Surprise (15 page)

He laughed and the wind rushing by howled with him.

The night wind was still blowing over him through the open window as he pulled off the highway. It had been a good evening after all—not spectacular, but good.

At home he showered for twenty minutes, trying to wash off the smell of her and her sweetly cloying cologne. He had to lather himself three times. His skin felt frozen from the cold water, but the heat below rushed upward to counter it. Between the hot and the cold, he felt alive.

In the kitchen he cleaned out the coffee pot and put six cups on to brew. He was wide awake, and meant to stay that way. He felt real again.

The clock on the mantle read 2:13
AM
. Its ticking had not yet begun to thunder.

 

 

 

 

Zombies make the best lovers 'cause they are already moaning. Making those sexy moans and groans, as they slowly saunter toward me, making me wait and want. Talking about my brains, finally nice for someone to notice my intelligence.

Zombies make the best lovers 'cause they have removable body parts, which so increases the amount of positions and sexual possibilities. They have a detachable penis you can still use long after they are gone.

Zombies make the best lovers 'cause they roughly nibble and bite, and they are just so ravenous. Zombies really know how to take a woman whole.

 

 

 

 

flash fiction

 

 

 

 

I wish I could send Arnold Schwarzenegger back in time. I need a terminator programmed to wipe out Dr. Susan Brown's parents before they mate.

She invented the detachable penis. Turned the world on its head. Her research led to an outpatient procedure. They slice off your dick, jam in a bluetooth device, and thread it like a light bulb. You go home carrying your bandaged penis and testicles in a sack. Your groin is blessed with a
suitable socket for reattachment
.

Thanks to Jaap and Sven inventing bluetooth, there is a wireless connection between you and your penis, as long as the two of you are within the continental United States.

Once created, mayhem ensued. Designers created plush, jeweled, penis totes. Tennis bracelets, Ferraris, Manolo pumps and the like fell out of vogue. Some women wouldn't leave home, refusing to be seen in public without their man's, some man's, any man's dick hanging from their arm.

The new status symbol? The amount and size of penis totes varied. The smaller the tote, the more bling it needed. Big totes with big bling sat at the top of the food chain.

I think it gave women one more reason to congregate in the ladies room. I know what they're saying. “Girlfriend. You think this sealskin tote is nice? Girl, let me open it and show you the dick! Check out what I'm getting!”

Women with headaches the night before felt fine when hubby left for work. Home alone with a warm, responsive male organ, housewives lost track of time. Floors went unmopped, carpets weren't vacuumed, laundry wasn't done. As they picked up the slack, husbands became physically fit, losing pounds and inches as six-packs formed. Women's upper arms tightened up. The number of sleeveless blouses sold skyrocketed, as hide-the-weenie became the nation's several times daily pastime.

Women's magazines lost their collective minds. At least the ones that dominated supermarket checkout stands went stupid. Covers featured celebrities fawning over their over-sized open totes. They featured articles such as, “What Do You Do If He Won't Give
It
Up?” “Make Your Man Want to Free His Penis” and “What To Do When He Does.” “Sex—Live Penis, No Distractions.”

At first, my beautiful wife Carolyn mentioned the new procedure all the time. Then she tried enticing me, telling me about the fun her girlfriends were having. It soon shifted to
I
should have it done. Don't I love her? Don't I want her to be happy?

She said her girlfriend's husbands and boyfriends trusted them enough to man up. Why didn't I trust her enough to let my penis go?

I felt like pharaoh standing before God, Moses, and a burning bush. I held my ground. It would take more than a few bugs and a couple of plagues to take my dick away.

I'd die for her. I'd leap in front of a speeding bullet. But God saw fit to endow me with this properly sized, very obedient penis. It's mine, but I'm not stingy. I give it to Carolyn every chance I get. We do it so much I'm surprised my penis still has any skin.

A few years ago, I let her talk me into getting it tattooed. Said she'd make it worth my while. I knew she wouldn't let another woman handle my penis, so I told her I'd love to do it but no way is any dude fondling my dick.

Carolyn grinned and produced a hag so old, her ability to manufacture any type of vaginal juice faded just after the dinosaurs died. She smelled like an Egyptian exhibit.

Never again!

Nothing sharp is ever going near my penis again.

That old woman hurt me bad.

My penis half swelled up. The tattoo was just on one side. My poor defenseless dick curled up like a blunt fishhook.

And then came the
scabs!

Nobody told me my dick was going to grow scabs! Why don't people with tattoos ever mention scabs?

Scabs and dicks are not a good mix. Especially if you have a randy wife. She suggested I cover it with a condom so we could do it.

I didn't want to, but I went along so that we'd get along.

That wasn't very smart.

Sight of naked wife increases heart rate. Blood pumped into penis causes swelling. Skin attached to scabs tries to stretch, but God did not design scabs with dicks in mind. Scabs don't stretch.

Condom, ribbed, squeezes already unhappy scabs on now semi-fishhook shaped penis. Add a woman that kegels religiously. You'll get a trip to emergency and serious pain meds every time.

I was supposed to go back and get the other side tattooed.

 

I think Carolyn studied General Sun Tzu's book,
Art of War
. She never fought fair.

She argued naked.

For serious matters she'd put on heels and stockings supported by a garter belt.

While she wiggled out of her clothes preparing to battle, I'd ask myself, “What can I say to this naked woman that won't infringe on my principles, yet gets me laid?” That soon changed to, “What can I say that'll insure I get laid?”

The first time she unveiled her shady tactics was the day after our honeymoon. I'd given her a red Miata convertible as a wedding gift. I came home from work to see a brand new silver Porsche Carrera in the driveway. Carolyn, my sweet li'l housewife, traded in my gift. It was her car to do with as she pleased, but now I had Porsche Carrera notes to pay every month for the next six years.

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.