Surprise

by Tinder James

  I was a bit more than upset. I’d paid cash for that brand new Miata. She traded it in with twelve miles on it.

  It was impossible to maintain eye contact while she told me what she’d done. Bare, stiff nipples stared at me, smiling, beckoning. Anger built as I listened to her story. It crested as she finished. Forehead furrowed, jaw tight, I watched her slither out of a skirt, drop her panties and spread her legs. Glistening open lips…wet, pink.

  Muscles underlying creamy inner thighs hypnotically tensed and relaxed, speaking a language I understood. Loud and clear, they said they’d massage my temples.

  My penis took interest and anger faded. It seems I don’t have enough blood in my body to sustain both.

  In my youth, burdened with excessive amounts of testosterone, I tried her style of warfare once. Took a month to prepare my attack. Hit the gym daily, put in roadwork and dropped eight pounds. I was ready.

  The first thing she saw when she walked in the house was me. Freshly barbered, smelling like the man-soap she’d given me. Six-pack glistening with oil, pecs, swollen and heavy. Manhood staring her in the eye.

  I wanted the two downstairs bedrooms for my man-cave: knock down the adjoining wall, put in the HD surround sound, computer station, shelves for my library, comfortable seating for Sunday and Monday football parties, refrigerator….

  Before I could say anything, her face curled into a nasty grin. Her eyes lit up. I stepped back. She looked me in the eye and I took another step back. I watched her reach under her dress and pull down her panties.

  I am so glad I take vitamins.

  She stepped out of her undies and handed them to me. Her knees settled on the carpet at my feet. I forgot all about my man-cave.

  She could teach a graduate course on penis-ology.

  She did ask if I had something on my mind. She waited until I was doing the back-float in a pool of sweat. Brain short-circuiting. Various muscle groups contracting and relaxing at will. Curled up on top of me, wearing a light mist of sweat, Carolyn giggled and asked if I wanted to talk.

  Talk? I had enough blood in my brain to form a three word single thought: Damn she’s good. Those words always played nonstop during sex. I learned early in life, concentrating on something other than sex helps to prevent premature ejaculation—and the ensuing punch in the gut.

  I heard her ask the question, but at the time deciphering verbal input wasn’t something I had the ability to do. I had no idea what she meant. Damn. She is good.

  She has skills. I got beat down and I felt like I won. As I drifted off she whispered, “I love you. I’ll never teach you an attack that I can’t defend against.”

  The last fight, the one that took my penis, was brutal. She fought down and dirty. I was cast as Rodney King. She played the entire Los Angeles Police Force. I was a weaponless, naked, General Custer. She became Chief Sitting Bull and every mad-as-hell Sioux that could lift a weapon.

  Well, at least this time she didn’t beat the crap out of me literally. Not like when I left the toilet seat up and she fell in.

  Hands on hips, she slammed the gauntlet to the floor by announcing, “Either have the procedure or never touch me again!”

  I felt a touch of nausea. My heart got heavy and my bowels loose. I knew I wasn’t getting laid that night, or the next. The fight for the right to bear penis was underway. My rod, my staff, it didn’t comfort me at all as I descended into the valley with the shadow of death draped over my dick.

  Clothes started landing on the carpet. A filmy, lacy bra landed on my foot. I tried to slip from the room while she wriggled down a wispy pair of panties, but mirrors gave me several views. I couldn’t help myself. I watched.

  The TV popped on, and she started dancing to an exercise DVD. I ran to the stairs, damage done. I kept seeing slow motion and stop-action Technicolor replays of her panties coming down.

  I missed the first two steps. My ass found most of the rest.

  I made it to my bar, poured a drink and fired up the big screen. Six double shots of tequila later, I still saw wriggling booty cheeks. Needing sleep, I went upstairs.

  She was lying across the bed, battery operated boyfriend a blur.

  I’d won. My grin was so big it wet my ears. I was going to get some. My shirt buttons ricochet around the room. I stumbled, tripping over my pants as my homegrown divining rod pulled me toward the source of moisture.

  The marines were about to take the beach.

  I crawled up the bed. Carolyn didn’t miss a stroke. Eyes half closed, mouth twisted she said, “Don’t touch me,” and had one hell of an orgasm! I thought she’d never stop twitching and jerking.

  I’m the man. I wasn’t going to let her run me out of my bed. Half the mattress was mine. When I finally dozed off, penis hanging on to most of my blood, she woke me up moaning and groaning, shaking the bed. Stupid vibrator buzzing away.

  Took me a long time to get back to sleep.

  She woke me up again. Wanted to know if I had any AA batteries.

  The next night I slept on the couch. She must have wiped herself on my pillow. The sweet musky smell of her sex went straight to my penis. Each breath I took was a shot of super viagra. I tossed and turned all night. Priapism is a horrible, horrible thing. I needed to see a professional in the worst way. Went through a whole jar of Vaseline.

  Carolyn, naked ’cept high heels, garters, and stockings day after day after day. Dancing like a rap video vixen. Yoga positions like downward facing dog…

  She sucked a whole bag of tootsie pops, one at a time, and did tricks with bananas.

  I saw toys I’d never seen before used in ways I could never have conceived of. She had multiple orgasms at the dining room table during breakfast and dinner. That woman looked me in the eye and called out my name every time she climaxed at the table.

  Thought I was going to lose my mind.

  I got the more expensive surgery. When I don’t have my penis, I can still stand and pee. Issues started the morning my healing was complete.

  Carolyn…eight years my wife. No question, I loved her.

  Hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Don’t know how I did it…

  Commercials and ads featured manly men handing over the things that made being manly worthwhile. They would all smile and chant, “Man up! Give it up!”

  I unscrewed and handed over my penis. Man-up is not the emotion I felt. Manning-up is not what I’d done.

  A socket.

  Empty boxers.

  Knowing I didn’t have to sit down to pee didn’t help.

  The word, E-masculate hung over my head like a flock of hungry turkey vultures. Now I had all the tools, or lack thereof, necessary to seek work in the king’s harem.

  What a morning. Sip coffee, hand over all semblances to manhood, kiss wife, grab briefcase and drive to work.

  I knew Halle Berry and Angelina Jolie, horny as hell, clad in crotchless lingerie, were going to fall from heaven into my arms while Carolyn had my penis. Declining the threesome because I love my wife and respect my vows is one thing. Lying about the reason because I don’t have a dick is not acceptable.

  Arriving at work, I made a right turn into the parking lot as my better half began warming up my penis.

  With or without a dick, I’m a blessed man. My beloved wife is a woman with many talents. I felt lips and a tongue. It didn’t take long. My eyes closed, toes curled, and my legs straightened mashing the accelerator to the floor. The front of my new Mercedes crumpled against a wall, rear tires spinning and smoking.

  The police and medical personnel arrived, but Carolyn wasn’t done, so neither was I. She’d moved from foreplay to the act itself. They found me, fists locked around the steering wheel. Face contorted, grunting like a caveman, I was humping the deflated airbag, tires still spinning.

  It got worse. It got much worse.

  Carolyn, dressed in her birthday suit, presented me with a thirty-six hundred dollar receipt for a Prada, extra large, alligator skin, diamond stu
dded, penis tote. Turned out that was just her everyday carrier. Found that out when she showed me her Sunday-go-to-meetin’ tote. Snakeskin, trimmed with sable, mink, diamonds and gemstones. She said, “befitting” a Sunday tote, it cost a little more.

  Then I got the American Express bill for the second one…

  She watched me open the envelope. When I saw what she’d spent: twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred ninety-four dollars and seventy-three cents, I was more than pissed. She smiled, whipped my penis from her pocket, and went to work. She has serious skills. I couldn’t be mad at anyone or anything for at least a half-hour, forty-five minutes. Soon as the glow faded and I frowned-up, she’d produce my dick and start again. I’m not eighteen anymore. After a few of those, I tended to slip into an eight hour coma.

  I slept through Memorial Day weekend before I figured out I wasn’t going to win.

  The next day, on my way back to work after a late lunch, she put my penis to work while I attempted to walk across a busy intersection. I found myself on my back in the crosswalk. Hips gyrating, ass bouncing like a basketball while cars swerved around me. All ’cept one.

  On the edge of a grand mal orgasm, I latched onto a speeding MINI Cooper. Newspaper article says I got in two good humps and half a grind before the wheels rolled over me. They ran a picture that some guy took right before the MINI Cooper arrived. My pupils had rolled up. Milky-white eyes wide open, I had an expression like I smelled something really, really bad.

  Helluva phuck-face. That explains why Carolyn never looks at me while we make love. I look like the Antichrist.

  Broke my pelvis in two places, fractured two vertebrae.

  Thank god it wasn’t a bus or eighteen-wheeler.

  I learned that pelvic thrusts while in traction, or a body cast aren’t the smartest things to do. I pleaded with the li’l woman to put my penis away. Worse than a crack head, she’d become a dickhead. Hooked on dick, my dick, she shed real tears, apologizing profusely every time she used it.

  In spite of the pain, I couldn’t send my wife to rehab.

  I wouldn’t have survived without my morphine drip. I named the drip Camille.

  Women began to do bad things to good men. The fellow in the bed next to me—run over by a “humper”—had been in a board meeting when the CEO leapt from his chair and dropped dead in the middle of a scream. His wife, battling PMS, had run his penis through a meat grinder.

  Another guy died when his wife fed his penis to the family Pekinese. He’d forgotten to take the garbage out two days in a row. I’m not going into detail on that railroad track thing. I’ll just say a large group of ladies lined up about a hundred yards of manhood an inch or two at a time and Southern Pacific runs according to schedule.

  Divorce rates plummeted due to fear. Judge Lynn Toler terrorized American men. Angry after listening to lewd tales of infidelity, she ruled the penis family property and awarded it to the wife. Word is, the ex put her penis and scrotum on a window sill and never touched it again. Now it gets sunburnt and he takes pain medication several times each summer.

  I did six months in the hospital, first three in traction. Flirting during sponge baths loses its appeal when you have a socket and no penis. Nothing to do ’cept watch the news.

  Worldwide, economies tanked. Planes, commercial, private, and military flew themselves into the ground. Trucks, cars, even bicycles ran off the road. Trains barreled through stations without stopping. Employers with more than four employees had to designate a room that men in the throes could retire to. Then they hired women to make sure men didn’t dodge work by faking orgasms.

  During a bank robbery in New York, the thief started grunting like a baboon as his hips started twitching, mid-robbery. He was almost ready for a cigarette when the police arrived.

  Online dating changed. Carolyn’s brother sent this email to a woman he’d met online.

  Sweetness, I never thought online dating would work for me, but your emails have touched my heart. I’m going to honor your request and send you my privates for the upcoming weekend.

  I’ll send them Fed Ex overnight, 8:00 AM delivery.

  Sweetheart, I’ll need him back Tuesday morning or the producers of the reality show, Dick of Love, will not be happy.

  Please dress him in formal attire before putting him anywhere near an unobstructed uterus. In the past, my trinity has been a prodigious producer of pregnancies. I can’t handle another wage garnishment.

  Baby, my penis likes Dick Soak Formula 44. Don’t forget, he needs to be soaked twice a day for ten minutes so he’ll get his nutrients and oxygen. My testicles like a warm Seven-Up and Hawaiian Punch combination.

  Dr. Alvin Tavis detached a vagina. Believe me, that left one helluva hole. They don’t screw back in very well either. I think he used Velcro. I doubt that’s going to catch on.

  Personally, I don’t want a vagina snapping at my dick unless it comes with a woman attached. Without accessories, Ms. Kitty loses much of her charm. If I had to haul a pussy tote around, it would need side pockets for thighs, booty cheeks, hips, breasts, neck, and at least one ear and a mouth.

  When my woman is reaching for her orgasm and I holla, “Who’s yo daddy,” I want her to hear and answer.

  Feminine hygiene is different. A man would take a vagina back four, five days after he laid hands on it. Making faces, whining, “It’s starting to smell funny. It never smelled like this when you had it.”

  “Did you wash it?”

  “Wash it?”

  Insurance benefits used up, strung out on my sweet Camille, the good people at the skilled care nursing facility sent me back to Carolyn. I’d been home a week when my penis, big screen television and laptop came up missing.

  The loss made Carolyn sick. It made me sicker. I was so glad I had Camille.

  Carolyn pored through catalogs searching for the perfect plastic replacement. She tried warming various toys in the microwave, but she still went into withdrawals. I had to share my Camille with her.

  I found my dick several weeks and innumerable orgasms later.

  My neighbor had it. A burly, hairy truck-driver.

  I was watering my lawn. He’d left his blinds open. I saw him butt-ass naked in his living room, my dick in his hand. I’d recognize my penis with the stretched out, skinny in the middle, thousand-dollar bill tattoo anywhere. I was sick. He could have been putting my dick anywhere.

  I lost my mind.

  The next thing I knew his front door hung from one hinge and I had my penis back. His li’l weenie was squashed flat under my size thirteen boot. His eye, forehead, and bottom lip were swelling. Blood flowed from his nose, and he slept in a heap on the floor.

  He didn’t die. The doctors mumbled something about a misplaced pleasure center. They took skin from his thigh, some abdominal muscles, and stitched together a Frankenstein dick.

  Carolyn couldn’t have been happier. Ten minutes after she got her mitts on my penis, I was asleep and my dick was on its way to Gucci to be measured for a new tote and then to the doctor to have that new vibrating unit installed.

  I was jailed for the assault. Carolyn made signs, “FREE MY DICK’S DADDY!” Luckily for me the judge was straight. He had empathy, sympathy, and the procedure.

  He slapped me with two years of probation and an anger management class.

  Addiction

  Felix Baron

  Connie thought that Dr. Jack’s white lab coat and stethoscope suited him. There’d been a time when being subjected to a gynecological exam by a handsome medic had been one of her favorite masturbation fantasies. Connie gave Dr. Jack the full benefit of her friendliest smile. She gave him a wide-eyed gaze and let her fingertips linger when they shook hands.

  “It’s been a long time, Connie,” he said. “I was surprised to see your name in my appointment book. You’re the last person I expected to need a consultation from a sexologist.”

  She gave him a coy, “Why’s that, Jack?”

  “Well, I’ve known you soc
ially for what—four, five years? You always seemed popular with men and happy to be so. I know that you’re physically fit from the odd time I’ve seen you at the gym. I’d say that you’re in great shape.”

  “Thanks for noticing, but my problem isn’t one that shows.”

  “That’s usually the case with my patients. So, tell me all about it, please, and don’t be shy.”

  “It’s about my addiction, Jack.”

  He raised a brow. “Addiction? That’s not my line, I’m afraid. My practice is strictly about sexual problems, physical and psychological ones. If you’d like, I could refer you to a specialist in substance abuse.”

  Connie looked down at his patterned carpet and toed it. “My problem is, and it isn’t, about substance abuse—well, not abuse actually, but…”

  “Please don’t be embarrassed, Connie. Just blurt it out.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Doctor, I’m addicted to semen.”

  Dr. Jack took a step backwards. A flush mounted from the pale pink collar of his buttoned-down, oxford shirt to his expertly coiffed hairline. “You’re addicted to...?”

  “Semen.”

  “Do you mean…?”

  “Ejaculate. Jism. Cum. Man-cream.”

  Dr. Jack cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d better explain exactly what you mean by addicted, then.”

  Connie hitched herself up to perch on the little, round vinyl top of a chrome-legged stool. Jack’s eyes dropped to the pretty knees her movement had exposed and quickly back up to her face. His face was still red. Connie had a theory that a long slow tease had a beneficial effect on the flavor of a man’s semen. That supposition had turned her into a habitual flirt.

  “It began,” she told him, “the very first time I did it.”

  “Did it?”

  “Went down on a guy, silly.”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry I interrupted.”