| For your sake I will say that it was a ‘penis’ he had
and that it was fairly normal by most standards of height, breadth and
cleanliness. The problem was that his mind was abnormal – that his eyesight
was peculiar and his self-esteem small, such that whenever he perceived this
‘winkle’ as he called it, it appeared minute, ineffectual, virtually
useless and embarrassing to him. No matter how much he put it up against
the yardstick and measured six and a half inches, it would make him weep
“Why me?” he would whimper. ‘Why am I one of those who has
to be born with a smaller than average winkle?’ Of course he had read
all those books, manuals and magazines that said six and a half was average,
but it was no good. He couldn’t believe it – he knew who had
commissioned and written those studies. Sometimes he would look down andit
seemed just a little pink wick-like thing – something you would have
to examine with tweezers. Perhaps this ailment of his was not peculiar. Perhaps
all men have such doubts. But his mind was abnormal. He was, in a way an
explorer of the self – one of those who could in desperation run through
strange visions into the endless riddle of his own creation. He could go
under in the dark waters of self and come up from dreams in control. It was
by this method, through will power and determination, that he finally reached
the source, the very center of his regeneration, and there, through sheer
brilliance, through unheard of intellect, he reset the winkle control so
that its stalled growth function would continue.
He never doubted for a moment that the next day it would be infinitesimally
bigger. And he was absolutely right. And so on the next day. And the next.
After about six months of this he had a real big whopper on him. A great
big pink wang of a winkle that he waved at himself merrily in the mirror
like an ape who has finally figured out his first blunt stone. Soon he would
be able to go out into he world of sex, he thought. Soon he would be entirely
adequate, esteemed, even talked about ogled over. And of course, as usual,
he was right. Wearing tight pants he became in demand by a lot of women who
like the feeling of ‘being full right up’ that a big winkle gave
them during intercourse. For a while he was much happier. He realized though
that sooner or later he must remake his velvet journey into inner peace and
remove the stone of his command. After all, he didn’t want his winkle
to get so big it became unruly and unnatural. Alas, by the time he tried
this, the way was blocked, the former passes all impassable. Everything had
shifted and restructured itself. There was a huge happiness in himself now
to support. How could he, drained by it, venture into that canyon of agony
again. “So wait.” He said to himself. ‘Wait till you are unhappy.
The way will be clearer then and the will stronger.’
So, he waited and his winkle grew to the point of becoming a little
unsightly. Now only the most bizarre of those who like to feel ‘filled
right up’; came to him. Others began to regard him as something of a
monster. HE enjoyed their awe for awhile but he knew the winkle was just
getting bigger and bigger and more difficult to inflate for sex. Was he a
little jaded?
Sucked out by the excesses of his recent life? Time to exercise the
inner muscle, he thought. But it was no good. The way inside was still blocked,
almost as though some genius had built a wall againt him. Still his winkle
got bigger and bigger. He discovered for a while that if he diverted all
his other energies against this energy he could slow the rate of growth.
But this meant having his mind filled up with Sex and Gender and Coitus,
and all its words and synonyms. During this time you couldn’t talk to
him without his suddenly saying ‘Ah yes, I remember, I parted her lovely
fucking cunt and poked my great big fucking winkle at her and she fucking
grunted and I squeezed I a little, like it was snake going down a fucking
elephant’s throat and I fucking humped and she fucking heaved and...
‘ On and on... At first some of the more machismo men would join in
with him in this but soon he was too nauseating, too single-minded even for
them. Still the winkle got bigger and bigger and one day when it began to
erect, the blood drained out of his head and he passed out only to wake up
in hospital. Here he was lonelier than ever before. After a month the winkle
was as huge as the rest of him – a great, flaccid, pink stinking thing
that even callous hospital officials and nurses couldn’t bear to look
at, but had to keep always in its oxygen tent, pumping in the blood. Soon
the rest of him began to wither. It was the law in that place that a person
must live as long as anything can possibly make him, so they kept him on
the heart and lung and kidney machines. Finally the rest of him just got
eaten away by cancers and you could just barely see, hidden in the tumors,
his crusty old faced withered there in mortal agony. When, at last, the eyes
closed forever they encased him in a huge box and ten men carried it to the
immense hole they had had to dig to put it in. After they had said their
prayers over him they put up a tombstone which read:
Here lie the remains
Of a great big Dick.
-By Robert Priest 1976
Dickhead
(poem by Robert Priest)
How To Swallow
a Pig
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