Chaim and the Big Red One Or a Dialogue Between a Boy and His Penis

"Chaim and the Big Red One"

Or "A Dialogue Between a Boy and His Penis"

by

Timothy Stillman

It says: Go for it, Chaim.

I say: Not yet. Not yet.

It says: What are you? Where's your heart? You're deserting me. Ditching me. Don't you see I'm hurting here?

I say: You're hurting? How do you think I feel?

It says: Don't you want it? Don't you want to stroke me and caress my balls and rub hard and feel that electric friction and move me in and out of your hand and just shoot over the moon with your whole body molten sexuality?

I say: You talk too much. Stop driving me nuts with your lurid imagination. You have to wait.

It says: Don't you want us to be a--star-rrr? Just touch me a little. Just feel the veins. Just nip the head with a finger or two. Just scratch me on the chin. Who could it kill? You're not going noble on me after all these years? I need it. I need it bad. This column needs you, Samson. This pillar of fire needs to be stoked. Don't turn me into a heap of salt. Sodom and Gomorrah ain't my fault. I wasn't even born yet.

I say: You are lame with your stupid metaphors. I am desperate to masturbate. I think of nothing else. You should talk frustration, agony. You should see what it's like up here in my own head. I can't sleep or think or study or read or ride my bicycle. You are hard all the time. You are doing it out of spite, aren't you? You try to do it without my touching you. You try to gallop without your rider. Ha! But you can't. You need me. You do. You think you rule me. You think that every afternoon after school, it's stroke time for you. Happy time for you. Party hearty. Well, who the hell are you? You're a funny looking little piece of cartilage---

It says: I'm not that little, Mac. And I don't look funny one bit and you know it.

I say: Yes, you are. Face it. Not that we haven't had good times together. Not that we aren't as attached to each other as two friends can be. Not that I don't enjoy your company. Not that I don't really look forward to our little visits together. But go down Moses, every now and then, so my brain can take a breath. I can't have a tent post in my jeans all the time. Not that anyone would notice it--

It says: You're insulting me. You are the meanest kid I've ever seen. I deeply resent this slander.

I say: What are you going to do? Run away? Hide in a corner? Catch the nearest freight to Boyville and take up with another friend? I would have to run with you. You idiot. Besides, who else would have you, but me?

It says: And who's fault is that? You already hacked off my foreskin. I wouldn't put anything past you.

I say: That was not my idea. It's a thing my parents have. My People have. It's--tradition. I had nothing to do with it.

It says: Sure. Mutilate me. Blame it on your ancient ancestors, who, let's face it, had some truly whacko customs. Miserable coward. Worm out of it. Look. Don't you want to be cozy, now we're in bed, late late at night, and everyone is asleep but you and me? Wouldn't you like to buy me a drink? Watch a romantic movie on TV? Snuggle together. Make out all the way. Just chat a bit post-coitally?

I say: You can't talk. This is me. I've held off for a whole two weeks and I am going insane. This is for a Philip Roth novel and I hate Philip Roth novels. Men turning into giant breasts instead of cockroaches and all of that Jewish angst.

It says: I don't read too much. Who is Philip Roth, what's this with turning into giant breasts and cockroaches?, and I bet he treats his dick kinder than you do me.

I say: Never mind Philip Roth. I guess his dick is doing well. I don't know and I don't care. This is my complaint, not Portnoy's--I have been a puppet to you. I have done everything you have told me to do. I water you. I rub you. I get turned on by a boy, and I go home and I tend you and I cultivate you and I want him to pop out of you instead of the usual stuff and it hurts and makes me sad, but it feels good at the same time. But the thing is, you should follow my lead for a time. I'm doing it for your own good. I'm going to show you that I am not just someone who has to kow tow to you every time you get a thwong in mind.

It says: You don't like thwongs?

I say: I love thwongs. I feel just great when you thwong. Cause when you thwong, I thwong.. Though you tend to thwong at the wrong times. Like in temple. Or in school when Joel and Randy walk by at the lunch table and I am concrete, and you laugh at those times. I know I'm insane for not masturbating for two miserable interminable weeks, but you laugh. You use me. I am tired of being used. Just who do you think you are?

It says: Your cock. Your buddy. Your true pal. Your ace in the hole. Your jeans pocket protector. Your closer than close who is so hard he's turning purple. You think I like just to be in your hand and yours alone, and that only from time to time? You think it's a lot of fun for me that I have to be constantly zipped up, except when the hand comes, and it's always yours that I to diddle with? Or I am used to pass water. Have you ever tasted that stuff? Yech! You try being in the dark and blind most of your life except when I'm unzipped when you feel the need. One eye sees more than your two. In out. One two. Then zip me up again till tomorrow same bat time same bat channel. Don't you think I want some action? Don't you think I want some fun? Some variety? Some partying down? You with your lonesome sad hang out face, don't you think it grieves me that of all the menches I had to get attached to, it was you I wound up with.

I say: Shut up. Roll over. Get some sleep.

It says: I'm sorry.

I say: No, you're not.

It says: You're tormenting me. You're killing me. Don't you want to fondle me just a little? I'm not saying all the way. Just a bit. So you can just remember the good old days before your friend, which is me, your only friend, I might add, went away down the road like an unwanted, unloved hobo.

I say: Oh right. Real tragedian. Real sad. Well, look, I've begun to think you are me and some day I literally will be what I'm called at school. A prick. A dork head. Soon you will be bar mitzvahed and I will be a little appendage at your crotch and no one will ever see me because I will be zipped up to a farethewell and my dick will this day be a man. It's scary. You're scary. Go to sleep.

It says: Throb. Throb. Sob. Sob. See how it feels?

I say: I just wanted to wait a while. Just to make the next jack off the big one. So it wouldn't become routine. So I could have something to look forward to. But while I was waiting, I was thinking these things. Things I hadn't really thought of before. Like you're my tormentor. You're my devil. My little black sheep that won't let me forget those boys. That won't let me forget you. And while we're at it mister stiffy, can you tell me why I should want to ever touch you again, save to piss?, cause I have to, otherwise the stream would go every which way. What is so great about you? Don't you think Joel's penis is better? And Randy's? Better and firmer and longer and stronger and ever lasting and carved as though from the bones of the angels, boners to deal with, to contend with, to conjecture with, to dwell among and consider the strong oaks of the field, the redwoods of California, with their branches flung to the heavens and boys on every branch, naked and stropping away to beat the band, and--

It says: Stop it! You're driving me out of my mind! God, take pity on me and finish me off. Take your hand and jack me off or put a gun to me and kill me now. Sacrifice your Isaac to the Almighty so He can be the big numero uno. You are the tormentor of the flesh! You are the one trying to do me in. Two weeks of gonna do it. Not gonna do it. Now. Later. One minute from now. Touch. Withdraw. Wiggle. Jiggle me. I'm cool, later gator. God! And what have I ever done to you? I've been kind. I've grown as best I can, considering what I've had to work with. I've taken you from little stupid boy clumsy hand job to a certain eloquence of jacking off that I've developed in you. With more to come. You've got some nice pubic hair coming in. Don't you like it? So ungrateful you are. And I am also better than other penises. How do you know, for that matter? You don't even look at the boys in the showers after gym you're so scaredy scat. I am so better than your little one sided lovers' equipment, and just cause you can't bring yourself to even sneak a peek at theirs, you don't have to take it out on me. I live to serve you. What is wrong with you? Do I complain? Do I go on strike? Do I get drunk? Do I forget you? If you were away from me, I would write you. Would you write me? Ha, the hell you would. Out of sight. Out of mind. That's the way it is for you.

I say: Get thee behind me, Satan.

It says: Fuck. And double fuck. And double fuck with a cherry on top and whipped cream in the middle. And up yours. And go to hell. And don't ever knock on my door again. And when you wake up and find me not here then you're be sorry, I tell you what. Go wear your little black beanie and good luck to you.

I say: You don't have to be cruel about all of this. And that beanie comment was uncalled for. I am proud of my heritage.

It says: Me too. Though I could have done without that circumcision thing. You were out like a light. But I wasn't. You want pain? You should have felt that. I will never forget it. But I have tried to put it behind me. Tried to serve you still and all. But now you pull this number.

I say: It's not forever. Just two weeks.

It says: It might as well be forever. I don't get to fall asleep like you do. Therefore it's longer for me that way too. How do you know what time is like for a penis? It's different than what it's like for you. I thought you were my friend. I admired you. I respected you. Until you betrayed the four stars on your uniform.

I say: What?

It says: Yeah. So there. Take it, boyo. God I'm harder than concrete. Can't you see I am standing straight up. Right there. My head is digging into the blanket. Look at me. I'm straining. Ready. Raring to go. Tit for tat. Give me some exercise. Walk me around the block for a few minutes. Don't just lie there on your back like a dead carp. Do something about me. Imagine going in Joel's mouth. Randy's mouth. Imagine a threesome. Imagine doing all the great things you long to do with them and they long to do with you. Get crackin'. Time's a wastin'. There is always jack off fun before the dawn. This is no sack of beans I got for you, Jack. This is the real stuff. A boy's best friend. The cum of a lifetime. The freebie that other boys can't take advantage of because they know they'll go to hell if they jack themselves off. You humans are sure a tight assed lot. But you you little perv, you know you'll go to hell to if you do it, but you don't care, at least you never did before. God. Can't you feel the muscles of me. Your whole body is like Novacained. I can tell. Get me off now. Send me flying.

I say: "Seven Days in May."

It says: What?

I say: The line about disgracing the four stars on your uniform. That was from "Seven Days in May."

It says: You think I sleep when you are watching movies? I can't read the books you do. But I can hear words in movies and on TV. What do you think I am, a dork? I have my own head you know. What are you going to do? Call me up before the Screen Writers' Guild and have me chastised for plagiarism? I'd like to see you try it. I'm a penis, you numbskull. I'm allowed. I at least talk. Do Joel's and Randy's? Do they sit up and so much as even bark like a dog? No. They are just dumb things. They point and stretch and they get the old one two like they're Joe Palooka gone down for the count, and then Joel and or Randy just fall over asleep and it's lights out and good night Louise.

I say: Ever read "Frankenstein"?

It says: Saw the movie.

I say: In the novel, the monster never shuts up. It philosophizes all over the place. You're my monster. Do me a favor. Shut up. Be the movie instead of the book. Just growl every now and then if you must.

It says: Yada Yada.

I say: Know the legend of the Golem?

It says: Stop with books already. I ain't no Golem. I am not made of clay. I am not a monster hero who turns on his creator. I am not a horror story or a fairy tale--and I got to tell you a lot of what they teach you at temple seems pretty fairy tale-ish if you want to know the truth, but that's your business, I wish you'd think about it though--I'm a little piece of cartilage, though I will get bigger. I hadn't wanted to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise. But I've been checking my genetic code print out recently, and you are in for a big momser, I mean to tell you, but don't let it go to your head. Take pity on me. Alms for an old choir boy, padre?

I say: Mixed metaphors there. (pause) Well.

It says: Well, what?

I say: It has been two weeks.

It says: And eleven minutes and thirty two seconds.

I say: I have been a good boy these last two weeks.

It says: The best. They will have to indoctrinate you into good boy hall of fame like no one else has ever been a good boy in the history of the world.

I say: I very much would like to masturbate. I am physically unable to have a wet dream. You can't come without me.

It says: Quit being so goddam precocious. Say jack off. Walk the weasel. Stroke the chicken. Spank the monkey. Bang the bung. Tickle the turkey. Spread your wings. Open your pajama flap and take me baby cause I am yours and all yours forever more!

I say: Okay, Killer, you got it.

(Spanking the monkey ensues. Body tense. Penis more tense. Hands rubbing mightily. Electricity sparking through. Hands pull down pajamas and briefs. Hands pull up pajama top and reach to nipples and pinch. Hands run down flat abdomen. Hands pull on butt cheeks. Hands pull the penis up and then down and then all around the town. Penis sighs. Penis luxuriates in pent up desires becoming unrepentant. Penis is temple. Built to the gods. Penis is tower of Babel resurrecting. Penis is words not making sense. Body becomes cock. Cock becomes body. Boy becomes cock. Boy rubs luxuriantly. Fine Corinthian leather never felt this good. Oh come to me Mama. Oh hips raising off the bed. Covers thrown off on this cold Fall night. Body hot. Slathering. Sweating. Pulling thrusting groin to the ceiling. Dick a full exclamation mark raising the roof. Angle of boy on boy angular body. The algebraic equation of self love. Of life and liberty. Of sheer body intransigence. There in the shadows of sex and more sex and a little bit more now too.

(Boy become electric arc. The wait was worth it. All the times the boy's hand went--down there and then pulled away. Two weeks!! All the thoughts that were on nothing every minute, every second, but this, but the doing of the deed. And who cares there is no Kleenex nearby? I'll take the chance the cum won't drip out of my hands or shoot past them. Though I know it will. But I don't care. This is it. Open the doorway, here I cuummmmmmm! Hot penis. Balls of fire, Jerry Lee, and throbbing, steal away the tents in the desert, the Flood's here. Dick so tall and so long and so quivery and so solid I don't think I can stand it one more second. Pull hands away--)

It says: Don't you goddam dare. Choke me, you little nudnick.

(And the master's voice is heard. The master's voice is obeyed. Time's a wastin'. Bay at the moon Werewolf of Paris. Stop being so goddam literary, you know how it erks people. So strop away. This boy's redwood. This boy's best friend. He may lose everyone else. He may never have anyone else. But he's got his penis. He calls it Rex. He does not know if other boys name their penises, but this is his own's name. Though he does not tell his dick. Because he would get a swell head if he thought he had a real honest to god proper name. Swelled head now. Purple head now. Boy's hands blessing and pleasuring. Boy's hands imagining Joel's and Randy's on him. Tying him down with purple scarves. Stripping him. Lying on him. Sucking on him. Giving him to suck. Going at him. Dicks all over the place. Dicks ahoy. Doing all the naughty things to him that he would pay money for them to do to him and each other. And now the rub. Now the penultimate trip to the magic lantern land. And up pops the Genie. )

It says: Now, you little dillwad. I'm going to erupt. You can't stop me now!!!! I'm Abraham! I'm God! I'm better than God! I'm king of the world!! Emperor of the North!! Hot Hand Luke!!! And I ain't kiddin' around, ba-by!!!

(And the boy ready to cum. Ready on the launching pad. Countdown stands now at five seconds. And his body a trembly boy bridge. And his legs bend almost under him. And the fluid and the gush are thrusting and his penis quivering and exploding to the whole wide priapic world. And it is mar!--but before the boy gets to the vous! of mar!--something happens. His left leg. Oh hell. Oh no. Oh rotten surprise ending that is fun in movies and stories but not in real life. Oh no. Oh god. Oh please. Oh boy god almighty does that charley horse hurt! Forget it. Ignore it. Can't. Can't! Muscle of left calf pulled up. Out of place. Penis going to town. Running away without me. Come back, Shane! Having a great time of it, that damned low life dick. Just gulping away like a sonofagun. But the boy has a charley horse. Where did that stupid name come from? Charley Horse is a hand puppet for god's sake. Damn Sheri Lewis anyway. And the boy writhes on his bed. Not from pleasure. From pulled muscle pain. And he can hear the penis just having a gay old time. Not needing the boy at all. It was just experiencing wave after wave of pleasure after pleasure that the boy could not join in with. And he could hear the penis, as the boy tried to concentrate on it and not his leg. A losing battle. He could hear the penis doing this--)

It went: Ha Ha. Thought I'd just go along with you. Thought you were my master. Thought you were the big cheese who wrote the book. Thought you could put me through this torment and I'd just come crawling back. Well now what do you think of these apples, bucko? I gave the party. But you weren't invited. Oh lonesome big rainy night in clowny town for me.

(And of course the sperm went absolutely everywhere. On the blanket. On the sheets. On the boy. On the pajamas pulled up at neck and down at ankles. And he pulls at his leg. Massages it. Trys to put the muscle back in the right place. And finally finally the pain that had doubled him up stops But the penis had long before stopped writhing in lovely lonely ecstasy. And is now just a little worm yet again. Still giggling though. The boy almost crying he is so hurt and so mad and so angry beyond words.)

It says: Sorry about that, chief.

I say: Shut up and shut up.

(Boy cuffs penis. It is still a part of him. Cuffing one's own penis hurts. It is not a good thing to do. Cuffing it with handcuffs is not a good thing either. It leads a boy around by the nose. Wherever thou goest, I goest too, my beloved.)

It says: What you gonna tell Mommikins and Daddykins about the sperm bath here on the bed, o my Bedouin brother?

I say: Fuck you.

It says: You tease. Come on. Pull your pajamas back and the cover over. I'm exhausted. Need to get some shut eye. Wow. What a workout. I feel like I've been lifting weights at Gold's Gym for three hours now. Tired. But a good tired. A nice rosy glow to it all. You should have been there.

(Boy does what he is told. Though sleep is out of the question. The penis is his master. He knows that now. And promises himself and it he will never forget again. The bed is sticky. As are his pajamas. As is he. But himself, he can take care of. But the rest of it. Boy is he going to get a talking to after Mom changes the sheets tomorrow. He might better not go to school today, just run away from home. He and Rex. Together forevermore. Boy in misery. Not to sleep the whole night long. Sometimes a gleeful penis is not a good row to hoe.)

After a long time, dispirited boy says: Was it great? I mean really? Did waiting all that time make it feel wonderful? I felt a little of it. I know I did. I just--no. No, I didn't. Crap. Did it feel good for you?

After a long time, slightly chastised penis, knowing it and the boy are stuck with each other for life and there better be some compromises, says: It did. It felt great. It was worth the wait. I can go again in an hour, if you want.

I say: You got a one track mind.

It says: Well, two track. Physically. But it's what you do with that particular one track that counts. I'm kind of a two trick pony. What can I say? It's what I do best.

Then, later on, oddly sleepy, I say: Could we do it today after school?

It says: Can I stand up when Joel enters the study hall first period, with you on alert, sitting at your table pretending to read "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" (get a different book sometime, and hold it right side up, you've been pretending to read that one in study hall for three months now, people are beginning to talk--it's not a big secret anymore, I can tell you) and you look up at him with your big moony eyes and fall in love all over again?

I say: You can do what you have a mind to.

It says: You're not real mad at me, are you?

I say: No. Not really. We should have had this discussion a long time ago. That's how it is with boys and their penises. They never talk to each other. It would be a better world if they would. It's just wham bam thank you ma'am.

It says: Communication is where it's at?

I say: As long as we don't analyze every single thing to death.

It says: You should talk. (long pause) You okay?

I say: Yeah. All right. It burned for a while. But it's back in place again.

It says: I guess I'm sorry about the Charley Horse.

I say: My fault as much as yours.

It says: Well, I kind of had it planned that way. Mean trick. Just wanted you to see what it was like if I deserted you too.

I say: Okay. Forget it.

It says: This afternoon, we'll both do it together.

I say: Okay. Thank you. Let's get some sleep.

(But they just lay there till morning. At five o two a.m. the boy's dick went thwong. Both of them just enjoyed the feel of it. The nobility of it. The pride of it. Rex inquired. But agreed with the boy to wait. Looking forward to the coming (yes!) afternoon. And there was joy in Mudville, cause the Mighty Chaim had a baseball bat that cared for him, and he for it. Ain't friendship grand?)

I say: Gonna get bigger?

(Penis nods.)

It says: A real momser.

I say: Good deal.

(And think, how the hell can I explain the cum all over the bed? A problem for the boy world and welcome to it. Maybe he could ask Joel and Randy what they would do. What they have done in situations like this. Just out of scientific curiosity. No. They would kill him. Rex though was okay. A little warped. But okay. As the sun began to rise. And a new day was begun.)

the end