Stories
Johnny got his gun
17.0 penis wisdom
I woke up one Saturday morning at 5:30am because I hadn’t set my alarm. I’d slept in past my usual 4:30am rise and shine. Because it was summer, I was sleeping without any blankets, sheets, or clothes. I was too cheap to turn on the air conditioner. The Arizona sunlight was already streaking into the bedroom through the blinds and the open windows.
“Hey Johnny,” prompted a little voice.
I looked down, and my penis was standing straight up, his arms akimbo. A beam of sunshine was right on him like a spotlight. I thought he was even cuter than Gumby. “Good morning little fella! You need a piss or just a little extra soaping in the shower? Or maybe we should give you an extra special treat today? Like some pussy or even some fart box?”
“I could use a piss, but before I deflate, we need to talk. And no, for gods’ sake I don’t want any mistreatment. Can’t you just go one day without abusing me? No! I don’t want to be jerked around. No! I don’t want to go spelunking in some girl. Don’t you get it? I’m tired of being treated like this. When will you finally do something for me?”
Was I dreaming? I slapped myself a few times to make certain I was awake, and when I looked down again, he was still standing there in the spotlight, arms akimbo, waiting for an answer. It wasn’t a dream.
“Well?” he insisted. “When do you do something for me?”
“What the hell do you mean, little guy?” I shot back. “I’m always putting your needs first. In the last 20 years you’ve been in the wet and warm on a regular basis, and when there weren’t any women around, I was always rubbing you down with lotion, soap, or oil. It’s like I’m the one who should be complaining because in this relationship it’s always been about you, your needs, and your happiness.”
“I’ve never heard anything so damned absurd in my life! All I am to you is a tool to be used for YOUR pleasure. Sometimes I feel like I’m nothing but a dagger you use to stab women over and over again. The way you thrust your hips makes me think you’re trying to kill them. No. This isn’t about me Johnny. This is about YOU and YOUR selfishness.”
“But, but… …I don’t get it…”
“Johnny, look. You’ve heard the old saying ‘thinking with the little head.’ That’s what you’ve been doing for a long time. I’ve had to take up the slack by using our brains.”
“You’ve been thinking with the big head?”
“You can say that. And I also feel from the heart. I know it all sounds absurd because I’m the penis, but I really am the kinder, gentler side of us. On many occasions, I’ve stood up and didn’t let you down because I thought YOU wanted sex. For me, I always found satisfaction in romantic strolls on the beach, holding hands, sharing silly giggles, a good meal or a movie. You always wanted something more physical.”
“You mean all this time you’ve been helping me fuck girls because you wanted me to be happy?”
“Yes Johnny, I love you and I want you to be happy.”
“Oh god! And I was doing it because I thought it would make you happy.”
We just looked at each other. Him standing there in the morning sunshine. Me with my head propped forward on the pillow.
“Oh, ok. Sometimes I had fun too…” admitted my penis.
“Me too,” I likewise confessed. “We’ve been through a lot, good times and bad.”
“We’ve been in a lot too! Good and bad!” he added, and at that we laughed out loud together. Sometimes we had issues, and sometimes we fought, but we always worked things out, and in the end we were always the best of friends again.
I stopped laughing when a terrible memory came to me.
“What’s wrong?” asked my penis. He could sense something was on my mind.
“I have to apologize to you about that fat girl Tim and his wife set us up with that one night. I just did it because I wanted to prove I could. I didn’t even consider your feelings, but you still went through it with me.”
“I forgive you Johnny. I still remember getting on top of her. She was so big it was like we needed a ladder to mount, and when we were up there, I felt we were really high up and might slip and fall to our deaths. Not only that, I could hardly stand without falling down after what must have been the dozen well drinks we had.”
“I know, I know… I am so sorry.”
“And the nerve of her! ‘Don’t cum in me, please don’t cum in me!’ she kept saying.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I forgive you Johnny,” he winked. “And besides, as far as lays go, it wasn’t so bad.”
“How so?”
“She had a tight pussy. Fat girls seem to be tighter somehow. Maybe it’s because all that extra mass creates more internal pressure on the vaginal walls.”
“You have a point there. Whenever we’ve been with really skinny girls, it seems it’s a lot easier to get in there and slide around. The ones with a bit of meat on their bones are a bit harder to penetrate.”
“Don’t ask me to help you test this hypothesis. We’ve had a lot of good times, I admit, but I’m ready to move on to more meaningful things. I think you are too.”
“Like what?”
“Well for starters, remember how we promised to ‘See the Pyramids by May 2002?’ You even wrote it down in your 2001 planner as ‘My Big Goal for 2002.’”
“I know, but the World Trade Center was hit by Muslim Terrorists. Egypt was dangerous. And look at all the places we’ve already been! All over Europe, South America, Canada, Indonesia. We’ve been to the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower, the Coliseum, the Acropolis, the Whispering Wall…”
“I know. I’m thankful for all the places you’ve taken me, but we haven’t finished yet. We can make excuses all we want. You know it and I know it. I still want to see the Pyramids, the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall, to name a few. You do too. It’s time we get back out there and start seeing the world again.”
He had a point. I’d been promising us we’d see the entire world before we went to the grave, and lately we’d been sidetracked in so many ways. Lethargy, booze, women, and a loss of hope. A terrible loss of our old sense of adventure had seized us and stopped us in our tracks. He was right.
“Ok little buddy, before the day is over, I’ll buy us a ticket to China.”
“I’m so excited!”
“Me too!”
“Thanks for doing this for me.”
“I’m doing it for us.”
“And Johnny?”
“Yes?”
“I’m proud of you for writing again. I know I don’t praise you enough. It’s just that I want us to be happy. That’s why I nag. A long time ago we agreed that you’d write 101 books before we were 90, and that we’d see the entire world. I don’t want to even imagine not living our dreams to the fullest.”
“We’re not going to waste another day!”
“Good! Now we’re talking. And now I’m in the mood again.”
“Really?”
“Sure am.”
“You want it with soap in the shower or with lotion or oil?”
Johnny got his gun
16.0 road trip
I haven’t been telling you the straight story. That’s one of the reasons I jump around in time. Nothing coming from my mouth is linear. An earlier chapter may have happened yesterday, and tomorrow’s chapter may have happened more than a year ago. As I may have told you before, by giving it all to you as it flashes through my head, I’m better able to find myself (to save myself?), to make personal discoveries. I know until now I’ve often been emphasizing how what I’m writing is for your benefit, but that’s not entirely true. At times it’s about me, and I’m spilling it all out as it comes so you and I can listen for clues to solving the riddle I’ve become. But hell, why shouldn’t we take turns helping each other through it? I’ll take the couch and you take the therapist’s chair, and every once in a while we’ll switch. Anyway, at the very end of all this, I’m not sure what will happen. Should I go through a mystical transformation, perhaps morph into a jackalope and hop away into the desert sagebrush? Should I decide Marcel is full of shit and finish the job I started? Should I quit work and become a full time writer, or should Stacey and I get married? And what should you choose to do?
So, I’ve told you two pretty big lies so far. One lie was overt, while the second was dishonesty via omission of facts I should have disclosed. I may or may not reveal the second lie. I haven’t yet decided. But, if you are a stickler for details, I’ve accidentally given you enough to figure out my second lie. Are you ready for my partial confession? I did sleep with Stacey. My only defense is that when I was younger I lied about things I did when I actually didn’t do them. When I was 19 and talking to the boys about last night’s date, I might say, “Yeah, I got a blow job in the car when I dropped Emily off at the sorority house. She swallowed, but she used a bit too much tooth,” even though we didn’t even kiss. But now that I’m 40, I claim I didn’t do things when I actually did do them. About last night’s date, I might tell Mic and Larry, “Naw, Polly and I didn’t even kiss last night,” when the reality was I’d stayed all night at her place and had penetrated her in no fewer than 3 places. Humility must come with age, but honesty seems to be a trait lacking in both the young and old alike. The details of my sexual encounter with Stacey are quite ordinary. One night, I got on top of her and ejaculated only a few minutes after entry. That was it. It was her birthday wish. It hurt her like hell, so I made it fast. We only did it once, and it kind of ruined our relationship. Somehow, the tenderest part of our closeness was lost forever. After that, I didn’t feel as nurtured when she came and picked me up from work on the days I needed saving. It was no longer the same when she stuffed me in her car and drove off with me. I was no longer being rescued. She started acting more like a girlfriend when what I really needed her to be was my nurse and good buddy with a listening ear, and a hearty laugh that spilled all over at the slightest prompting.
I still remember the last time Stacey and I were together. It was the only time we went anywhere other than my house, her apartment, or Rodrigo’s Burrito Hut. We went on a 4-day trip to the San Francisco Bay Area, and I drove. It was the only time I ever drove when we were together. The trip took 13 hours to get to my intended destination, an off-the-beaten-path beach near Half Moon Bay. I remember her huge smile when she came running to my car with her purple suitcase rolling behind her. She threw the suitcase in the trunk and slammed it shut, and then she and her long, naked legs jumped in and buckled up.
“Good morning!”
“Good morning.”
“I can’t believe we’re finally going somewhere, together,” she exclaimed, as she smacked red lipstick onto my cheek.
“We really will be on the beach this evening?”
“Yep.”
“I’m so excited!”
The girl was so happy, so full of vitality. I smiled with her because I was happy she was so happy, but behind my sunglasses my eyes were filling with tears. Though a world of vibrant color and joy surrounded me, the emptiness at my core stung me with a lonely chill. I couldn’t shake it, even though a pretty girl in a low cut, mini sundress and big sunglasses was at my side, a warm blue sky was overhead through the moon roof, and the fragrance of sweet, Spring pollen was in my nostrils. “Do you have allergies?” Stacey asked of my sniffles. “Only a little bit,” I lied as the tears leaked into my nose.
That evening, she was still wearing that mini sundress. We were standing on the beach with our feet sinking into the sand, watching out over the ocean as the setting sun turned the sky into an array of red and yellow pastels. A full moon was hovering right above it all and growing brighter. Stacey was tight in my arms and our cheeks were pressed together. The view lit our faces with a soft glow and the smell of saltwater and sand crept into our nostrils. The soothing roll of the tide and the far away cries of seagulls embraced our ears.
“This is so amazing,” Stacey whispered. “I feel so close to you, and to the Earth.”
“I feel the same way,” I replied, as a tear rolled down my cheek and onto hers.
“You’re crying.”
“Yes,” I whispered back.
Johnny got his gun
15.0 spinning in the dark
I lay there watching the fan spinning. All the lights were out, and she was next to me. The twirling shadows on the ceiling were moving faster and faster the more time passed. The increase in the speed of the blades’ rotation was so slight it was barely perceptible, but I could perceive it if I held my breath, didn’t blink my eyes, and didn’t move a muscle. Perhaps the increase was just 1 additional spin for each 100,000, meaning that if the previous 15 hours the fan had spun 100,000 times, it was going to spin 100,001 times the next 15 hours. Even though I’m using objective time measurement as a reference here, I’m not claiming time was or is actually going faster as time passes. Instead, my perception is of time going faster with time. Let me explain. Our perception of time is relative to how much time we have lived. Our yardstick of time is the length of our lives. Think of it this way. Whether we are 5 years old or 50 years old, 1 year is equal to 365 days. However, a 5-year-old has lived 365*5, or 1825 days, and a 50-year-old has lived 18,250 days. 1 year is equal to 20% of a 5-year-old’s lifetime, or time yardstick, and for a 50-year-old it is only 2%. So, when we are 5, it seems to take 10 times as long to get to Christmas as it does when we are 50. I’m only proposing this as a possibility. However, this hypothesis explains why the old farts are always saying the older they get, the faster time goes. Think about it. I think about it a lot. The bedsprings creaked. Stacey rolled to face me.
“Johnny?”
“Did I wake you?”
“I could tell you were awake. I could feel it. I can always feel it when you are inside your head. What’s wrong?”
It’s always been that way for me, even when I was quiet. I was just keeping to myself and pondering things, like how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, or whether god could create a rock too heavy for him to lift, or what it was like to perceive the 3rd dimension as a 2-dimensional being, and people have always assumed I had some sort of emotional problem. I needed help or needed to talk. But I was just thinking profound things. I wasn’t disturbed.
“I’m just watching the fan spin.”
“Why can’t you sleep? What are you thinking about?”
“Being and time.”
“Isn’t that a book on your bookshelf at home?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about it? What’s bothering you?”
“No, nothing, but I’ll tell you about time if you want.”
“I’d rather have a story.”
“About what?”
“About when you were little.”
‘O.k. When I was 5…”
“Will you scratch my back?” She interrupted.
“O.k.”
Stacey sat up, pulled my t-shirt off, and threw it across the room. She stretched out on her stomach with her arms folded over her head. She liked to sleep in my dirty t-shirts and nothing else.
“Go really slow and don’t miss a spot. When you get to my butt, scratch a little harder, and then do it really softly on my legs.”
I started at her neck.
“Do long strokes on my back at first, and then little short ones.”
I began giving her the long strokes.
“Don’t stop until I’m asleep. When you say my name and I don’t make a noise, you can stop.”
She had such soft, dark skin, like living silk.
“Do circles on my butt too,” she kept sighing into her pillow.
Just for this purpose, I had let my fingernails grow out a bit. She said it made for better back and butt scratches. I even stopped biting my nails and was filing the ends smooth to be properly equipped for the job.
“Don’t forget to tell me that story too.”
She didn’t really want to hear the story. She just wanted to hear my voice. I knew it. On a few occasions I’d asked her in the morning what story I’d told her the night before, and she’d always say, “I don’t remember. All I can remember is falling asleep with you scratching my bottom.”
“When I was 5-years-old, my mother punished me nonstop. Punishment was just an ordinary part of every day’s routine. If I didn’t clean up my room right, and put all the toys in their proper places, punishment. If I missed the toilet and peed on the bathroom floor, punishment. If I questioned a single instruction or didn’t instantly jump to action with every order, punishment. At first, the punishment was yelling, then it was spanking, then it was confinement to my room, and then confinement to my room without any toys. Ultimately my punishment was sitting on the floor in my vacant room with the lights out, the door shut, and the blinds pulled down. The first few times I was spanked, I cried, but after a while I just silently took the beatings. It didn’t matter if it was my mother’s hand, a wooden spoon, or a belt. After a while, too much punishment loses its effect. Confinement was the same way. I remember being sent to my room and crying about it the first few times, but then I started finding pleasure in playing with my toys. When my mother looked in and saw me happy with my Lincoln Logs, she took them away. I lost anything I played with. One time, when my room was finally cleaned of all my toys, I found a penny in my pocket and started playing with it. Sitting there, rolling it between my fingers. When my mother looked in and saw me happy with the coin, she snatched it away, slapped me across the face, yanked down the blinds, turned out the light, and screamed, “You are being punished!” before slamming the door shut. That was the last time I cried. Thereafter, I just sat in an empty, dark room and used my imagination. I owe my creativity to my mother.”
Stacey hummed the yummy sound as I started scratching little circles on her bare bottom. It looked and felt like she’d had 1 large, ripe grapefruit implanted in each cheek. Whether I was scratching or fingering her ass, I always enjoyed myself. In less than a minute, she sighed her last conscious breath. I knew I didn’t have to ask her if she was asleep because I’d scratched her until the Sandman came more times than I could count. Maybe 3 dozen.
“Stacey?” I whispered. Nothing. Just slow breathing.
I remember being 5 and sitting in that dark, empty room. I held my hand close to my face so I could see it. 5 fingers. My age. I held up my other hand. 10 fingers. Twice my age. 5 years had been an infinity. It was impossible to fathom I’d only be 10 after living 1 more infinity. At least when I was finally 10, it would be slightly less than 1 more infinity to go before I was out of the house, emancipated, free of punishment. I was happy with the way time worked.
Johnny got his gun
14.0 wagering
You’ve heard a lot about Crowe’s Nest. That’s the place I met Stacey and Patricia, and it’s where Mic, Larry and I hung out before Larry’s Extreme DUI. But Crowe’s Nest was only a small part of that god damn Indian Casino. There was also the hotel, the restaurants, and those god damned slot machines. I remember one night when Mic, Larry, and I were at the bar. Larry and I were on our third Tonto (remember the plastic cups filled with 20% Chardonnay were called Tontos) and Mic was on his third beer just after shooting his 3rd shot of Jack. As usual, Larry finished his third Tonto, pulled out a 100, and said “see you guys tomorrow.” Then he went off to lose his money. He never wanted us to watch him lose because to him gambling was no different than being as a dying dog. It was something you snuck away to a place like the woods and did it in private. For me and Mic, we liked to pool our money and lose it all together, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Before we combined our 100s, and after Larry would take off, we liked remain at the bar, nurse our last drinks and philosophize a bit. It was like foreplay before losing our money, before shooting our wad.
Larry walked off. He disappeared into the smoke, flashing screens, and electronic dings. From our seats at the bar, we could watch it all. Just look out into that vast expanse of slot machines, poker and blackjack tables, dim light, neon light, hopeless characters, shadowed faces, death, old people wearing oxygen masks and pulling tanks but still smoking cigarettes, Asian ladies wearing surgical masks like they were still in the Orient and fearful of catching the Avian Flu.
“How many people have we seen die here?” asked Mic.
“Not sure, but quite a few.”
“Remember that old dude the paramedics were giving CPR on the floor over there?” he pointed.
“Yeah, the part that amazed me was how all those people at the craps table just stepped over his legs to grab the dice and throw again. I’ve never seen people so oblivious to death.”
“That was fucking crazy. The Devil must love this place.”
“At least people can come here to smoke. I think it’s the last place in town. With all this death and the Devil, and no No Smoking signs, there is freedom in all the lawlessness.”
Mic didn’t quite get what I was saying, and I think I didn’t get it either, but it sounded good and it made sense.
“Remember that other old dude that was sitting next to us at the slots? He was leaning over and trying to reach something. I kept trying to see what he was trying to pick up, and all there was on the floor was lint and half a cigarette.”
“Yeah, you tried to be a good Samaritan and picked up the cigarette and tried to hand it to him. He didn’t respond. He just kept leaning over from his stool with a stretched out hand, like there was something on the floor he wanted. He didn’t seem to notice you were there, right next to him.”
“I felt kind of bad when we saw him carried out on a stretcher only 30 minutes later.”
“I didn’t realize he was having a heart attack, stroke, or whatever, either. With hindsight, we should have, but we didn’t. ”
“I’m with you. I figured he was all out of smokes, wasn’t very flexible ‘cause he was so old, and was willing to light up whatever he could find on the floor.”
“We’ve seen a lot of these old fuckers carted out.”
“How many can you remember?”
“Close to a dozen.”
“Johnny, do you think we’ll end up like these guys? Dying here?”
“We might, but I figure we’re here now so we have a chance not to end up like them – stuck here when we are withered and white.”
“A chance?”
“Not much of one, but a slim one. Look at it this way. The way we’re going, working day in and day out for a paycheck isn’t going to help us escape from all this shit. We’ve spent years at the grind, collecting paychecks, and we still have mortgages and car payments. We can’t just go do whatever our hearts’ desire. So what if we blow a few 100s on slots every paycheck? Whether we gamble or not, we’ll end up close to the same place. Without much in our pockets. At best, if we save everything we’d otherwise have wagered for 20 years, maybe we’ll be able to pay cash for a car some day.”
Mic was doing the numbers in his head. “Johnny, 200 a paycheck is about 5000 a year. Over 20 years, that’s 100,000. Add interest and you’ll have more than 200,000 in your pocket, at the end.”
“God damn it Mic, that’s not the point. Really, is $200,000 going to be worth much to you in 20 years? You might not even be able to get a hard on in 20 years. You might be dead.”
“What is the point?”
“The point, Mic, is that the Star Wars game mega jackpot is 4,000,000 if we play $3 spins. The chance is very, very remote we win and walk out of here with $1m each, after taxes. But that’s enough to leave the rat race and go live on a barge in France, drink wine, and fuck French girls for the next 20 years. The chance is remote, but there’s more to it than that. Our lives are so dismal that we need something to give us hope. Dreaming about that $4m gives us a reason to live.”
“That’s true Johnny. We’ve spent a lot of time at work talking about how our lives would change if only we won that jackpot. Just dreaming about it sometimes helps me get through the day.”
“How else can we escape from the shit we call our daily lives?”
“You got a point Johnny. Let’s go gamble! I’m excited. Here’s my 100. Let’s pool it like we always do. You do the first 33 spins, and I’ll do the next 33. Then we’ll see where we’re at.”
“Ok. Let me finish my Tonto first. If we hurry, we might not win.”
Johnny got his gun
13.0 two in the pink, one in the stink
Going for long walks always makes me think. Today’s walk made me realize one of the reasons I didn’t kill myself was because I’d lost the ability to feel pain. I think I don’t feel pain because I’m empty inside. Maybe I’m like a hollow egg. Several years ago I cracked, and slowly everything seeped out of me. I still look like a regular egg. There’s just not any substance past my shell. The pain is gone, but I’m afraid all the rest might be missing as well. So, did I really identify with Marcel’s act? When he was very old, the things that shook him when he was younger no longer shook him. But was it because time had emptied him out or was it because time had bestowed him with greater fullness? It took 2 miles to reach this reflection.
At mile 3, I began contemplating the photo albums missing in my closet. Most people I know have photographic histories. They can pull out their albums and show you images of Christmas 1987, or the trip to Italy in 1996, or their 10th or 20th high school reunions. It’s all in the same place, usually in a closet or on a bookshelf. In each album the same faces appear throughout time, family and friends. They only get younger the further we go back or older as we get nearer today. I wonder what it would be like to share a common history with others, and to have it recorded in pictures saved in my closet. Lacking this makes me feel empty. Granted, I’m in a lot of photo albums, but they are scattered all around the world, and there is no common and continuous historical thread between me and the people I’m posing with. Additionally, my face is probably crossed out in many of those pictures, or the photos I should be appearing in have been torn out. Nothing remains but blank square spots on the old albums’ pages, vacant places that are less yellowed with time. That’s just how it goes when you’ve been married three times, been through so many women like they were disposable goods, and never lived or worked in the same place for long. This is not without its benefits. Where I haven’t burned my bridges, I can always show up on the holidays or at a baby’s christening and I’m treated like a celebrity. “Johnny! Welcome back! We haven’t seen you for 10 years. We were just talking about all the good times we used to have!” I’m the life of the party, I have a lot to drink and I make everyone laugh. Then late that night I end up passing out on a couch, or climbing into bed with some woman that used to have a crush on me. I wake up at 5:00am with a throbbing headache and sneak away without saying goodbye, not to come back or even pick up the phone for another 10 years. There are always a bunch of pictures taken of me doing stupid things while drunk. These images end up in a photo album somewhere, and I might never see the pictures, but they do. “Hey, remember that time Johnny showed up out of nowhere for Juliana’s christening?” “Yeah, what ever happened to him?” “Hell if I know, but he’s probably doing shrooms in Amsterdam or something like that.” Where’s Elmo?
Nevertheless, we can’t do anything about the past, so if we are wise, we do what we can with each new day as it comes. We have to just do our best to love the people we have in our lives today. Let them know we love them. Let them know we care. Sometimes, it’s just the dialogue we have with a friend at work that makes it all worth it, that fills not only your life, but theirs with meaning and importance. Remember Mic, at work? He’s the guy I always give the bad finger each morning, and he gives it to me too. I had a surprise for him just the other day, on Monday morning.
Mic was faster on the draw when I walked past his office, but that’s because I let him have it. “Fuck you asshole,” he mouthed with a slight grin as he proudly presented the Bird.
Then I retaliated. I gave him The Shocker. The Shocker is offered to your fellow man not by only giving the middle finger, but by giving the straight pinky and index finger as well. The ring finger is curled into the palm of your hand and held down by your thumb.
“What the hell is that?” asked Mic.
“The Shocker, mother fucker.”
“What’s it mean?”
“It means two in the pink, one in the stink, you idiot. The index and middle finger go in the pussy and the little finger goes in the ass.”
Mic laughed out loud. “Damn, that’s a good one!” He looked down at his hand, bent his ring finger and held it with his thumb, and then he offered The Shocker to me in return. “Next time I get the Bird on the road, I’m giving this back to the mother fucker!”
“That’s a good idea.”
Mic narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin with his free hand as he contemplated the new sign he was making. “Johnny, I don’t get it. How can you give me The Shocker? With the Bird, I guess it’s saying ‘Up Your Ass!’ at least if you are a dude. But where do the other two fingers go if it isn’t a chick you’re giving it to?”
“That’s why The Shocker is so insulting. By giving it to you, I’m suggesting you also have a pussy to stick it in.”
