Magnificock had the most beautiful penis I’d ever seen, and held, in my two hands. It wasn’t nice, it wasn’t cute, and it certainly wasn’t pretty. It was fucking glorious. If, like me, you’ve ever questioned the existence of the Divine, may said Divinity grant you the grace of but a glimpse of Magnificock’s manhood, that you too may witness the undeniable evidence of a good and benevolent higher power and silently praise its name in a fit of ecstatic awe. And though I had long since given up on religion, Yoda be my witness, the angels sang when Magniffi uncoiled the spitting serpent that betrayed the dormant bulge in his jeans but seconds before its ascent to attention. In my youth I had heard tales, from many a wise man, of the myriad strange and divergent paths to holiness or enlightenment or part of something Confucius said in passing. I just had no idea that one blessed day I too would find my way, and that mine would be a road paved with cock – or, specifically, a single, four-lane superhighway of veiny perfection, that, when sprung to life, pointed straight at me. I imagined my own personal concierge materializing from thin air to announce, in a British accent, “Sir, your cock has arrived.”
Magniff’s boy parts emerged from a patch of neatly trimmed wilderness, mere inches from an inny belly button emblazoned upon his abdomen like a permanent sun over a picturesque Serengeti Plain. Cupped in the warmth of my perspiring palms, his baby makers hung low, two throbbing, life-giving orbs planted far below the surface, an ever ready source of warm fertility, primed to unleash a gushing torrent to flood the land in spurts of renewal in the endless circle of life.
High above, extending so far as the eye could behold, Magnificock’s shaft of bounty soared from hilt to engorged tip like a merciful beacon of hope flung far that it may give solace to some thirsty wanderer drowning in a sea of mediocrity. “Was this”, I thought, “what the Almighty had in mind when he fashioned mushrooms? Had Dionysus taken Eros by the hand and traveled forward in time for inspiration, stumbling upon my Magniff and carrying news of salvation to the peoples of old so inconceivable that they’d been discarded as mere myth and unlikely fairy tale?”
No matter, for I knew the truth, and the truth presently stared me in the face as I, the humble servant, knelt to worship in the light of its glory. My lips parted. A gush of cool air whipped through the cavern of my watering mouth and, for the first time in a long, long time, I felt alive again. So close I could taste salt, I drew Magnificock’s member close as instinct tilted my torso forward. I looked up to give him one last coy wink before taking the plunge. He seemed so far away. I closed my eyes, and then…
Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. First, we went on a hike.
I was still smarting from the Great Macaroon Debacle of My Early 30’s, an event so traumatic yet integral to the epic story of me that I planned to compose an opera entitled The Great Macaroon Debacle of My Early 30’s as soon as I figured out what all those funny looking symbols meant on a music sheet thingie. I had yet to fathom how I could express the level of humiliation I’d felt as I slipped out of Magnificock’s apartment with my blue balls rolled in the tail tucked between my legs in seven acts of musical perfection that would touch the hearts and minds of the masses and make grown men weep as empathy and shame overwhelmed them. Luckily, Kristin Chenoweth had been too busy to respond to my query letter, and until I found a suitable replacement to accompany me in the stirring act three duet, I had time to entertain Magniff’s request for another outing. Mandy Patinkin was briefly considered for the part of Macaroon, but that idea was scrapped after my people pointed out that he wasn’t French.
Magnificock, or “Slippery Tease” as I’d started calling him, summoned me once again to his quaint abode, this time in the light of day. Ever the masochist, I stopped by the bakery where we had our first date on the way over to his house, because he said he loved mint tea, and I knew they had the best stuff in the city.
When I arrived at Magniff’s, I parked confidently on his exclusive Beverly Hills-adjacent street, careful to place the parking pass he’d entrusted to my care in my rearview mirror, lest an overzealous parking enforcement officer tempt me to unleash my undersexed wrath on an otherwise picturesque Sunday morning. I clutched two large scalding mint teas in paper cups overflowing with hot liquid and made my way to his second story apartment, and then attempted to ring his doorbell with my foot while tempting death by leaning against the low railing overlooking the concrete lawn below, because it would make me look more casual when he opened the door to greet me.
Magniff opened the door, smiled, kissed me, thanked me for his drink and took a sip.
“What’s this?” he said.
“It’s mint tea, silly. It’s your favorite.”
“Oh.”
“Fuck you and your “Oh”! What the fuck do you have to “Oh“ on about this time, you insipid fucking fuck?!” screamed my inner monologue, back from a brief self imposed exile it took after claiming that I didn’t listen to it anymore.
“This is tea. I meant that I like fresh mint leaves and hot water. But this is nice, thank you.”
My mind was racing. Do I fuck him and then kill him, or do I kill him first and then take up necrophilia? Either way, a judge would understand. I could see the headlines now: “Black Widower Strikes Again”; “Foreign Born Homo Cannibalizes Local Yuppie”; “He Was Always a Little Off Say Friends, Former Fuck Buddies, Despondent Immigrant Mother, Riddled With Guilt”.
He let his perfectly good tea steep too long to be drinkable, and then we departed for an out of the way canyon in Malibu that offered more romance than the popular hiking trail I’d have chosen, which was about twenty miles closer and where we were more likely to step in celebrity doggie droppings than work up a cardio-induced sweat. “Oh goodie,” I thought. “If he pisses me off again I can push him down a ravine with no witnesses around and he’ll have to gnaw his own arm off to escape the boulder I’d make sure to place over it as an homage to unlikely future Oscar contenders. But with my luck the fucker would survive and get a book deal out of the ordeal, so I’d just have to aim to kill rather than harmlessly maim and therefore inadvertently reinforce the racial stereotypes already plaguing my people. I began to perspire just thinking about the infinite socio-political ramifications of my fourth date with the man teetering on the edge of from my dreams and into my nightmares, and opted to just suffer through the afternoon without preplanning. Besides, he’d asked me out this time so he should be the one doing all the damn work for a change. That, and murder in the second degree has a je-ne-sais-quoi-mais-je-ne-suis-un-total-psychopath-I-was-just-living-in-the-moment to it.
We decided to take his car, so I’d be less tempted to assassinate him. I was exhausted and I had to work later that evening, so the last thing I wanted to contend with was the disposal of his vehicle after spending hours hiding the body and then being forced to take the bus home in Los Angeles on a Sunday (shudder).
On the never-ending drive to the last place Magnificock, aka Slippery Tease, would potentially draw breath before I went on a marathon run from the long arm of the law and had to assume a less fabulous identity, we talked about relationships. I sipped my delicious tea while he went thirsty, and we discussed, with casually faked bravado, our indifference to commitment while stating our mutual willingness to go with the flow and accept whatever life sent our way. I nodded and smiled at everything he said while a panic seized my first and second chakras that this was his way of saying he’d never let me touch it before our wedding day. Had a blind man been stuffed in the back seat against his will and forced to listen in on our vapid conversation, I’m sure he’d have testified that we were a pair of the most unimaginative Buddhist monks he’d ever encountered, so boring that death by snuff film would have been more merciful than enduring another minute of our artificial sense of Zen, borne of cliché and fortune cookie philosophy.
And had our hypothetical kidnapping victim then asked me, between pleas for sweet freedom, if I actually meant any of the drivel emanating from my lips that day, I’d have confessed that I was the biggest liar I’d ever met. Of course I wasn’t detached. The last fucking thing I had any interest in doing was going with the flow. Cattle go with the flow, and by the time they realize they should have stopped to ask where they were being led they discover that a) they can’t speak English, and b) they’re about to become filet mignon. Poop goes with the flow, though I’m not about to speculate what it may or may not think as it swirls the bowl, post-flush on the way to discarded fiber oblivion. And rather than reach for another horrifying metaphor, let’s just say that easy-going is not the way I’d describe myself in the initial weeks (or months, or years) of a relationship. If I survive the purgatory that is third datedom, I want a calendar, a ring, and a honeymoon in the Hamptons, a place I’ve never been to and will not visit unless I’m offered a honeymoon suite with a sling overlooking the bay.
Shrinky would quickly point out that my incessant need for instant commitment stems from some form of childhood abandonment as a result of being born an androgynous bolt of fierce freshness into a large family that clung to conformity and therefore infused my psyche with a deep-rooted toxic shame, complicated by a cultural backdrop that frowned upon pre-marital exploration of the primal urges naturally exercised by and encouraged in the typical American teenager. Also, my mother was to blame for something. I know, I was confused too til he explained that was just his fancy way of saying that I liked pee-pee and my parents had no idea what to do with me, even if my eventual coming out was the “duh” heard round the Bible Belt.
When the first guy I dated in LA called me clingy, I cried at both the injustice of his accusation and the irony he was too dumb to appreciate when I realized that he gave me crabs. All the same, I’ve always remembered the ugliness, the hatred in his voice when he said he didn’t want to see me anymore because I was needy, and I’ve done everything I can since to appear independent and confident, regardless of what I actually felt or how the douchebags I dated behaved. And I’d be damned if Magnificock, my best shot yet, and probably my last, at finding my soul mate or being half of a perfect alpha gay couple – whichever came first - was going to see through my carefully crafted coping force field before I got to see him naked.
The more detached Magnificock acted, the more I wanted him, and the harder I had to work to conceal my desire…or need…or desperate, desperate, sad desperation for his unconditional affection. I was thirty-one, Goddamn it, and I had yet to experience the depraved codependent misery of a long term relationship that often masquerades as true love and ends in divorce and self help books. Here I was, on the very cusp of starring in my very own Lifetime movie of the week without Judith Light or ugly sweaters and a homicide, and come Hell or Hell-plus, I was going to repress whatever emotions I had to and domesticate successfully.
Besides, as Magnificock made it perfectly clear during our second date, he refused to actually do me until he was completely in love with me, and my right hand was starting to get vertigo from an almost solid month of non-stop exertion. My left wrist had long since ceased to function; my poor fingers refused to hold my down there so much as to pee anymore. Something had to be done, and right now, that something was climbing a mountain, or “canyon” as Californian weekend warriors like to call it to justify brunch.
Up we went, and then down, and then up again and around a few rock formations that may or may not have been rattlesnake nests that I couldn’t be bothered with because I was too busy trying not to get slapped in the face by the twigs over which even more rattlesnakes might be draped, waiting to eat my head or whatever small rodent happened to scamper by. It was getting to be the middle of July, and even though we were close enough to the beach for it to have made a difference, it was hotter than balls, and between the panting and the sweating, the last thing I looked like anymore was a sex-worthy vixen. He took me up there on purpose to make me ugly and if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up so hideously rugged that I wouldn’t even wanna have sex with me.
I took a breath. “It’s this game, is it?” I said to myself, pausing on the trail for dramatic effect though he ruined my moment by running into me.
“What’s wrong?”
“You are a sly one, Slippery Cock, I’ll give you that,” I thought, smiling through my misery and channeling my inner yogi, for I would save my shallow panting for worthier moments than this. Now was the time for Breath of Fire, or Dragon, or Lion, or whatever they make you do between Down Dog (when your ass is actually sky high in the air) and Happy Baby (which, if you’ve ever seen it, should be called Happy Boyfriend).
“Slow down your breath, numb nuts, or you’ll lose his heart and his desire for your body forever!” Inner Monologue was back with a vengeance. He was pissed, he was horny, and he wasn’t taking any prisoners.
I moved gracefully, like a gazelle, through a path of dead trees that had shriveled up on each other to create the only patch of shade for miles, then up a steep drop to a clearing where I could hear the ocean waves crash on the rocks below. When I took that last step overlooking the water, I knew that Magniff loved me. Why else would he have brought me to this isolated spot in the middle of nowhere with spectacular views where no one could hear you scream. This was his way of telling me that he liked to screw outdoors and that he wanted our first time to be someplace we’d both remember forever, no matter how senile he’d get in his old age.
I took it all in, and, at that moment, he was to me the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on, regardless of the size of his penis, which remained a mystery, though I was about to uncover its secrets. I stood by him, on a patch of dirt that put me at his eye level and close enough to kiss him without straining my neck. I smiled, and he smiled back. I closed my eyes.
“Kiss me”, I thought.
“Ready to go?” he replied.
It took us an hour to make our way down the mountain, because Slippery Tease had no idea where the fuck he was going and he didn’t want to ask any of the weary hikers we passed for directions. He insisted that we find the waterfall that was half the reason he wanted to bring me to this hiking trail from Hell in the first place, which turned out to be a dry wall of dirt because California, like my sex life, was in the middle of a drought.
We finally made it back to his car, and I learned that if you ever decide to go up a mountain on a Sunday morning for fun, in the middle of summer, during a drought, you should follow a path that drops you off at the same spot you started (re: 9-1-1, airlift, tears), and that you shouldn’t confuse fun with abject stupidity.
We had brunch, because I was hungry and he clearly wasn’t going to let me eat him. Not anytime soon, anyway, and certainly not long enough to feel satiated before I had to make my way back to the restaurant to serve the early birds and young families with their adorable screaming children their Sunday night dinner. I inhaled a tasteless omelet at a modest little eatery off some upscale farmer’s market where you had to go through the tiny kitchen to get to the bathroom, while he devoured something that wasn’t my body. I tried in vain to make meaningful conversation, though in my own head every sentence I uttered sounded like “why won’t you take me, you cold, adorable bastard?”
We drove back to his apartment. I needed to pee. I needed Listerine. I needed the loving of a good man. I’d have to settle for the first two, and hold out hope for the last before I turned forty. Once inside, I flushed, washed my paws, and prepared for the hug goodbye that signaled that we would be friends, until we both got tired of pretending we were adult or emotionally vacant enough to make that laughable transition and drop off one another’s speed dials, relegated to an ever-growing morass of Facebook acquaintances camouflaging a wasteland of ex-lovers and broken dreams.
I steadied myself. I had one hour to get dumped, compose myself, get home, cry in the shower like Glenn Close, shave, manscape, and get to work. I walked out of the bathroom and made my way around his homely couch to the front door. I turned to face him as he approached from the kitchen with a cold glass of water.
“You thirsty?”
I took a sip, wondering if the blood coursing through his veins might be as chilly as the freshly drawn refreshment he offered me.
And then Magnificock kissed me. He kissed me hard, and I felt his tongue work its way into my previously parched throat. I was shocked, though this may have registered as a soft purr before I returned the favor and attacked him with my own tongue in a game of inter-orifice one-up. When he reached into my pants, I pictured doves flying in slow motion like you’d imagine in bad porn reenactments of even worse John Woo movies. I returned the favor and, for the first time while awake, I touched Magnificock’s Magnificock.
“Slippery Tease no more!” bellowed Inner Monologue. “Throw him to the ground and mount him like an Arabian steed in reverse, before he comes to his senses.”
“How much time do you have?” asked the love of my life, his blessed manhood in my hand under his still fastened hiking shorts.
“Maybe thirty minutes?” I offered. Now that I didn’t have to cry in the shower, I could be ready in five minutes flat to serve the masses in their sippy cup depravity.
But Magnificock declined to quicken our love. He kissed me, releasing the bulge under my shorts as I reluctantly relinquished the death grip with which I’d seized his. I wanted to at least see it. I tried to sneak a quick peek before he tightened his belt and banished his erection with talk of dinner later in the week. But as big as it was, the monster escaped me.
I was dizzy. Everything was happening so fast. For a moment, I didn't know where or who I was, but I knew that I was horny and unsatisfied and longing to be in France because at least there you could tell your boss you were late for work because you were having sex and end up getting a promotion if it was good.
"Are you okay?" asked Magniffi.
"Penis", I almost responded.
We made plans for our next date…
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