8====D The ingrown toenail inflamed like a distal star, the sprained neck stiffer than any prick, the charley horse bucking amuck in the leg, the upper eyelid twitching with no such Morse code, each body part yearns to make itself known to the owner, accomplished through illness and injury, autonomous defiance, so what should I make of my genital predicament? There’s no lying to myself or you all, I have always taken the granite of my body for granted, and now what? Should I adopt as my mascot the banana slug who abandons his bruised fruit, the bearded dragon who shaves his face to feminine perfection, the slipper limpet who becomes both more limp and more slippery with age, or what about the clownfish accentuating his stripes to become the most beautiful clunt in all of circusdom? Something must account for my eventual, inevitable invagination, for even now I can feel it like an indrawn breath between my thighs, not a sigh but a consistent astonishment from a mouth that never was yet will be soon. Perhaps only once its vertical lips have puckered into their final form will I receive an explanation by way of labial-molded queefs, woman words, a speech as sweet as the fleshy blossom from whence it would come, words with which I could accept my lot, or the loss of it. Hardly. I can’t count on it, that cunt semi-incarnate. I have a literal bone to pick with this bitch, the bitch of my future self, assuming I fail. And like any good sequential hermaphrodite, I’ve tried hibernating amid the most freezing temperatures to the point of permafrosted pubic hair, sweat-pickling in the hottest circles of unconditioned hell till my meat sizzled as on a griddle; I’ve altered my diet, going from vegan to carnivore to Paleo to Jenny Craig to Dukan to Dunkin’ Donuts to soda-dipped cotton balls and back again; I’ve meditated upon the manliest structures, including the obelisks of Ancient Egypt, the Washington Monument, the Eiffel Tower, yet always my mind would find itself slipping through the Ruyi Bridge, between the folds of the Lotus Temple, down the fallopian tube of the Mariana Trench.
Desperation breeds a cemented kind of insanity (hence my presence among you luna-ladies and gentlemaniacs). As such, I eventually resorted to an assortment of unconventional remedies, let us call them, in the hope of salvaging my shrinking ding-a-ling. Namely, I tossed—oh, my throat already feels overstuffed with upchuck at the memory—I put Viagra, Axe shower gel, testosterone supplements, triturated ivory from an eBay elephant tusk, spirulina, spinach, and only Satan knows what else into a blender and downed what I dubbed the Gender Fluid, a cuntcocktion I wouldn’t recommend, for not only did it fail to encourage any regrowing of the groin but it tasted like the lumpy spunk of a skunk. Enter the penis pump, a mail-order device marketed as something that would give the user a “girthier scepter to match those family jewels.” Hell, I would have settled for something as reasonable as rod resuscitation, let alone renovation. I placed the bell jar-like device over my Lilliputian fuse and furiously pumped as though bailing water from my own sinking body. Rather than making a Lazarus of my phallus, the surrounding flesh dough-rose and filled the tube to the point of cracking the plastic in a Lichtenberg pattern that matched the instant stretch marks now pearlescently disfiguring me down to my knees. Between screams, I arm-wrestled the penis pump until it split in half as a mold to my candle-shaped protuberance, the wick of which was my little dick. I might have settled for this misleading deformation if not for it having subsided over the next few weeks, leaving behind merely what I began with, except a smaller version still. Amid my panic, I remembered from my childhood how my parents tied thread to my woozy tooth and then fastened the thread’s other end to the knob of an open door, my dad grand-slamming it shut, his eyes tracking the arc of my lassoed tooth, his lips betraying an almost vengeful smirk. Trauma then, certainly, but maybe salvation now, or so I had hoped. To make up for a lack of thread, I employed the last of my mint-flavored floss, tying it to my incisor-sized wiener with a bow knot, giving the line just enough slack so that I could stand by the bathroom door and shove it over the mental cliff of antagonistic androgyny. ) That semicircle vicariously completed itself and then some at the source of its entanglement, the flossy velocity not jacking out the box but slicing through my foreskin, O circumcising me more quickly and cleanly than a santoku-wielding mohel, as if I could spare any more of my unjerkable beef!
Where to from here, you might be wondering? I suspected my problem needed a…woman’s touch. Yes, you better believe I spent my savings at the red light district, every last dime might as well have been flicked into the slots between so many legs, spent on whores who boasted about their supernal suction skills, each woman more lip-legendary than the last. My propagator, like a sinking Excalibur without the hilt—who would succeed in sucking free the blade? I could never forget Miss Hoover, who cleaned the carpets of men’s pubes, extracting dust bunnies, sweat crystals, boxer lint, bog paper boluses, toilet-bowl blowback fecal particles, mummified fleas, and cum flakes of masturbations yore before that vacuuming mouth swallowed the shallot proper, although her 220 airwatts proved insufficient; and then there was a strumpet favored among Hell’s Angels because she, key unneeded, could suck-start a Harley, yet my crotch rocket merely sputtered before stalling; another whose tongue shimmered with anodizement, the electrochemical accumulation of taking the chrome off trailer hitch balls as warm-ups before servicing the night’s clientele, except that metal maw of hers all but rusted in its futile attempt to polish my verdigris gristle; and then I presented my pencil nub to the dreaded Cookie Cutter Shark, a dominatrix who sharpened even as she siphoned, such woodchipper pain causing me to blackout for what felt like a fortnight. All to no avail. My last hope had fallen to The Black Hole, named as such not for any noteworthy ass play (she had bleached and rebleached her anus till it shone brighter than Sirius), no, the hole from which even light couldn’t escape was of course her very mouth. She never spoke to her clients, or to anyone else for that matter, which birthed the rumor that words, actual words, couldn’t overcome the latent power of cheeks and throat between each giving of the head. Such a starlet, she, that her first fellation at the age of fifteen resulted in her swallowing a load embedded with all 32 of her teeth. I won’t deny the fact that I could sense my pitiful tip stretch into glorious linguini at the event horizon of her glassy gums, the phenomenon enough to make Stephen Hawking blush, and I was on the vertiginous verge of feeling something in that newfound noodle pop with chiropractic pleasure, a resetting of the proverbial bone, but instead my balls started to travel like boba up my flesh straw and I had to call the whole thing off by yanking on her ears like pony reins, and only once I felt my testicles resettle did I breathe again, The Black Hole giggling all the while, that succubus, oh sufferin’ succotash!
Alas, each and all imbibed the milkshake silt from my stunted stem but failed to extend it, and if anything, the oral juices from those for-hire cavities caused significant shrinkage, a precious percentage I prayed would regain itself in the dry warmth of my own bed, in the cotton embrace of my unspoiled underwear (it didn’t).
8==(())==D
Make no mistake, I’m dealing with reversion as much as inversion, for is not Nature female by default, and only from the seed of the clit does the dick sprout into that umbrous cucumber, that veiny zucchini, that salacious celery, barrel to an altogether different kind of seed. Am I paying for a sin not of omission, not of commission, but of emission? Then I’ll burn my book! my record of conquests if that would suffice, penance for my penis. Yes, I must have suffered from a god complex, tallying not sparrows but the arrows I put through the hearts of women from the bottom up. So many emissions for naught. Can us men help it if we have so renewable a resource of infantries at our disposal, minute as they may be? Fine, I’ll concede that the male sexual impulse is no different than if we sported smokestacks between our legs, polluting the biomes of wombs, the gene pools, and so count me as the first to agree to a global emissions cap, no more than twenty, ten, five pumps a month, limit it to one for the year if you must, and I’ll put the cock in John Hancock when I sign that document twice as big as he. Not enough? No, the zephyr invading my thighs makes it clear that I can’t get off that easily. Still, making a eunuch of me is no comprise, just prise plain and dimple.
If forced to change sexes, what sort of woman would I make anyway? Am I expected to act like some dear debutante, or a lip-locked nun? Guess again. Out of sheer spite, I’d make a name for myself as the easiest, breeziest call girl, the greatest slut who ever slimed the earth with her coleslaw, the sheath to so many anonymous Peters and Johnsons that my vagina won’t have any choice but to prolapse and maybe relapse. If not the latter, it’ll hang as the striated shadow of my former fire hose. Call it a pipe dream if you want, but perhaps my caterpillar of a penis plans on retreating into an internal chrysalis, soon reborn into a more bovine membrum virile, one that would be the axe to new, cloven doors. Oh, forgive me the foul thought! How else can one explain this, this curse? Could the reverting nerve be a subconscious attempt to have sex with myself, to penetrate the vagina embedded within the base of its opposite? But if subconscious, does that constitute auto-rape, the blatant No refracted into a Yes? I’ve never loved myself, and I’ve often taken that unloving out on the unsuspecting, the undeserving. If I can’t love myself, then why shouldn’t I fuck myself? I’ve been told to go and do just that more than once.
Don’t think for a second that I’m unaware…I can see it in all of your eyes, more than high-horse judgments. No, don’t even bother to excuse the looks. As I said, I see the acute accusation that I’ve made it all about me and my transgressions. Yes, you think there’s something larger to all of this, no pun intended (I’d hope). Maybe, just maybe, it’s like that theory of the universe, a big bang followed by expansion until collapse, a big crunch, then a big bang again, ad infinitum, so that my curling, turtling pizzle will pop out again, pop in, pop out, poppet, an endless eon’s worth of self-fucking of a higher kind, a higher cruel. No? Too far-fetched? What, then, in your omniscient minds, does my omniimpotence stand for, or should I say sit for? Allow me to stand before you now, unzip my fly before it flies away, and bear the ringed scallop of my retraction for your delectation. Is this what you wanted to behold but dare not utter the urge? Shall we compare? How will you measure up? Even with the shyest schlong, I’ll still best you in any pissing contest. Well? Will none of you here challenge me in tug-of-war? How about it? Line up and pull for all your worth, for I have nothing to lose but my manhood, yes, and if I’m lucky, pop! goes my weasel. Don’t you blink and squint at me like a gaggle of pussies! Lend me a hand, and by doing so, you might just upgrade my gland, ha!
W-why, why is my tongue numb? Dese sentences, dey feel shorter dan dey need to be, should be. Syllaballs shrinking. Oh. Syntax shaft dinning. God. Lingua varicosed. No. vanished. (())
