While showering, I discover on myself an extra supply of manhood. I take it up gingerly in my hand - it comes right off. I examine it in disbelief. But it's the real thing. I wrap it up in Kleenexs and stow it in the medicine cabinet. Then I dress hurriedly, a little dazed, and hurry off for my date.
With a load of sushi in me and another bottle of Chardonnay on the table, my new fortune wafts fumes of confidence over me.
"What say we finish up at my place," I tell her, leaning across the table to whisper, cool and sly. "I'll show you something, you won't believe your eyes!"
Back at my place, I settle us down on the couch with some Courvoisser, and let a while go by to build up expectation.
"It's some amazing new art doodad," she says, peering around. "It's a kind of...weird plant!"
I guffaw closed-mouthed. Finally I get up and go into the bathroom. I saunter out with it and set it between us on the couch, still wrapped.
"Dig this," I murmur wickedly.
I unveil it, watching her. Her eyes almost pop out of her head.
"Oh my God..." she gasps.
She gapes, riveted. And then tentatively - "May I?"- she reaches out, and touches it. A thrill goes through me. I watch her other fingers join in and go exploring. My pants start to balloon. So does what's on the couch, like some kind of nasty party toy.
"Ooh la la," she murmurs.
Visions of double delight dazzle me. I reach out to cover her hand with my own - but her other hand intercepts me.
"Please?" she whispers. Her gaudy second little grip caresses my thumb. "Oh please please? Say it's a present, say it's mine? Say you'll give it to me?"
I stare into her uplifted face, fringed so cute with curls, big baby blues fluttering away with pleading.
"You bet I'll give it to you," I promise huskily, squeezing her hand back with double-stiffie passion.
"Yippie!" she shrieks, and jerks both hands free to clap. She grabs the 'extra' up and pops it in her bag. She seizes my hand again, squeezing it, face squeezed too in a hype of fluttery gratitude. "Uh -uh -" I begin. But she gapes at her wrist.
"Midnight!" she yelps.
She jumps to her feet. "Tomorrow's a work day, can you believe it? But promise promise you'll ring me next week, promise you will?"
"Uh - uh -" I begin again, finally starting to rise in half-witted protest.
"Great!" she cries. She presses a hand to my shoulder. "And thanks - really - so much! - for this."
Her hand fastens on her bag as mine moves up to it as well. There's a fierce, awkward moment of silent struggling. She twists free. She pats the bag and winks a smile of appreciation beyond words.
Then she whirls and scurries out the room, out the front door.
"Hey, wait a -!" I finally get out, half-risen from the couch, arm extended into space. After a shapeless pause I sink back onto the couch, by the empty Kleenexes.
I sit there dumbly staring into space. I can't believe what just happened. "Huh??" I repeat, with useless intensity. Eventually I get up and wander into the bedroom. I sink down on the side of the bed. I stare and scowl some more. Then I stand up and unbuckle my trousers and peer into my underwear. Just the regular allotment. My face contorts into almost childlike dismay.
"She stole my extra thing!" I whine aloud.
I sit and hang my head. The bitter familiarity of being once again alone at bedtime floods over me. "Little... prick..." I murmur, bitterly.
"Barry Yourgrau manages to articulate your most bugged-out daydreams" - Adam Horovitz of the Beastie Boys
"There's no other writer alive like Barry Yourgrau."- Jerry Stahl (author of Perv & Permanent Midnight)
Writer & spoken-wordster Barry Yourgrau writes strange dreamlike books of short twisted stories. He also starred in the movie of his book, The Sadness of Sex, with Peta Wilson. Barry's earliest books are little classics--Wearing Dad's Head & A Man Jumps Out of An Airplane (excerpted here). His latest, Haunted Traveller, about fantastic travels, was an Amazon.com Travel Editor Top 10 Pick.
Barry was seen on MTV Unplugged's first Spoken Word special. He's often on NPR. As a film actor he debuted as an A-bomb scientist (Fat Man and Little Boy). But he's most proud of starring in an Anthrax music video, featuring Gena Elfman as a teen runaway.
Barry can be reached via yourgrau.com.
With a load of sushi in me and another bottle of Chardonnay on the table, my new fortune wafts fumes of confidence over me.
"What say we finish up at my place," I tell her, leaning across the table to whisper, cool and sly. "I'll show you something, you won't believe your eyes!"
Back at my place, I settle us down on the couch with some Courvoisser, and let a while go by to build up expectation.
"It's some amazing new art doodad," she says, peering around. "It's a kind of...weird plant!"
I guffaw closed-mouthed. Finally I get up and go into the bathroom. I saunter out with it and set it between us on the couch, still wrapped.
"Dig this," I murmur wickedly.
I unveil it, watching her. Her eyes almost pop out of her head.
"Oh my God..." she gasps.
She gapes, riveted. And then tentatively - "May I?"- she reaches out, and touches it. A thrill goes through me. I watch her other fingers join in and go exploring. My pants start to balloon. So does what's on the couch, like some kind of nasty party toy.
"Ooh la la," she murmurs.
Visions of double delight dazzle me. I reach out to cover her hand with my own - but her other hand intercepts me.
"Please?" she whispers. Her gaudy second little grip caresses my thumb. "Oh please please? Say it's a present, say it's mine? Say you'll give it to me?"
I stare into her uplifted face, fringed so cute with curls, big baby blues fluttering away with pleading.
"You bet I'll give it to you," I promise huskily, squeezing her hand back with double-stiffie passion.
"Yippie!" she shrieks, and jerks both hands free to clap. She grabs the 'extra' up and pops it in her bag. She seizes my hand again, squeezing it, face squeezed too in a hype of fluttery gratitude. "Uh -uh -" I begin. But she gapes at her wrist.
"Midnight!" she yelps.
She jumps to her feet. "Tomorrow's a work day, can you believe it? But promise promise you'll ring me next week, promise you will?"
"Uh - uh -" I begin again, finally starting to rise in half-witted protest.
"Great!" she cries. She presses a hand to my shoulder. "And thanks - really - so much! - for this."
Her hand fastens on her bag as mine moves up to it as well. There's a fierce, awkward moment of silent struggling. She twists free. She pats the bag and winks a smile of appreciation beyond words.
Then she whirls and scurries out the room, out the front door.
"Hey, wait a -!" I finally get out, half-risen from the couch, arm extended into space. After a shapeless pause I sink back onto the couch, by the empty Kleenexes.
I sit there dumbly staring into space. I can't believe what just happened. "Huh??" I repeat, with useless intensity. Eventually I get up and wander into the bedroom. I sink down on the side of the bed. I stare and scowl some more. Then I stand up and unbuckle my trousers and peer into my underwear. Just the regular allotment. My face contorts into almost childlike dismay.
"She stole my extra thing!" I whine aloud.
I sit and hang my head. The bitter familiarity of being once again alone at bedtime floods over me. "Little... prick..." I murmur, bitterly.
"Barry Yourgrau manages to articulate your most bugged-out daydreams" - Adam Horovitz of the Beastie Boys
"There's no other writer alive like Barry Yourgrau."- Jerry Stahl (author of Perv & Permanent Midnight)
Writer & spoken-wordster Barry Yourgrau writes strange dreamlike books of short twisted stories. He also starred in the movie of his book, The Sadness of Sex, with Peta Wilson. Barry's earliest books are little classics--Wearing Dad's Head & A Man Jumps Out of An Airplane (excerpted here). His latest, Haunted Traveller, about fantastic travels, was an Amazon.com Travel Editor Top 10 Pick.
Barry was seen on MTV Unplugged's first Spoken Word special. He's often on NPR. As a film actor he debuted as an A-bomb scientist (Fat Man and Little Boy). But he's most proud of starring in an Anthrax music video, featuring Gena Elfman as a teen runaway.
Barry can be reached via yourgrau.com.
VIEW 20 of 20 COMMENTS
sirkka:
Weird.
fuckin_steve:
dude ..wait, what?