PART ONE: THE STAGE IS SET
Early Years: Myron's Got a Jellybean
I had a privileged childhood. My dad was the principle stockholder and Senior
Executive Officer of Tastee-Kreme, an incredibly lucrative retail pastry chain,
and had assets totaling millions of dollars. By the time I was born he and my
mom had devoted themselves to a life of luxury and indolence, in a big
three-story house in Queens with every amenity imaginable. I was able to spend
my days as I liked, relaxing in bed or by the pool, reading Archie comics and
sucking the cream filling out of chocolate eclairs, which we always had plenty
of around the house (courtesy of the family business).
I had no friends; I hated sharing my toys, and the few times my parents
invited another child for me to play with I wound up sobbing and shrieking
hysterically, my arms wrapped around my teddy bear collection. Ultimately, my
dad decided I was too lazy and isolated for my own good, and enrolled me in the
Cub Scouts. My mom and I were against it, but my dad persevered in the end.
"He needs to be socialized," he argued. "It'll build Myron's character. Help
him figure some things out."
Well, I figured some things out, all right.
I was sick with anxiety around all these strange kids, but I had no good
reason to be... until our first outing, that is. One Sunday the whole troop went
to a local swimming pool, and with the usual apprehension I felt in the company
of my Scoutmates I dropped my pants to change into my swimming trunks. Just like
everyone else.
Kevin Lutz was standing next to me and happened to glance down. My crotch was
a smooth expanse of nine-year-old fat with a thin pale line where my nut sac
should have been, and my penis embedded in the fat like a little peanut.
"Hey," he announced excitedly to the other kids, "look at Myron! His thingy's
like a... like a jelly bean!"
The other Cub Scouts gathered around to check it out, commenting
incredulously on my "little weenie." I lasted about ten seconds, biting my lower
lip to keep it from trembling and blushing furiously, before finally bursting
into tears.
Well, you know how cruel children can be. This excited them even more, and
they began dancing in a circle around me, chanting "Myron's got a jelly bean!
Myron's got a jelly bean!" as I pulled my pants back on, screaming at them to
stop.
I couldn't bear to tell my father what had happened. I could only repeat,
again and again, that I didn't like being in the Cub Scouts any more. But he was
adamant: I was staying, and that was final.
So I told the den mother I couldn't swim. On the next outing, my Scoutmates
were skinny-dipping at a nearby lake, laughing and splashing happily in the
water with their penises bobbing up and down for all the world to see; I was
hanging back on the sand, fully clothed in my ridiculous uniform, pretending to
be absorbed in the scum-soaked debris that had washed up there. But all the
while I was burning on the inside with envy and resentment, pinching the little
knob in my underwear.
It just... wasn't... fair!
The High School Wimp
I gradually distanced myself from my peers, and by the time I entered
Dinkendorff Academy, an elite private school, I was the classic loner. I hid in
the back corners of the classrooms, skulked through the halls with my head held
down low between periods, clung sullenly to the wall during recess... The entire
student population seemed hopelessly inaccessible to me. I was even a little
frightened of them, and had developed a severe stutter.
I had, of course, a rich fantasy life, like all miserable loners, to make up
for things. It was fairly standard material, I suppose. In my fantasies I was
Mr. Cool, swaggering down the halls high-fiving the "in" crowd. Naturally I was
on the football team in these little daydreams of mine, scoring touchdowns and
getting hoisted onto the shoulders of my cheering fans...
The real centerpiece, the final goal of each of these fantasies was Sherri
Lyons, the captain of the cheerleading team. This was in the 1980's, and Sherri
was a classic 80's babe. Her copper-colored hair lay in massive piles on her
shoulders, her golden skin glowed in the sun... Her high cheekbones gave her a
look that was at once exotic and aristocratic, and her wide mouth and big white
teeth left an impression of feral sensuality. Periodically she came to school in
a green silk shirt that was sheer enough to reveal pretty much the exact shape
and size of her bra-less tits, and in my dream life I spent quite some time
nuzzling those gorgeous, creamy jugs of hers...
I didn't know enough about sex to go any further in these fantasies, but they
inevitably brought me to my full two inches and a shuddering climax.
In reality I was as far from athletic triumph (not to mention fastening my
mouth on Sherri's fat nipples) as a human being can get without being
paraplegic. Gym class was pure torture for me; I could be counted on to trip
over my own two feet at every critical moment, and half a lap around the track
left me gasping for breath while Coach bellowed at me to "move that lazy ass."
And then there was the locker room.
The locker room was a nightmare come true, a place of the most exquisite
psychological torment imaginable. Naked? Me, Myron "Jellybean" Lipshitz, get
naked in front of the other boys again? I broke into a terrified sweat every
time I entered this room, and was practically hyperventilating by the time I
left... To avoid making my "little problem" public I would undergo all sorts of
awkward contortions while undressing, which I imagined were subtle enough to
evade the notice of the other kids.
Boy, was I wrong.
The football players formed an elite clique at my school, just as they do at
every school in America, I imagine. I used to watch these boys with a kind of
jealous devotion. They seemed practically godlike to me, so physically fit and
full of self-confidence as they strutted down the hall. They had everything I
lacked.
Including, of course, real cocks.
I had glanced furtively at them countless times as they proudly bared it all
in the locker room, while I twisted and turned to keep my little secret to
myself. There was one in particular, a running back named Kip Langley - a
lantern-jawed hulk with dimples and a greasy blonde crewcut. His dad owned a
chicken-processing plant, and under his fancy school uniform he was pure white
trash, complete with a rebel flag tattoo on one swollen bicep and an illicit
plug of chewing tobacco tucked into his lower lip.
Kip was fond of cruel practical jokes and gifted with a loud, braying laugh
that raised my hackles every time I heard it. Pretty often it was directed at
me, in fact - he delighted in tripping me as I carried my lunch tray through the
cafeteria; he loved leaving chewing gum and used wads of toilet paper on my
chair in homeroom; he routinely emptied cans of Kraft cheez-wiz and shaving
cream into my locker... The name "Myron Lipshitz" was bad enough, but it was Kip
who came up with a series of derogatory nicknames for yours truly, like
"Bitch-Tits" and "Shitlips."
And yet, despite my fear and hatred of him, it was all I could do to keep
from staring at him as he stripped off his sweaty underthings after gym class.
It wasn't the firm washboard belly, the swell of his chest, the corded
forearms, the tight round ass... No, it was Kip's proud, fat cock. As he peeled
his jockstrap away I glanced furtively at his king-sized dong with more than
longing; it was a kind of helpless self torture to take in the size of that
thigh-slapping monster, swinging just a few feet from where I sat with a towel
artfully placed over my pale stub.
One day I was holding my towel over my crotch and leaning forward to pull my
clothes from my gym locker (aside from actually pulling my underwear on under
the towel, this was my most vulnerable moment) when there was a loud crack, and
I felt an unbelievable stinging sensation in my rear: someone had flicked me
with a wet towel. With a screech of pain I let my own towel drop and clutched my
burning ass...
...then just as suddenly realized what I had done.
The towel.
Cold fear swept over me. I covered my crotch with one hand and bent over to
pick up the towel just in time to see it whisked out from under me. With my head
between my legs, of course, my ass was wide open for a second flicking, which is
exactly what I got. Above my own high-pitched squeal I heard that laugh, loud
and brash as a mule's.
Kip.
I turned, trembling, to face him, both hands over my crotch now. The whole
gym class was watching, fascinated. Kip and two of his friends, Tyler and
Gordon, were standing there, grinning hugely - three muscular football gods in
their jockstraps confronting a skinny, naked, cowering bookworm. It was a
classic high school moment. In Kip's casually raised hand was my towel... my
only hope.
I mustered up all the courage I had.
"G-g-give..." My voice broke. Flustered and shaking, I tried again. "Give me
m-my towel, K-k-kip."
He exchanged an amused look with his cronies. "Why, Shitlips? So we won't see
your hard-on while you fuckin' stare at us?"
There was a lot of snickering from the other kids. My god, they thought I was
gay!
"N-n-no... N-no, I - I j-j-just..."
"C'mon, bitch, admit it. You fuckin' stare at us... Fuckin' faggot. The whole
school knows. You get a little boner watchin' me and my friends get naked." He
hoisted his massive cup with one hand and squeezed it for emphasis. "And then
you cover it up with a rag."
My mind was in a whirl; I couldn't seem to think straight. I drew in a great
ragged breath and tried again. "Look, p-p-p-please, I... I j-j-j--"
"You just what?" he sneered. "You just wanna finish jerkin' off? You just
wanna wipe your little dick off and get dressed and go to class like a good
little faggot?" He leaned forward, close enough so that I could smell the Slim
Jim on his breath. I backed my ass into the locker door: there was no escape
now, and he knew it. He advanced until I could feel the animal warmth emanating
from his powerful gleaming torso. "You got somethin' to hide, Shitlips? Well,
why don't you just... SHARE IT WITH THE CLASS!!"
With that he and Tyler grabbed my arms and jerked them apart. In horror I
drew up my legs, screaming frantically, but it was no use: Gordon grabbed my
ankles and pulled. A broken shriek escaped my lips -"Noooooooooo!" - but it was
too late.
In my worst dreams I could never have imagined this happening to me. It was a
moment of such pure, unmitigated horror that I thought the earth would surely
open up and swallow me down. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.
Instead it got worse.
None of these kids had ever seen anything like it. There were groans of
disgust, mock-puzzled murmurs - "What the fuck is THAT?," "Is that thing a clit
or a dick?" - and loud hooting and jeering. I hung rigid in the arms of my
tormenters, aware of the ridiculous expression of shock frozen on my face, but
powerless to alter it - I was somehow paralyzed by the unreality of it all and
couldn't move. Of course, had I known what they were going to do next I would
have fought as hard as I could...
Well, I guess I should have known Kip would think of an even more sadistic
refinement.
"Hey, dudes," he exclaimed, "Shitlips is a GIRL! We've got a GIRL in the
boy's locker room! That ain't right, is it?"
"No way!" "No fuckin' way, dude!" "Fucked up!"
"Well, sheeit," he drawled, "we need to get the little bitch out of here!
Ain't no girls sposed to be here with the boys!"
And with that he and the other two began hauling me toward the door to the
hallway. At the same moment the bell rang, marking the end of third period;
within a few short seconds the hall would be filled with kids. They were going
to toss me out there, nude! Blind panic took over me, and I began to kick and
twist in their powerful hands. Guttural incoherent sounds came choking up out of
my throat as I struggled to get free, and by the time we reached the door my
lips and chin were flecked with spittle and my face was purple with the effort.
But I was no match for these boys.
A howl of despair escaped me when they kicked the door open. The next thing I
knew I was sailing through the air, hurled naked and helpless into the crowded
corridor. There were cries of shock and outrage as I knocked a couple of kids
over before landing with a comical gong-like crash against the side of a
wastebasket. There I lay, on my back, in a crumpled heap, totally traumatized,
too dazed to cover myself... My little nub of a penis on display for the whole
crowd.
A pair of blue glittering clogs stopped in front of me. Dully I raised my
eyes, staring at a pair of long golden legs... pink miniskirt... bare golden
midriff... and a T-shirt with a smiley face on it, pulled taut by the
magnificent pair of breasts behind it...
Sherri, my angel, my queen, the girl of my dreams, was standing there,
staring down at me, with a gaggle of cheerleaders behind her.
Of course.
Oh, God, yes.
Slowly, the look of shock on her face was replaced with an astonished smile.
This was funny to her. I lifted my hand up - for help? I don't really know; she
certainly wasn't about to touch this shrimp-dicked freak sprawled at her feet.
To her I was an amusing bit of sub-human slime, not even fit to kiss the ground
she walked on, and I finally knew it.
I gurgled faintly, trying to explain...
...then passed out.
Shit Out of Luck
I have the vague memory of someone throwing a coat over me, and then being
carried by two teachers to the nurse's office, where I was shaken back to
consciousness by Mr. Hershey, my extremely irate principal. He had the idea, I
finally realized, that I had done this for fun ("This institution does not need
sickos like you streaking through its halls, Mr. Lipshitz!"). So, in addition to
the searing humiliation of knowing that I was now the biggest and best joke in
school, I received two weeks detention that afternoon for disrupting "normal
school activities."
My parents were appalled and furious when they came to pick me up, and I was
too shell-shocked to explain that, no, I hadn't exactly run naked through the
halls as a prank. They were firm: I would return to school the next day and
behave myself with dignity, as a Lipshitz should. No, I absolutely could not
stay home; there was nothing wrong with me. Stop whining, Myron! And wipe those
tears off your face!
Throughout the evening thoughts of suicide were constantly on my mind.
Well, I spent the next morning with my arms wrapped around myself, shuffling
past laughing, whispering groups of kids. Numb depression overtook me in gym
class. I flat out refused to enter the locker room to dress up, of course. There
were knowing chuckles as Coach sprayed his standard deposit of spittle in my
face, yelling at me to shape up. I spent third period on the bench, staring off
into the distance as Kip and the others played softball. I only snapped out of
my catatonic trance when the softball struck me on my pimply forehead, knocking
me from the bleachers into the mud.
Yes, I was going to kill myself.
That afternoon, I saw my big chance. As it turned out, one of the kids in
detention with me was Donny McDowell, the school drug dealer - another loner but
one who commanded the respect of the other kids by virtue of being a walking
drugstore (his dad was a pharmacist).
I approached him after detention timidly.
"Hey, D-d-donny?"
"Whaddaya want?" He looked extremely uncomfortable, almost as if he didn't
want to be seen speaking with me. Couldn't blame him, really.
"Uh... W-what, uh..."
"C'mon, dude, what the fuck do you want?"
"I... I want... Well, w-w-what do you have that, y-y-you know.... c-c-could,
uh..."
"Fuck off, Shitlips." And with that he started to walk away. In a panic I
lunged for him and grabbed his sleeve, and he slapped my hand away with a look
of fury in his eyes. "Fuckin' punk-ass faggot!"
"D-d-d-donny, p-p-please, I... I want to..." I swallowed hard, then lowered
my voice to a whisper. "I want to k-k-k...k-k-kill myself."
The look of anger on his face melted away, and he actually grinned. "Yeah? No
shit?"
"Yes."
"Huh." He looked me up and down, clearly interested. "And you want a little
medicine from Doctor McDowell to help things along?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Okay, Shitlips." His grin widened. "Meet me in the boy's restroom on the
second floor tomorrow at 8 am. Bring twenty bucks. I'll take care of you."
By 8:05 the next morning I was clutching a bottle of pills in my sweaty
hands. My plan was to eat the whole bottle before lunch, confess my love to
Sherri Lyons, and expire right there in the cafeteria. A nice dramatic ending to
the short but painful life of Myron Lipshitz. I could already hear the gasps of
horror, see the remorse in my tormentors' eyes as I crashed to the floor, dead
at last... That would teach these animals a lesson!
I skipped gym class, hiding out instead in an empty classroom, staring out
the window at the bright blue sky and feeling a serenity I had never known
before. At ten minutes to twelve I got up, went into the hall, and ate the whole
bottle, one pill at a time, between sips from the water fountain.
Sherri Lyons was sitting at the cheerleader table in the cafeteria when I
arrived. With death around the corner I felt completely at peace, even happy. I
approached her, imagining I could already feel a pleasant drowsiness. Nothing
could touch me now. I would walk right up to her, look her in the eyes, and tell
her that I loved her before sliding into blissful and eternal sleep at her
precious feet.
I wound my way toward her table, ignoring the whispers and snickering from
other tables I passed. A braying laugh made me jump: Kip, again.
Always Kip.
"Hey, Dickless!" he called. "Aintcha gonna eat something?"
And a lump of something warm and soft thumped into the back of my head and
hung there. Probably mashed potatoes. Yes, a trickle of gravy ran down the back
of my neck, and for a split second I felt my stomach tighten with anxiety and
hate; then the feeling passed. I was beyond caring. I even turned and nodded
serenely to him. Donny was sitting next to him, and both guys seemed to think
this was really funny.
Sherri and her friends quieted down as I approached them and began whispering
to one another and giggling; finally they fell silent and just watched me
coming. Sherri had a skeptical little smile on her flawless face, and once again
I felt my stomach tighten. A churning feeling deep in my belly made me hesitate.
"Well?" she asked in an annoyed and dismissive tone of voice. "What do you
want?" There was an imperious coolness to her, the coolness of a queen in the
presence of a lowly commoner, and my guts really began to boil. Could I do this?
Then the churning subsided, and I reminded myself that whatever happened in the
next minute or so, I would be finally free.
"Are you aware," said Gloria, one of her snotty little cheerleader friends,
"that you have a serving of mashed potatoes and gravy on the back of your head?"
This broke them all up, including Sherri. My stomach jumped and gurgled, and
I took a deep breath to calm myself while they laughed.
It's okay, I thought, it's okay.
I took a deep breath.
"Sh-sh-shesh-sh..." No, dammit, try again. Come on, I thought to myself, you
can do it! "Sh-sh-sh-sherri, I..." I swallowed hard. "I l-l-luh... l-l-l..."
She was staring at me like I was a lunatic or something. They all were. I
cursed myself. Stop stuttering and say it, you fucking clown!
I took one last breath, exhaled, swallowed hard...
...and said, "I love you."
And then there was an explosion in my bowels, and something foul and wet
burst in a fluid stream from my asshole, filling my underwear.
Oh, no... No, no, no.
Oh, God, no.
I backed away in horror. What in God's name was happening to me? There was
another convulsive, gut-wrenching rumble somewhere deep inside me, and a second
wave of sludge-like shit erupted from my anus. Shit was running freely down my
legs, and as Sherri, my fantasy angel, and her five girlfriends gaped in disgust
at the smell, I turned and ran, leaving a trail of brown slime on the cafeteria
floor.
Donny had sold me a bottle of laxatives.
Twisted Sex Dreams
My parents pulled me from high school without ever really understanding what
had happened, and hired me a tutor. They were obscenely well-off, after all, and
although Dinkendorff Academy was a prestigious resume-builder they were willing
to accommodate me in the end. To accept that I was, and always would be, a
loner.
Now I began living completely in my head, rarely venturing from the house,
daydreaming and fantasizing as never before. It was pretty unhealthy. At times
my fantasies were the sort I had indulged in before "the thing," as I referred
to my last two days in high school: I was back, adored by the Class of '86, with
Sherri in my arms... I had discovered by this time, however, that to have
intercourse with someone you didn't simply bury your face between her tits and
masturbate. You had to put your penis into her vagina. And this altered my
fantasies somewhat, because now, whenever I started thinking about tearing
Sherri's shirt off and sucking her engorged nipples, I irresistibly began
thinking of lifting up her skirt, putting my fingers into her silky wetness...
and unbuckling my pants... and then...
...and then my thoughts got a little strange.
Sometimes, in these fantasies, I dropped my pants to find my legs and ass
slick with feces, and my shit wound up getting smeared all over both of us as we
slid stickily together.
In another version Sherri began laughing the moment she saw my two-inch
boner. Then her cheerleader friends showed up with a cafeteria tray full of
mashed potatoes and gravy, handfuls of which they proceeded to fling at my face
and chest while I tried frantically to rub my penis to greater length. By the
time I reached orgasm I was thoroughly coated with food -- the laughing stock of
the whole cheerleading squad as I stood there, dripping with slime, tugging on
my pathetic dingaling.
There was one in particular which left me feeling weak with self-disgust. In
it, Sherri's helpless giggling at the sight of my diminutive pecker was suddenly
joined by a harsh, braying laugh: yes, my old buddy Kip had appeared.
"Back off, Bitch-Tits," he'd sneer. "Let a real stud show you how it's done."
I would kneel there and watch, breathless with excitement, my pint-size
erection firmly gripped between thumb and forefinger, as Kip and Sherri stripped
in front of me and then pressed their flawless bodies together, French-kissing
and fondling each other's asses and tits before my eyes... Sherri, my angel,
fonding Kip's pendulous balls and massive penis with both hands while he licked
her cone-shaped nipples...
Strangely, all these deviant fantasies worked just fine, and I was able to
cum no matter what sick thoughts were running through my head, though afterwards
I was deeply ashamed of myself.
The most outlandish of all was a recurring wet dream. Each time it was more
or less the same: I found myself back in the locker-room at high school, face to
face with a crowd of queerly expressionless classmates. Without the least
embarrassment I stripped my clothes off for them, and found that I didn't have a
dick down there at all. Nope; I had a little pussy instead, just like Kip had
said I did.
Then Kip undressed, too, and walked over to me with a massive glistening
hard-on. He positioned his magnificent body behind my weak pasty one and put his
big hands on my hips; I parted my thighs just a little, and he slid his big
proud boner between them until it jutted out in front of me as if it were my
own. As he rubbed it gently back and forth under my cunt the class chanted its
approval ("Go! Go! Go!"), and I woke up from these dreams with a sticky spot on
the sheets every time.
Dr. Van Horne
Within my first few months out of Dinkendorff I stuck my finger in an
electrical outlet and wound up with a facial tic that lasted a week. My parents
finally hired a therapist: Dr. Van Horne.
It was Dr. Van Horne who really dragged me back from the edge. A bearded
giant of a man with a commanding presence, Dr. Van Horne had no time for what he
frankly called "bullshit," and spent the first hour of our third two-hour
session screaming and cursing at me, pounding on his desk, until I broke down
and confessed, trembling with fear, what had really happened to me in high
school. Then he gave me the sympathy I had so desperately craved, and I spent
the next hour weeping uncontrollably. This was his style - "hot and cold," he
called it, and it worked for me.
Ultimately I confessed everything to him. He was honestly fascinated by each
of my perverse little psychodramas. He even convinced me to record them all, in
detail, in a personal diary, which I did: a little black book, kept under lock
and key in a security box under my bed.
He really cared.
My parents were only too happy to let him deal with me. Dr. Van Horne
recommended to them that I be allowed the space and time to figure things out on
my own, and they supported me full time after I completed my high school
studies. College was the furthest thing from my mind; instead I devoted myself
to some good old-fashioned head-shrinking at the hands of Dr. Van Horne.
He devised a "Self-Actualization Regimen" for me. With Dr. Van Horne's help I
learned some simple meditation techniques, so that when something triggered a
spasm of masochistic lust I could close my eyes, "breathe through" it, and let
it fade. I visualized "making peace" with Kip and Sherri, telling them how I
felt about what they had done to me, and accepting their apologies. I did dream
therapy.
And I masturbated exclusively to the pages of Gallery and other magazines
which were certain to feature only female models - I definitely didn't need to
dwell on the standard porn couple: some smooth-bodied muscleboy with a nine-inch
schlong whooping it up with a supple young vixen... the girl bouncing happily on
her lover's glistening pole... two gorgeous, golden fuck-hungry teens, driving
each into a frenzied lather of sexual ecstasy...
No, I stayed away from that. I never even -
I beg your pardon?
You're what?
Waiting for the "good parts?"
Oh, right. Ha ha. I know what you mean. The "good parts" - the parts where I
suffer, right? The parts where Myron "Dingaling" Lipshitz is betrayed, stepped
on, laughed at... humiliated... shattered... reduced to a quivering pile of
useless jelly by beautiful yet sadistic sex-freaks once again.
Well, don't worry; you'll get what you want, and then some. You'll see me
suffer, all right. You'll see me experience humiliations you never thought
possible. But in order to really appreciate all this, you need to know how close
I came to happiness.
Tastee-Kreme Putz
In 1993, my parents died.
I was 25 years old when the car they were driving crashed through a guard
rail and sent both of them plummeting to their deaths. I didn't feel much, to
tell you the truth. We had never been very close. The major change was that I
was suddenly the principle stockholder of a multi-million-dollar corporation,
Tastee-Kreme Inc, and several smaller ones. I owned the house I had grown up in,
and a yacht, and a condominium in California. My parents had also set up a trust
fund for me, according to the terms of which I would receive $10,000 per month
to spend as I wished.
I found myself sitting on a fortune.
And yet I didn't have the desire... hell, let's just say it: the balls... to
do anything with it.
Oh, I ate out at fancy restaurants sometimes; I bought expensive clothes.
Once I even went on a trip to Belize, but I pretty much stayed in my hotel room
and read, and wondered back in New York why I had bothered. I spent my time
lying in the house with the shades drawn, reading each new issue of Archie
comics, snacking on jelly doughnuts and banana cream pies, and listening to
Barry Manilow.
Hell, I knew what other people did with this kind of money - after all, I
watched MTV now and then: people with my kind of money traveled to exotic places
and went to fabulous parties.
But they did these things with their lovers.
Their husbands and wives.
People they actually... fucked.
Dream Girl: Young, Desperate, and Stupid
In 1997, I had been seeing Dr. Van Horne at least once a month, sometimes as
much as once a week, for twelve years. And by this time I had exorcised the most
extreme of my masochistic fantasies. I occasionally indulged in the guilty
pleasure of the cheerleading-squad-armed-with-mashed-potatoes fantasy, as it
seemed the most innocuous one of all, and once in a blue moon I woke up gasping
from the dream in which Kip slid his oversized slab of cockmeat between my
legs...
But these slip-ups were rare.
We both knew, however, that I was still a fragile human being, still broken
inside.
"Myron," he said one day, "you've come a long way, and I'm proud of you. When
I first met you, you were teetering daily on the edge of suicide, tormented
every moment by the memory of your humiliation at the hands of your
classmates... Wallowing in it. Now, 13 years later, you're a successful American
male with a largely normalized psychosexual substrate. Yes, you're almost
whole...
"...almost. The problem is that you've gone as far as you can on your own.
You need a woman, Myron."
I smiled weakly.
"How does that make you feel? I've been urging you for a few years now to
find yourself a woman. And yet you've done nothing. You're so close, Myron! We
both know what holds you back."
"Yes, Doctor."
"Say it, Myron. Name this huge problem of yours."
"My... my penis."
"Your penis!" he thundered at me. "Little penis, 'micropenis...' So what? A
lump of flesh the size of a sparrow's egg is standing between you and paradise!
It's ridiculous. There are lesbians in this world who have very satisfying sex
lives. They don't need a penis!"
I hung my head. "I know, Doctor."
"There's cunnilingus! Sexual prosthetics!"
"...yes, Doctor..."
He stared at me angrily, shaking his head. "Myron, I've been looking into
this matter recently. Reading books by and for men like you. Were you aware that
there are several excellent websites devoted to this exact problem?"
"There... there are?"
"Yes! As I told you countless times already, you whining simpleton, you
aren't the only human being in the world with this condition. One man in
particular impressed me as a real problem-solver. This man suggested combing
through the personals looking for a woman with three specific traits. Do you
want to know what they are?"
"Yes!"
"The ideal woman for a man like himself, a man with a micropenis, is young...
desperate... and stupid."
I was dumbfounded. This didn't sound like true love to me.
"What?!"
"Exactly, Myron. The inexperience of a young woman, especially a virgin,
would render irrelevant the size of his penis. She would have no reference point
for penis size, you see. And women placing personal ads always include their
age."
"Interesting, but..."
"And she needed to be desperate. Financially desperate. Money is a powerful
lure, and a still more powerful means by which a woman can be kept faithful and
obedient. Many desperate women will specifically ask, in their ads, for a
financially stable man."
"Hm..."
"And finally, we are looking for stupidity. A stupid woman - or, to use a
less pejorative term, an uninquisitive one, preferably one with only a high
school education and limited literacy - would be easier to shield from the
outside world, and would thus be unlikely ever to find out that there were
bigger men out there, or that society deems such men more desirable than ones
like yourself. Also, she would be easier to dominate. Of course, you can't judge
a woman's intelligence by reading an ad. But you can get a pretty good idea
within ten minutes."
"Incredible, Doctor. But it sounds so... so..."
"So mercenary?"
"Well, yes. I mean, it's not... not love."
"Love!" He wrinkled his mouth up in disgust. "Like the love you had for
Sherri Lyons?"
I winced.
"Don't be a romantic fool, Myron. Love made you an easy target in your youth.
Now, you need to be the marksman. You need a woman, just as all men need a
woman. And to get her, you need to accept that archetype, that part of your
heritage as a man, which we call the Hunter. You must be like a powerful animal
stalking its prey. Once you have the right woman, a weak woman, a woman who
would never dare to mock and laugh at you as Sherri Lyons did... Once you have
finally tasted the joys of a normal sex-life... Then, Myron, you can worry about
love."
"Gosh. But... Do you really think it's that simple?"
"Certainly. This man found his ideal mate within a week, after answering only
six ads. Check out the website, Myron. It's an e-group called 'Tiny Penis
Wives.' A ridiculous name, I know... But you'll hear many such stories there."
"This is amazing!"
"Now get out there, Myron Lipshitz! Get out there and find yourself a woman!"
Tina
Within a month, I had found her.
It took three days just to get up the nerve to look through the personals
sections of the many alternative newspapers in New York, and another two weeks
to actually set up the first appointment. By this time I had become a member of
the e-group Dr. Van Horne had mentioned to me, "Tiny Penis Wives," and was
receiving a lot of encouragement from the other members. I had also learned
that, just as Dr. Van Horne had said, there were many men like me, men who had
undergone pain and torment because of their penis size, and this feeling of
community was an incredible help to me. Some of them had wives, too, and these
women were eager to offer me advice. Without the support group I found in "Tiny
Penis Wives" I could never have gone through with it. And of course I had Dr.
Van Horne's confidence-building speeches and exercises to help me along.
I set up each date at the bar at Le Bernardin, an upscale French restaurant.
I wasn't naive: obviously, any woman meeting me here would be dressed as well as
she could dress, so I could get a pretty good idea of what kind of money she
had. It would be an easy matter to figure out, after a few drinks (I stuck with
Coca Cola), how smart she was.
Tina Anderssen was only my fourth date. Her personal ad stated that she was
eighteen years old, the youngest woman I had responded to so far. To be honest,
the idea of an eighteen-year-old made me nervous: too much like high school. But
my buddies in "Tiny Penis Wives" told me to forget about my fears and go for it.
The picture she sent was of poor quality but certainly encouraging. She
wasn't beautiful, but she was very pretty, with straight blonde hair down to her
shoulders and a nice, sweet smile. I would have to meet her at Le Bernardin to
really get a look at her.
We spoke on the phone once to set up the meeting. Her voice, the last hint I
would get as to what kind of person she was before we met "in the flesh," was
unexpected: frankly, she sounded like a twelve-year-old with a sore throat.
There was something grotesquely titillating about that voice, the hint of
smoker's rasp adding a strange touch of moral degeneracy to the high, breathy
tones of a child.
I told her about Le Bernardin and how to get there, then hung up the phone,
unable to shake a sense of unease about her.
Hell, what was I worried about?
I knew who she was the second she walked in the door. She made her way to the
bar, sat next to me, and smiled, a little out of breath, brushing wisps of hair
from her face.
"Hi, Myron!"
I was speechless.
Sitting before me was an angel. Tina had the purest milk-white skin I had
ever seen, and a delicate face, as delicate as china. The roundness of her face
was prettily set off by her little elfin chin and cheekbones, and the
Mongol-like slant of her green eyes... but her mouth added another dimension to
this already intriguing brew: lips lusciously plump, their almost obscene
redness complemented by the faint blush in her cheeks.
She had caught her breath by this time, and looked nervously at me.
"Are you all right?"
"Wh-what? Oh, yes. Yes, Tina, I'm... just fine."
I didn't notice until later that her clothes were cheap, even threadbare in
places; or that her shoes were badly scuffed.
But by then, I already knew.
Tina was The One.
We chatted for hours... I bought her four of five Kamikazes, then a Pink
Cadillac ("Don't you think that sounds like fun, Myron?"), and she chattered
happily about her life as a waitress in some pizza place on the East Side, her
retired military dad, her dream of someday owning a pizza place of her own.
It was totally inane, and it was utterly charming. Then she asked me
questions about what I did, and I talked, too, on and on. I told her all about
my collection of Archie comics and Barry Manilow albums, and about the ups and
downs of being the biggest stockholder in Tastee-Kreme: how boring the meetings
with my accountant were, but how tasty the pastries were... We were having an
actual conversation! It was pure magic; I felt like I was floating. Tina hung
onto every word, her eyes wide as I described my life.
I was hooked.
Then, out of the blue, the bartender issued a last call. It was three in the
morning! As we got to our feet she lurched into me, and I had to catch hold of
her to keep her from falling. And suddenly I, Myron Lipshitz, was holding a
woman. A beautiful woman.
A young, desperate, stupid woman.
I had an instant hardon.
"Gosh, Myron," she breathed in that girlishly smoky, smokily girlish voice of
hers, "I guess I had a little too much to drink!"
I was having a hard time letting go of her, and she didn't seem to want me
to. Incredible. I licked my lips, and in a voice thickened with lust asked her
where her car was.
"Oh, I didn't drive. I don't have a car. I walked."
"Walked?"
"Yeah, from the subway."
"My God!"
I forgot my lust in a moment. There was no way Tina Anderssen could be
allowed to endanger herself, drunk, on a New York subway at three a.m. I had a
brief vision of her being followed by shadowy figures into the stairwell...
Three hulking Negroes, holding her down...
Lifting her skirt...
Hell, no.
"Tina," I insisted, "there's no way you're riding the subway now. No, I'll
give you a ride."
"Really?" The look on her face was so innocent and trusting it made me want
to cry. "You'd do that for me?"
"Of course, Tina. I just spent seventy-nine dollars at this place just to...
to... to be with you. A little extra doesn't make any difference to me."
"Wow! Oh, Myron, you don't need to do this..."
"Let me."
As I waved goodbye to her ten minutes later I was struck by her face in the
rear windshield of the cab. She was smiling, waving back happily, and yet there
was something greedy, almost predatory about that smile...
Then I shook the sensation off. Don't be an idiot, Myron, I told myself.
She's perfect.
I had found my woman at last.
