Adi Dvir
I was cozy in my reading nook, immersed in Kafka’s The Bachelor, when first I noticed its little head peek from beneath the dresser. Closing the book, I leaned forward to verify the vision, but the dick quickly tucked itself out of sight.
“Hey, little buddy,” I said, crouching low. The dick was cowering against the wall, goosebumps on its furry nutsack.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “I won’t hurt you.”
Using its balls as paws, the dick padded towards me, revealing pale skin paired with nutmeg-colored pubic hair. Inclining its head as an invitation, it firmed its shaft against my fingers, practically purring.
“My first was a ginger,” I reminisced. “We still follow each other on social media.”
The dick took up residence in a drawer of old photo albums and keepsakes I’d been meaning to toss. Besides a daily dose of petting, it didn’t seem to want much.
As for me, I had always wanted a penis.
Not that it was a terribly useful penis—at least, not in the way you are imagining, dear reader—yet it began to have an almost subterranean effect on my life. Most notable was the new confidence that flowed from me, as if from some inexhaustible fount, independent of any assessment.
For example, shortly after the dick’s arrival, I strode into my boss’s office and asked for—nay, demanded—a raise.
“You’re a high school teacher,” she pointed out, then chastised me for telling dick jokes in the classroom. Apparently some female students had issued their complaints.
Penis envy, I thought to myself, sighing.
Even more uncharacteristic was the fact that this setback did not trouble me in the slightest. Old me would have brooded over it until she felt worthless; dick-having me brushed it off with a shrug. I lost most of my fears, in fact, which is useful when you have to crush a cockroach, or invest all your savings in crypto, but there were also some elements of my self-esteem whose loss I mourned, for a time. My looks—a point of pride, however transient—no longer made any difference to me, and the genial attitude they had fostered disappeared along with most of my makeup. The interest in men’s eyes no longer held any vindication; the important thing was only that I best them in every way. I found myself studying the width of their gait and the size of their sneakers, thoughts of a sort that had never occurred to me in the past.
Also, farts became a laugh riot.
Altogether it was a refreshing change, a twist in my humdrum existence. At the end of each day the little guy would greet me like a cheerful puppy, rubbing itself against my fingers as I spoke to it in sing-song. If I was upset or troubled I would tell the dick all that was weighing on me, to which its only answers were little nudges of sweet commiseration.
Then the second dick showed up.
Somewhat larger than the ginger it was, darker and blacker of pubic hair. Taking up residence in my undergarments, it popped its head up to be stroked every time the drawer was opened. This took some getting used to, but besides the curly black hairs it left hanging from my delicates, it, too, was not a bad companion.
The third dick was something of a mutant, with an unexpected right curve. It leapt at me one evening as I went for a fresh bath towel, and we had a good laugh about my startled cry. The fourth, unremarkable in shaft size but elephantine of balls, appeared in the medicine cabinet one morning, sniffing at my tampons. The fifth was tall and slender, and liked to nuzzle up against my feet at night.
By this time, as you can imagine, my studio apartment was becoming a bit cramped.
Well, why didn’t you get rid of them, you may ask, dear reader. Tie them up in a sack and throw them in the river, or perhaps less dramatically in the garbage chute.
This is a difficult question to answer, as I found myself constantly walking the line between liking the dicks and wanting to kill them. The silky softness of their skin, the stimulating throb of their jellied insides—these were often a comfort to me—but the pleasure of their company hardly seemed worth finding pubes in my toothbrush, for instance, or the pervasive smell of unwashed balls. In certain settings I don’t especially mind this eau de dick, but my tiny home was starting to smell like the inside of a middle school gym locker.
Exasperating too, was their refusal to share moments of intimacy. They simply would not be pet together, but only one by one. Every time a new dick joined the party it was relegated to a spot in the pecking order, depending—what else—on size. I thought this silly, but the few times I tried to circumvent their order I ended up causing fights. At least, that’s what I think they were doing. Their shafts would get rock hard—much harder than they got when I pet them—and they would butt heads like moose until one of them sagged back into its own sad wrinkles. I shudder to think what would happen if they had weapons of any sort, for they seemed somehow very aggravated, but as it was, the altercations were as consequence-free as a pillow fight, and a nice break from the perpetual petting. Half-heartedly I would coax them to stop, but I must admit I found the whole thing entertaining.
Until, that is, the asshole showed up.
I didn’t know it was an asshole; it looked like a regular dick at first. In fact, it was the most average-looking one in my collection. I first found it lying on my pillow, from which it lifted its entitled head for a pat.
“No, no,” I said, “That’s my pillow.”
But the asshole dug in its sack. For a good hour I kept moving it—first to the floor, then, relenting, the spare pillow—but it bullishly returned each time to mine.
Briefly I wished for a safe, or any sort of locked storage container, but then I began to wonder whether the poor thing’s behavior didn’t indicate that it was traumatized, somehow. In such a case, forcing it into confinement would only increase its agitation. So I gave in, lay my head on the spare pillow and fell immediately to sleep, for I’d had a grueling day at school and petting the penises had consumed much of my evening.
Imagine my shock when, in the dark of night, I awoke to find the asshole’s whole shaft stuffed in my mouth!
Wrenching it out, I immediately flew into a loud and lengthy reprimand. The asshole, for its part, trembled in anguished apologia. Bending its head low to the bed, it twisted its slit into a heartrending frown.
“I can see that you are sorry,” I said, “and therefore I will let you stay, but you can never do that again.”
I have no idea if it understood me, but when the next night I again awoke to the asshole’s singular taste on my tongue I guess I preferred to think that it hadn’t.
By now I was utterly wiped out, having slept very poorly as you can imagine, but when I arrived home determined to do something about the rudeness that had overtaken my nights, what would you know but that the asshole had made itself scarce, and I didn’t encounter it until a couple of days later, during which I allowed myself to hope that it had simply gone away.
No such luck. In the evening it appeared again on my pillow, from whence it refused to be budged. That night I awoke to the fuzzy pressure of its ballsack on my forehead, shaft looming large above my eyes.
“Give me all your money!” I heard it say in a gruff whisper, though from whence the voice emerged I cannot say.
Angrily I launched the asshole at the mattress, but it bounded back and slapped me across the face.
“What the—?!”
I scrambled after it, but the ill-mannered creature had disappeared again. Throwing on all the lights, I searched the house top to bottom, the other dicks trembling each in its bed. I could not find it. Enraged, I threw the lights off again, but took the mace from my bag and laid it in the bed beside me. I would hit the little bugger right in the slit, was my plan.
I slept very little again that night, and my students suffered the brunt of my exhausted indecorum. Luckily this is par for the course in education, and no one batted an eye but me. My new fearlessness had failed me, I had to admit it now.I was carrying mace around in my own apartment like a pussy! I could think of nothing more emasculating.
Stepping into the shower that evening, I saw yet another new dick. It was easily the biggest I’d ever seen, its head towering above the shampoo bottles.
“Ugh. Whatever,” I muttered, squeezing lavender soap into my hand. The dick nudged my slick palm—a polite request, so I obliged it—at any rate it would be nice to have a clean one in the house.
I felt better after the shower, but my calm was short-lived, for upon emerging I saw the asshole planted once again upon my pillow.
Making a dash for the can of mace on my dresser, I heard a loud splat like a palm smacking an insect. I whirled round to find the asshole on its side, trembling where it had tumbled after banging against the wall. The new arrival stood over it fully erect and dripping, a huge vein throbbing like a war drum.
It was all so tawdry, suddenly. Tears welled up in my eyes.
The asshole disappeared after that, and thank goodness has not reemerged since. Its existence still plagues me, however, and many’s the night I have startled awake swatting my forehead, a gruff threat echoing in the dark. Or, engrossed in chores or a good book, I get a jolt noticing it out of the corner of my eye, and have to rebuke myself for being silly. After all, what could it possibly do to me that it hadn’t already done?
The only person with whom I’ve ever shared this story was a gay man I met at a lesbian bar. He, too, was drinking alone, and we struck up a conversation. I felt an immediate affinity, as if I could see past the uniform buoyancy that came prerequisite to his kind. When, as it often does with gay men, the talk sidled into sexual gossip, I sensed a familiar presence beckoning.
In no hurry home, I coaxed him with more drink, and soon he was telling me all that had happened. Interestingly, his experience had been very different from mine.
For one, all his dicks got along famously.
“In fact,” he reminisced, taking a shot and wincing, “I would often come home to find them all cuddled out. I’m a bit ashamed to say I felt jealous.”
He began skipping work, he admitted, to stay home and play with his pets. “Fun times,” he said, “until I lost my job.”
I thought of my students then, growing up in a world spawning ever more dicks and assholes. What was to be done with them all?
“I don’t know if I can call any of this fun,” I lamented, taking a swig of my beer and belching.
But just then the little ginger one popped into my mind, its awkward head poking out at me from beneath the dresser. I smiled, and maybe this was just the drink, but I could swear I felt the tiniest nudge of hope, pulsing soft and warm against my insides.
“Hey, little buddy,” I said, crouching low. The dick was cowering against the wall, goosebumps on its furry nutsack.
“Come on,” I coaxed. “I won’t hurt you.”
Using its balls as paws, the dick padded towards me, revealing pale skin paired with nutmeg-colored pubic hair. Inclining its head as an invitation, it firmed its shaft against my fingers, practically purring.
“My first was a ginger,” I reminisced. “We still follow each other on social media.”
The dick took up residence in a drawer of old photo albums and keepsakes I’d been meaning to toss. Besides a daily dose of petting, it didn’t seem to want much.
As for me, I had always wanted a penis.
Not that it was a terribly useful penis—at least, not in the way you are imagining, dear reader—yet it began to have an almost subterranean effect on my life. Most notable was the new confidence that flowed from me, as if from some inexhaustible fount, independent of any assessment.
For example, shortly after the dick’s arrival, I strode into my boss’s office and asked for—nay, demanded—a raise.
“You’re a high school teacher,” she pointed out, then chastised me for telling dick jokes in the classroom. Apparently some female students had issued their complaints.
Penis envy, I thought to myself, sighing.
Even more uncharacteristic was the fact that this setback did not trouble me in the slightest. Old me would have brooded over it until she felt worthless; dick-having me brushed it off with a shrug. I lost most of my fears, in fact, which is useful when you have to crush a cockroach, or invest all your savings in crypto, but there were also some elements of my self-esteem whose loss I mourned, for a time. My looks—a point of pride, however transient—no longer made any difference to me, and the genial attitude they had fostered disappeared along with most of my makeup. The interest in men’s eyes no longer held any vindication; the important thing was only that I best them in every way. I found myself studying the width of their gait and the size of their sneakers, thoughts of a sort that had never occurred to me in the past.
Also, farts became a laugh riot.
Altogether it was a refreshing change, a twist in my humdrum existence. At the end of each day the little guy would greet me like a cheerful puppy, rubbing itself against my fingers as I spoke to it in sing-song. If I was upset or troubled I would tell the dick all that was weighing on me, to which its only answers were little nudges of sweet commiseration.
Then the second dick showed up.
Somewhat larger than the ginger it was, darker and blacker of pubic hair. Taking up residence in my undergarments, it popped its head up to be stroked every time the drawer was opened. This took some getting used to, but besides the curly black hairs it left hanging from my delicates, it, too, was not a bad companion.
The third dick was something of a mutant, with an unexpected right curve. It leapt at me one evening as I went for a fresh bath towel, and we had a good laugh about my startled cry. The fourth, unremarkable in shaft size but elephantine of balls, appeared in the medicine cabinet one morning, sniffing at my tampons. The fifth was tall and slender, and liked to nuzzle up against my feet at night.
By this time, as you can imagine, my studio apartment was becoming a bit cramped.
Well, why didn’t you get rid of them, you may ask, dear reader. Tie them up in a sack and throw them in the river, or perhaps less dramatically in the garbage chute.
This is a difficult question to answer, as I found myself constantly walking the line between liking the dicks and wanting to kill them. The silky softness of their skin, the stimulating throb of their jellied insides—these were often a comfort to me—but the pleasure of their company hardly seemed worth finding pubes in my toothbrush, for instance, or the pervasive smell of unwashed balls. In certain settings I don’t especially mind this eau de dick, but my tiny home was starting to smell like the inside of a middle school gym locker.
Exasperating too, was their refusal to share moments of intimacy. They simply would not be pet together, but only one by one. Every time a new dick joined the party it was relegated to a spot in the pecking order, depending—what else—on size. I thought this silly, but the few times I tried to circumvent their order I ended up causing fights. At least, that’s what I think they were doing. Their shafts would get rock hard—much harder than they got when I pet them—and they would butt heads like moose until one of them sagged back into its own sad wrinkles. I shudder to think what would happen if they had weapons of any sort, for they seemed somehow very aggravated, but as it was, the altercations were as consequence-free as a pillow fight, and a nice break from the perpetual petting. Half-heartedly I would coax them to stop, but I must admit I found the whole thing entertaining.
Until, that is, the asshole showed up.
I didn’t know it was an asshole; it looked like a regular dick at first. In fact, it was the most average-looking one in my collection. I first found it lying on my pillow, from which it lifted its entitled head for a pat.
“No, no,” I said, “That’s my pillow.”
But the asshole dug in its sack. For a good hour I kept moving it—first to the floor, then, relenting, the spare pillow—but it bullishly returned each time to mine.
Briefly I wished for a safe, or any sort of locked storage container, but then I began to wonder whether the poor thing’s behavior didn’t indicate that it was traumatized, somehow. In such a case, forcing it into confinement would only increase its agitation. So I gave in, lay my head on the spare pillow and fell immediately to sleep, for I’d had a grueling day at school and petting the penises had consumed much of my evening.
Imagine my shock when, in the dark of night, I awoke to find the asshole’s whole shaft stuffed in my mouth!
Wrenching it out, I immediately flew into a loud and lengthy reprimand. The asshole, for its part, trembled in anguished apologia. Bending its head low to the bed, it twisted its slit into a heartrending frown.
“I can see that you are sorry,” I said, “and therefore I will let you stay, but you can never do that again.”
I have no idea if it understood me, but when the next night I again awoke to the asshole’s singular taste on my tongue I guess I preferred to think that it hadn’t.
By now I was utterly wiped out, having slept very poorly as you can imagine, but when I arrived home determined to do something about the rudeness that had overtaken my nights, what would you know but that the asshole had made itself scarce, and I didn’t encounter it until a couple of days later, during which I allowed myself to hope that it had simply gone away.
No such luck. In the evening it appeared again on my pillow, from whence it refused to be budged. That night I awoke to the fuzzy pressure of its ballsack on my forehead, shaft looming large above my eyes.
“Give me all your money!” I heard it say in a gruff whisper, though from whence the voice emerged I cannot say.
Angrily I launched the asshole at the mattress, but it bounded back and slapped me across the face.
“What the—?!”
I scrambled after it, but the ill-mannered creature had disappeared again. Throwing on all the lights, I searched the house top to bottom, the other dicks trembling each in its bed. I could not find it. Enraged, I threw the lights off again, but took the mace from my bag and laid it in the bed beside me. I would hit the little bugger right in the slit, was my plan.
I slept very little again that night, and my students suffered the brunt of my exhausted indecorum. Luckily this is par for the course in education, and no one batted an eye but me. My new fearlessness had failed me, I had to admit it now.I was carrying mace around in my own apartment like a pussy! I could think of nothing more emasculating.
Stepping into the shower that evening, I saw yet another new dick. It was easily the biggest I’d ever seen, its head towering above the shampoo bottles.
“Ugh. Whatever,” I muttered, squeezing lavender soap into my hand. The dick nudged my slick palm—a polite request, so I obliged it—at any rate it would be nice to have a clean one in the house.
I felt better after the shower, but my calm was short-lived, for upon emerging I saw the asshole planted once again upon my pillow.
Making a dash for the can of mace on my dresser, I heard a loud splat like a palm smacking an insect. I whirled round to find the asshole on its side, trembling where it had tumbled after banging against the wall. The new arrival stood over it fully erect and dripping, a huge vein throbbing like a war drum.
It was all so tawdry, suddenly. Tears welled up in my eyes.
The asshole disappeared after that, and thank goodness has not reemerged since. Its existence still plagues me, however, and many’s the night I have startled awake swatting my forehead, a gruff threat echoing in the dark. Or, engrossed in chores or a good book, I get a jolt noticing it out of the corner of my eye, and have to rebuke myself for being silly. After all, what could it possibly do to me that it hadn’t already done?
The only person with whom I’ve ever shared this story was a gay man I met at a lesbian bar. He, too, was drinking alone, and we struck up a conversation. I felt an immediate affinity, as if I could see past the uniform buoyancy that came prerequisite to his kind. When, as it often does with gay men, the talk sidled into sexual gossip, I sensed a familiar presence beckoning.
In no hurry home, I coaxed him with more drink, and soon he was telling me all that had happened. Interestingly, his experience had been very different from mine.
For one, all his dicks got along famously.
“In fact,” he reminisced, taking a shot and wincing, “I would often come home to find them all cuddled out. I’m a bit ashamed to say I felt jealous.”
He began skipping work, he admitted, to stay home and play with his pets. “Fun times,” he said, “until I lost my job.”
I thought of my students then, growing up in a world spawning ever more dicks and assholes. What was to be done with them all?
“I don’t know if I can call any of this fun,” I lamented, taking a swig of my beer and belching.
But just then the little ginger one popped into my mind, its awkward head poking out at me from beneath the dresser. I smiled, and maybe this was just the drink, but I could swear I felt the tiniest nudge of hope, pulsing soft and warm against my insides.
Adi Dvir, mother of two, has wanted to write since first picking up a children’s book. She has dabbled in many writing styles, but prefers fiction because she believes this is where the truth is scrubbed clean and made presentable. Her work has appeared in Tension Literary, Consequences, and The Jewish Fiction Journal, and is upcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine.
