Date: Sun, 23 Sep 2001 10:29:15 -0700
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: masturbation "Chaim and the Big Red One"

			"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