The Penis Collector

Clara's gay friend contemplates his collection of phalli. They compare notes.

Penis \pe’nis\ The male organ of copulation that contains the third portion of the urethra for excretion of urine and seminal fluid. (Churchill’s medical dictionary)

I think of myself as a penis collector. All kinds. Big ones, small ones, thick ones, thin ones. Ones with narrow fissures, ones with gaping holes. Ones with blunt heads like the left side of a hammer-headed shark’s eyes and ones stretched like an arrow heading to a target. Ones that droop dismally and ones that leap and bound. Organs that expel both refuse and pleasure.

When I say I collect them, I don’t mean lined up on a shelf in bottles, or cut into segments like that mad Eastern European who does embryos and body parts, nor even dried and shrunken. No. I mean figments of my imagination. AIDS has put paid to real collecting. They dance in my mind’s eye, stacked against the walls of my grey matter, independent of their men and proudly erect. I can see the throb of veins, the twitch of pleasure, the pearly drop of satisfaction.

The other day I thought of Ariel. What a dick! Long, hard, red and unabashed. The foreskin could have cloaked a leprechaun, and provided a thick sheath that rubbed pleasurably against my orifice. On the radio, I heard someone saying that they didn’t like uncircumcised peckers because it felt like eating badly cooked squid alla romana.

Clara teases Francis about the size of his.  Henry and Francis discovered a common problem after cavorting between the sheets of the same person and comparing notes. Both were sleeping with several other people at the same time. Their peepers were overworked and complained. Calling up the urology practice, they made an appointment together, and strolled in to the reception holding hands. The urologist appeared sympathetic. The shafts were drooping miserably, particularly when they each had to ring around to all their partners to announce the news. The whole community was put on pills. Urinating was excruciating. The urologist smirked as they left.

Clara and I went to the hospital the other day to visit Francis who had his ribs broken in a car accident. As we stopped to wait for the lift, she stepped up to the silver doors and pointed.

“This is the one. The one.” Her peal of laughter resounded in the empty hallway. “Twenty years ago.” Her eyes twinkled at the thought.

“This one here?” The silver doors opened and we stepped in.

“Yes, it all happened here. He had been harassing me for months.”

Clara used to work at the hospital and some knob kept hitting on her. “Let’s get together” he would say looking her up and down boldly. “Come on, we could really have a great time in the sack.”

Clara was not amused. One day, when the lift was full of people, and he murmured in her ear that she could follow him and find an empty bed, Clara stepped into the door jamb to block the doors, waited a while looking him straight in the eyes with a cold blue stare, and said as loudly as she could “Sure, I’ll have a toss in the sack with you, right here, right now, on the floor!” He stalked off, balls shriveled into a tight bundle of fury. Clara stepped back into the lift and went on down. The people in the lift actually clapped.

I have great tenderness for John’s delightful little willy. It looks just like a crescent moon, beaming upwards towards the light. He plays it like an instrument, well-tuned to his own pleasure. He has explored every note on it. Eric’s on the other hand is straight as a rod and smooth as ice. His glans is like a lady’s summer hat, flouncing out over a pert little hole which betrays the ladylike apparatus by spitting furiously when aroused.

In my collection I would love to include men who wear phallocrypts. In Europe men don’t go in for that kind of thing, even though tailors making bespoke suits ask how men how they carry. Some choads love gadgets – some need cock rings and some actually even like them. It prolongs erection. The blood masses behind the skin and the tubes are engorged. Like blushing women, they leap and dance. There are even triple cock rings. But no penis gourds for us here. Only spiky condoms and sex toys.  Perfumed and flavoured.

Damian is into gadgets. His pole is striated, an unusually veined appendage. You can trace the labyrinth of blood along its side. For such an engorged member, it spits only sporadically, in spurts. So blood has nothing to do with ejaculation. At least that’s my conclusion. Neither does piss, though it comes through the same hole. What if a guy got confused and peed instead of coming? It would smell different. Both fluids are warm.

That’s what we’re talking about in Terminal 5, on our way to South Africa. Cocks. Chris leans back nonchalantly against his chair and observes the passengers rushing to their gates. Chris has seen a few pricks in his time too. He doesn’t know me well enough to talk about his own collection. He’s also too shy. We discuss banalities such as plumbing and performance as we age.

I pursue my musings. There was Nick, a limp twig if I ever saw one. As limp as his black hair, but less greasy. Not even lubrication would get his thing up. He would dip his wick into anything that moved. I ask myself why we jump to attention at the least provocation: batting of an eyelid, flick of hair, bum wiggle, piece of leather?

Hank was another one. He was chubby but his chubbie was not. Hank told me about when he was on emergency duty. Some chap arrived writhing with pain. It was deep inside him he said. Hank asked what was wrong. The partner said they were playing some games. Hank pulled a glass jar out of the man’s anus.

But the one I prefer above all in my collection is Rifat’s ziggurat widger. Step shaped, a growth directly under the eye of the snake, it grew in stages. His brown skin was smooth and soft. His was a stoic, standing to attention for ages, steady as the stone structures it imitated. His body was luscious, long muscular legs, a tight ass, and a six pack down his torso. I went down on him more times than I can count. I hear these days he is in the South of France, cruising younger and younger boys.

Clara tells me other stories. The twins. Both blond and handsome, both blue-eyed, both good in bed. Men make love differently even if they are identical twins. They kiss differently, they fondle differently and they fuck differently. Clara’s collection includes twins with two unidentical twin purple-headed warriors.

And to think that these tools demonstrate such versatility. Excretion and copulation. All in a few centimeters of skin and muscle. So much dependence and status. So much pleasure and pain. I contemplate my collection and close the lights. I will revisit it another day, with other penises to view. It is a collection I have prepared for my old age, when my seminal fluid has become scant and urine is the only liquid I can emit.