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by Danger Slater
Back in middle school I had this idea for a short story that was just like ‘Pinocchio’ except in my version Pinocchio’s nose was a giant dick. When he would lie, he’d get a boner on his face. He’d tell the girls they were beautiful, but he didn’t really mean it. He was just trying to sleep with them. Thing is, it would work. The girls would sleep with him. The girls would sit on his dick-nose and he would tell them how much he loved them and his dick-nose would get thicker, harder. It was confusing for the girls. I mean, why would he say one thing and have his body do another?
Back in middle school I had the idea to do a whole series of short stories just like the Pinocchio one. I’d replace crucial elements of these classic fairy tales with dicks. Snow White and the Seven Penises. Beauty and the Beastly Boner. Uncircumcised Robin’s Hood. It was a dumb idea, I know that now. I was just an immature little kid then. I didn’t know anything about being a writer.
Nowadays I rarely ever talk about my penis. And when I have sex in real life, my massive rod doesn’t rip through the body of the girl I’m fucking. Not even when I tell how beautiful I think she is. I can make empty promises all goddamn day and my cock will never be too big for her to handle. And if I tell her I love her, she is not going to split in two. My giant manhood isn’t going to worm its way completely through her insides, bisect her brain and erupt out the top of her skull. My prick isn’t going to smash through the ceiling of my bedroom. It’s not going to stick up taller than the trees. Taller than the Eiffel Tower. Taller than Mt. Everest. And then, from the tip of my monstrous and triumphant dong, arching ribbons of white cum aren’t going to flow out me in glorious galactic swirls, and that cum will not replace all the atoms in your body and it will not blend together with the dark night sky and turn the black into gray and turn the entire universe into nothing more than a puddle of my cosmic, post-coital splooge.
I don’t talk my penis like that anymore. That would be crass. And this is art.
Danger Slater is a person who writes books. You are a person who is reading this sentence. Read Danger Slater’s books instead. Go here: www.dangerslater.blogspot.com