oh. my. slanted-eyed surprise.

guest poster: ty camp of funkyfresh.net fame

Adolescence — half my waking life spent locked behind the bathroom door. Through a world of matted handkerchiefs and crumpled Kleenex and stained pajamas, I move my raw and swollen penis, perpetually in dread that my loathsomeness will be discovered by someone stealing upon me just as I am in the frenzy of dropping my load. Nevertheless, I am wholly incapable of keeping my paws from my dong once it starts the climb up my belly. In the middle of a class I will raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage strokes, beat off standing up in a urinal. At the movies I will leave my friends to go off to the candy counter — and wind up in a distant seat, squirting my seed into the empty wrapper of a Mounds bar. On an outing of our family association, I once cored an apple, saw to my astonishment (and with the aid of my obsession) what it looked like, and ran off into the woods to fall upon the orifice of the fruit, pretending that the cool and mealy hole was actually between the legs of the mythical being who always called me Big Boy when she pleaded for what no girl in all recorded history had ever had. "Oh shove it in me, Big Boy," cried the cored apple that I banged silly on that picnic. "Big Boy, Big Boy, oh give me all you've got," begged the empty milk bottle that I kept hidden in our storage bin in the basement, to drive wild after school with my vaselined upright. "Come, Big Boy, come," screamed the maddened piece of liver that, in my own insanity, I bought one afternoon at a butcher shop and, believe it or not, violated behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah.

It was the end of seventh grade that I discovered on the underside of my penis, just where the shaft meets the head, a little discolored dot that has since been diagnosed as a freckle. Cancer. I had given myself cancer. All that pulling and tugging at my own flesh, all that friction, had given me an incurable disease. And not yet fourteen! In bed at night the tears rolled from my eyes. "No!" I sobbed. "I don't want to die! Please — no!" But then, because I would very shortly be a corpse anyway, I went ahead as usual and jerked off into a sock. I had taken to carrying dirty socks into bed with me at night so as to be able to use one as a receptacle upon retiring, and the other upon awakening.

I remember how my mother taught me to piss standing up! Listen, this may well be the piece of information we've been waiting for, the key to what determined my character, what causes me to be living in this predicament, torn by desires that are repugnant to my conscience, and a conscience repugnant to my desires. Here is how I learned to pee into the bowl like a big man. Just listen to this!

I stand over the circle of water, my baby's weeny jutting cutely forth, while my momma sits beside the toilet on the rim of the bathtub, one hand controlling the tap of the tub (from which a trickle runs that I am supposed to imitate) and her other hand tickling the underside of my prick. I repeat: tickling my prickling! I guess she thinks that's how to get stuff to come out of the front of that thing, and let me tell you, the lady is right. "Make a nice sis, Tyler, make a nice little sissy for Mommy," sings Mommy to me, while in actuality what I am standing there making with her hand on my prong is in all probability my future! Imagine! The ludicrousness! A man's character is being forged, a destiny being shaped…oh, maybe not…

Did I mention that when I was fifteen I took it out of my pants and whacked off on the 107 bus from New York?

The bus, the bus, what intervened on the bus to prevent me from coming all over the sleeping girl's arm — I don't know. Common sense, you think? Common decency? My right mind, as they say, coming to the fore? Well, where is this right mind on that afternoon I came home from school to find my mother out of the house, and our refrigerator stocked with a big purplish piece of raw liver? I believe that I have already confessed to the piece of liver that I bought in a butcher shop and banged behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah. Well, I wish to make a clean breast of it, Your Holiness. That — she — it — wasn't my first piece. My first piece I had in the privacy of my own home, rolled round my cock in the bathroom at three-thirty — and then had again on the end of a fork, at five-thirty, along with the other members of that poor innocent family of mine.

So. Now you know the worst thing I have ever done. I fucked my own family's dinner.

Merry Christmas.


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