops it helplessly towards her, its magnificent purple splendor reduced now to the color and consistency of a very fat earthworm. It’s not the most appealing sight, but Marge keeps staring at it like it’s the gourmet concoction she’s been yearning for all along.

  “More!” she insists.

  Brent turns to me, at a loss as to what to do. I get another idea. I’m not entirely certain he’s going to like it, and I swallow nervously. But, being the good friend that I am, I’m willing to sacrifice myself in the interest of his wedded bliss.

  “Um, well, if she just needs something to do with her mouth…” I begin, maneuvering my knees apart and hoping he’ll get the picture.

  He doesn’t. He stares at me blankly until finally I point with two fingers at the space between my legs and say, “You know, she could put her lips on my, you know…” Drool floods my cheeks and I swallow again.

  “Oh!” he replies, his neck flushing crimson like he’s had a sudden attack of the heebie-jeebies and isn’t sure yet whether he likes it. A bit of spittle starts to leak out of the corner of his mouth and before he can even say, “I guess that would be all right,” I’ve ripped off my skirt and pantyhose and am sitting backwards straddling that wide open mouth.

  Now, I have had pussy-lickings before. Many pussy-lickings, in fact; more than I can even count, although for some strange reason I still never seem to get my fill. But I’ll tell you this, there is no one who knows how to lick a pussy like a person who has spent a lot of time exercising their mouth. She doesn’t just eat that pussy; she devours it. And before I know it, I’m left panting in a wilted heap on her gigantic breasts and taking mouthfuls of them like they’re chocolate-dipped ice cream cones while she’s up there behind my ass saying “More!”

  What choice do I have? I give her my comparatively tiny breasts to suckle until they’re all wet and worn and then help her get a handful of her own masses up to her mouth so she can nibble greedily on those for a while. That, of course, gets Brent going again, so he gives her another, much longer round of cock in the face and that last bit of juice seems to satisfy her because she finally drops off to sleep, her face a mask of blissful contentment.

  “I really think this could work,” Brent whispers, gleefully observing Marge’s tranquil dream state. “She hasn’t even asked for food since we started.”

  “How long do you think we can keep this up?” I wonder, my mind reeling delightedly out of control at the thought of weeks, perhaps months of oral pleasure on the face of a master. In my mind I’ve already taken a leave of absence and made plans to relocate to Middle-of-Nowheresville for as long as it takes. Then I remember that big contract I’m supposed to be landing and my dirty dreams disperse like hot fumes from a steam engine, leaving me wilted. “I mean, she can lick my pussy all day as far as I’m concerned, but I’m supposed to be leaving town tomorrow.”

  His face sets into a tough, hardened expression. “I’ll find a way,” he says with determination. “I would do anything to ensure my wife’s happiness. Anything.”

  I don’t know what he means by that, but, assuming it involves drastic measures he doesn’t want to confide, I don’t press him further.

  Well, after a little while Marge wakes up and I can hardly wait to get on board that amazing mouth again, especially when I know my time with this marvel of the natural world is doomed to be so short. So short, but oh, so sweet. I straddle my hips across her nose and she dives into me like I’m as smooth as a chocolate crème pie and twice as tasty and I do what I can to gorge her with my own creaminess before Brent can give her some more of his. Then I burrow my head between her monstrous melons while he goes at her face again, thrusting over and over for minutes on end, but she never seems to get tired of sucking, as I note with admiration. And when he finally blows his top, she shoves him gruffly out of the way and taps me on the shoulder and I realize with boundless joy that it’s my turn to hop on again. Who says insatiable is a bad thing?

  We keep it up like that all through the long night, and my legs are wobbling like canned jelly when I finally haul my soggy ass out to my car to go to the train station. Marge is still sleeping peacefully. I can swear she looks thinner already.

  “Good luck, Brent,” I say as I’m leaving. “Try to keep her on track; it’s for her own good.”

  “I know it is,” he answers. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.”

  He gives me a funny little salute and I drive away, already longing again for Marge’s magnificent face on my worshipping pussy.

  It’s a full three months before business again bri
ngs me back to town, and I hurry over to Brent and Marge’s as soon as I can, hoping against hope that she’s gotten herself healthy. Not getting an answer when I ring the bell, I try the knob and it jiggles open. Cautiously I peer inside. The living-room bed on which Marge once lay is gone, and for a moment I fear the worst. Then I hear slurping noises and, taking a step inside, see a stout and entirely naked young woman hard at work on her knees inhaling the very large cock of a very large postman who’s very loudly expressing his enjoyment of it. Thinking that Brent and Marge must have moved while I was away, I turn to make a quiet exit and bump my head with an audible thunk against the lintel.

  “Ow!” I exclaim, causing the couple to turn to me and stare.

  “Hello!” the strange woman cries in welcome, as if I were an expected visitor. “Hold on just a minute, will you?”

  She goes back to the cock and I’m getting itchy listening to all that slurping but fortunately he finishes up pretty quickly and then casually buckles up his trousers as if he does this every day.

  “See you tomorrow!” he calls out cheerfully as he heads out the door.

  “Thanks again!” she yells back through the open doorway, in which she is standing as if entirely unabashed about being naked on the doorstep. My kind of woman, I think.

  I think it more when she slides her way back over towards me and, dropping heavily to her knees as if kneeling was her favorite position, says sultrily, “I’ve been wanting another taste of this for a long time.” Then she proceeds to yank down my skirt and panties and plunge headfirst into my pussy like it’s a hot fudge sundae doppled all over with the thickest whipped cream and decorated with the sweetest, tangiest maraschino cherries you’ve ever imagined tasting.

  “Marge!” I exclaim, pitching headlong toward orgasm before she’s even brought out her fancy moves. “I can’t believe it’s you!” I pant, my body jerking in spasms of uncontrolled ecstasy as she trains her tongue around each of my most intimate curves.

  “Oh, yes,” she explains, burying my face in her bountiful breasts as she clutches me to her in a warm, friendly hug. “Your plan worked great. I’ve already lost almost a hundred pounds and Brent and I have never been happier. Oh, there he is now!” she cries, dusting off her kneecaps and running to the door, her now only cantaloupe-sized breasts bouncing provocatively with each flouncing step.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home!” he yells as if he can’t see her standing naked before him, her head already bobbing towards his still-packaged cock.

  “Isn’t she great?” he says to me as she pops his penis wholeheartedly into her eager mouth. “It’s all thanks to you, you know.”

  “But how… how do you…?” I ask, thinking of the mailman who’s so recently departed.

  “Oh, she keeps busy. Around town, you know. Maybe some husbands wouldn’t be able to handle that but, you know what? I love my wife, and I want her to be happy and healthy.”

  He pauses to let out a pleasured groan while Marge’s enthusiasm continues unabated. “And you know what else? We’re the most popular couple in town now. Seems everyone wants to have us over. Marge is so outgoing, you know.”

  Watching her bob her head on his cock, making those mm-mmm noises like it’s a fresh cherry pie, I can’t help but agree.

  “Well, I’m back now, too, for a while,” I remind him. “So if you need any help with her, I’m happy to do it,” I volunteer bravely.

  “That’s real sweet,” he says appreciatively. “But you don’t have to do that again. We’ve found plenty of people who are happy to help her out, and I know you’re not really into that; you were just being the really good friend that you are. Oh, wait, hold on a sec.”

  He plunges his cock hard into her face and she swallows it as if she was born into the circus and then emerges, her face shining, her mouth open, little bits of jizz and what I think is my pussy juice drying in tantalizing bits about her lips. She sticks her tongue out at me and my thighs grow wet in response, and all of a sudden I really miss big fat Marge.

  ***

  Ah, my first published foray into true erotica! It was a big step and one that, frankly, for a long time I wasn’t sure I was ready to make. I don’t want to see myself getting pigeon-holed into only one kind of writing and erotica, ironically enough, can be a turnoff for some people. Besides, there’s an internal cringing factor to erotic writing that I don’t think you get with sci-fi or historical fiction or other genres. For example, while I was writing my first novel, My Life with Michael, I frequently found myself becoming embarrassed in composing the raunchier scenes. I mean, embarrassed sitting all by myself in front of my computer, without anyone even reading it. And those were fairly standard sex scenes - nothing particularly kinky. But like anything else, I guess you get used to it after a while. My second book, Just the Three of Us, being a threesome story, is about a hundred times dirtier – what, in the Romance industry, they would term a Heat Level of 4+ – and that didn’t even faze me.

  Anyway, in between novel chapters I took to dabbling in some short-story erotica, and “Me and Fat Marge” was one of the first products of that effort. What I like most about it is the fact that it’s funny, which I think is somewhat of a rarity in the genre. Odd, isn’t it? Sex and humor seem as if they ought to go together hand in… well, you assemble the metaphor!

  MISSED CONNECTION

  “Malcolm,” I breathed, almost silently, internally, my suitcase falling unhindered from my faltering hand as he approached, staring quizzically towards me in dumb disbelief; or worse, I feared, in dumbfounded dismay. What was he doing here?

  Involuntarily I flushed, color screaming into my cheeks at the recollection of the unbelievably foolish thing I had done, that dreadfully stupid day nearly a year before when I’d learned that he was moving, never to return to this city I still called home. That letter I’d hand-delivered to his office, not even asking to see him, not really wanting to; knowing that once he’d read it I never could see him again, never would want to; would be confined to thinking of him only in the guise of the fantasies I’d so recklessly confided into the eternal silence of his imminent absence. Written depictions of imaginary scenes so graphic that my hair kinked and grayed merely to think of them; deeply personal secrets of my inner life that never before had I dared to share; that never before had I conceived with such indomitable passion.

  It was inscrutable, this flatly expressionless face now pushing across the airport lobby towards me and instinctively I backed away; retreated stumbling backwards until I pressed up against the wall beyond the boarding area and could flee no further. Yet still he came, perhaps horrified, perhaps disgusted and offended by what I had done, and I could only watch helplessly, pinned against the cool blue tile, as he neared to within twenty feet, ten, five, two.

  He stared, confronting me with his impenetrable thoughts, assailing me with his forbidding silence while I stared back, still scared, still shocked into speechlessness. And then abruptly he dropped his luggage and closed the gap between us from two feet to two inches and pressed me hard, harder up against the airport wall, his thick, sturdy arms encircling my waist, his chest crushing against mine in a powerful embrace. And suddenly his eyes were no longer incomprehensible, but warm and kind, and they gazed into mine without hesitation, without a trace of uncertainty. Roughly he pulled my torso towards him, away from the wall growing hot against my backside, his hands penetrating the thin fabric of my dress as they travelled down my back, over my hips, and around my buttocks, squeezing my cheeks tightly, tantalizingly in fierce, fervent fists. Grasping my naked thighs, he spread them, wide, then wider, and dizzily I relished the sensation of the air rushing through the space between them as he gathered my legs about his waist, pushed my back up against the wall, and tickled his thumbs over the firm, sensitive muscles of my unguarded groin.