ISSN 1758-6488
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The Field Fiction |
print view |
I get to my feet and scan the baseball park. It’s empty. I stand by the pitcher's mound. I can see the perfect prints of baseball boots everywhere in the dry earth, the perfume of boys in their prime. Animals. I can still smell them, their sweat in the breeze, sweeping the park, the smell of their balls, all sweet and musky. I’m lost in it all. for a moment I feel this must be Paradise, and all the shitty houses, the endless sameness, the bleak streets, the doors, the fences and gates, the gardens, they all fall away, like the blast of an H-bomb laying them low. I watch them, one after the other, fall like dominoes into their mown nightmares. I curl my fingers round the penis and will not let it go for anything or anyone.
When I'm home I drop it on the kitchen table. It lies like a fish, gasping, the flank all silvered and rainbowed. The skin of a penis is without doubt as soft as silk. The knife slides in easily, and the flesh comes out in ribbons. I use a spoon to scrape it clean. The head is a beautiful thing, purple and shiny. I take the gunk from the bitten end, I scrape until it’s gutted, and all that is left is the skin and plump head. I wash it clean under the kitchen tap. I dig my father’s tiling gun out of his tool box, slide a cartridge into its skeleton, and pump the silicone into the sheath. The penis swells, thickens, grows, begins to nod, to throb, as it should. I pack it in deep, a heavy dense mass. I smooth it all down with my hand, shape it, mould it, five, six, seven inches. I knock it all down, like you might knock down a Lucky Strike on the table top, before putting the tip to your mouth. Plump, miraculous flesh. Uncut. A dainty little Marilyn mole on its flank. I hold it firm in my fist, the cock of a man unknown and unloved. Until now.
