I had just lost my left arm and my right nut in an accident. We went out to the foothills off the sixty and by the last run of the day, I'd had about a twelve pack of Bud Ice. I went screaming down this ridge I hadn't tried yet and I didn't see that drop-off until I was flying through the air like the man in the trapeze. It was a dry wash, full of crusty dried up growth that had proliferated when it had water back in springtime. By then everything was dead. And prickly.
I landed ass up. My left arm took the brunt of the impact. It folded back between my wrist and elbow. But that wasn't even the worst part. A fucking piece of some dried up shit stabbed right through my leathers, and skewered my ball like some kind of exotic Rocky Mountain oyster shish k bob. I was in no mood to enjoy the rarity of it.
I missed my nut, more even than I missed my arm. My stub was a far greater nuisance in everyday life, but my lone testicle looked unbalanced, and it hadn't escaped injury itself, and I hadn't tested it out yet to see if it could still make me shoot, and I felt like half a man. Well, the scar was pretty ugly, and my sac was still swollen, and I had this aversion to touching it. The injury caused a long-lasting trauma.
My friends knew how it was, but they didn't know exactly how it was. I hadn't been with a woman in three months, they knew that part, but I hadn't even given it a yank in all that time, they didn't know that part. So we went to the Pink Rhino. They thought maybe it would jump start me, and maybe I'd be able to arrange a date.
It didn't jump start me, and I didn't arrange a date, but I kept going back, just to see Trixe and her mal-apportioned titties. They fascinated me. She fascinated me. This one day, she came to my table at her break. It surprised me because I never tipped her worth shit.
"How'd you lose your arm?" she asked.
"Dirt biking," I said.
"You come here every day," she said.
"Only when you're here," I told her, which was the truth. I knew her schedule and her days off.
"Why don't you ever sit up front?"
"I don't have enough money to tip you properly."
"What did you think my tits were?" she asked.
"The size. Wasn't it you boys who were betting on it?"
"Oh, that. I thought they were a C and a B."
"Hmph," she said.
"I don't know shit about cup size. All I know is what I like, and I like them both just fine."
"Me, too," she said, looking down at her chest. "It gives me character, don't you think?"
I nodded. "That's one way to look at it."
"How do you look at it?"
"As often as I can," I said.
She invited me out for coffee after, then she invited me home with her. On the way I told her about my own lack of symmetry, about my scar and my skewering. I even told her a little bit about my fear, about whether everything still worked right, and how I hadn't tested it yet.
She said, "Why are you telling me all this? Maybe I don't want to be with a cripple."
God, I wanted to jump out of the car, and I might have, had I not worried about what sharp objects might be waiting for me.
She laughed. "I'm just kidding."
"Ha," I said. "That was real funny."
"Oh, lighten up. Seriously, who wants a cripple? And it ain't your arm or your balls making you a cripple."
"I haven't advanced to the joking stage yet," I told her. I felt like a fucking virgin. A non-fucking virgin. A non-fucking virgin with faulty equipment about to fuck a fucking stripper.
She reached over and grabbed my package, and I flinched.
Her apartment had two bedrooms, but she lived alone. She took me to the kitchen, turned on the fluorescent overhead lights, and I thought she was going to make coffee or offer me a drink or something, to ease into things. Instead she leaned against the counter, crossed one foot over the other, and said, "Let's see it."
"Take off your pants and let me see."
"Look here," I said. "I'm no stripper."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "Do you want me or not?"
"I want you," I said. "In the dark."
"No. Right here. Let me see you."
My woody shrank, but I did it, and she gave it a close and thorough examination, and pronounced me "interesting."
She gave tender attention to my scarred parts and used my stub in provocative ways. I confirmed three different times that night that my fixtures worked just fine. They still work just fine, and Trixe's asymmetry is still exotic to me, two years later.
Share on Facebook
Tweet about this Piece
Poor Mojo's Tip Jar:
Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson