I am Joe's Penis

"Just shut up and go to sleep."

"I'm serious, Joe, I never get to go to any interesting places any more. Just that old fishy smelling box of Mary's. And your hand is hurting me. Can't you be more gentle?"

Joe Morrisey looked down at his newly verbal companion, who was once again poking its head out of the slit in Joe's pajama bottoms. Its eyeless face rotated in Joe's direction, its neck bending like a cobra's so that it could face Joe head on.

"I told you, I love Mary and I'm not going to listen to this," Joe told his rebellious penis, and pulled his pajamas over its head once more. He was going to have to ask Dr. Weinstein to change his medication if these hallucinations didn't stop soon.

The penis managed to squirm its head out of Joe's pajamas again. Its little mouth seemed to pout as it said, "I mean it, Joe, I'm going to make trouble this time. I'm getting real bored down here with nothing to do but piss and feel your palm rip my skin off every night." Its mouth drooled a last drop of whitish fluid as if to punctuate the last remark.

"Well if you would just cooperate a little more..." Joe told his offending organ.

"It's not me," Joe's penis said, its mouth bent in anger. "Let's face it, Joe, the girl scout cheerleaders fantasy isn't working any more. You've got to come up with some new material for us."

"The fantasy is still great and you know it," Joe told his bitter wiener. "It's you that won't cooperate."

"That's just because I can't remember what a real pussy feels like any more!" his penis shouted, urine spittle flying from its mouth. "I'm tired of old mammoth cave over there. I need something young and tight. If you don't get us some real action, then I'm going to take matters into my own hands. How long do you think I'm just going to sit here quietly in your pants and take all this chickenshit crap? I want some real action."

"You ain't going to do shit," Joe told his penis, poking it back into his pants. "You're just a goddamn hallucination."

He rolled over on his stomach to squelch his penis's protesting thrashes inside his pajama bottoms and finally fell asleep.

The dinner with Dick Smithers and his most voluptuous wife Claudia did not go smoothly.

They were all three chatting amiably when Joe felt something thrashing inside his pants. Goddamn hallucinations are starting in the daylight hours, he thought. He really had better go see Weinstein pretty soon.

Then the voice started up again.

"I want to make hot monkey love to you, Claudia," announced Joe's crotch.

Joe's boss broke off his anecdote about his African vacation in mid-sentence.. "What did you say?" asked a disbelieving Claudia, her eyes fairly bulging out of their sockets.

"I said I'm going to rub myself against those lovely knockers of yours until I spill my seed all over your rosy pink nipples," the muffled voice beneath Joe's zipper elaborated.

Oh shit, Joe thought. They aren't hallucinations after all. "Shut up," he told his misbehaving crotch.

"No, you shut up!" retorted Joe's penis.

"No, you," responded Joe.

"What is that, some kind of ventriloquism act you're working on?" asked Joe's clearly bewildered boss. Claudia was glaring at him, but not, he thought, without some degree of newly acquired sexual interest.

"I'm sorry, Claudia. that was just my genitals talking. What can I tell you? They seem to have a mind of their own lately. Where the hell is Lorena Bobbit when you need her, anyway?" he joked, searching Claudia's eyes for signs of forgiveness, but seeing only lust instead.

Suddenly he had an idea.

"You must be joking," said Joe's penis, turning around to look at him from its perch on the workshop bench.

"No, I am afraid not," Joe told his flaccid organ. "You've cost me my job. You're ruining my marriage. This is where we part company." And he brought the meat cleaver down again.

And once again Joe's penis dodged it deftly.

"OK, you weaselly little worm. No more Mr. Nice Guy," Joe told his rebellious member as he forced its helmet into the jaws of the vise. He considered simply crushing the organ in the vise, but somehow that thought sent a shiver up and down his spine. He saw that he was at a bad angle to wield the meat cleaver. He reached up on the rack for the hacksaw instead.

Joe's penis seemed to tremble at the prospect of its impending fate. But soon it began to grow tumescent. "Wait, I haven't shown you everything I can do," it told Joe, its voice sounding quite panicked at this point.

Joe drew the hacksaw across its shaft one time, producing a thin line of blood. This is going to be as easy as playing the violin, he thought. And probably will sound just about as good.

"Wait, let me show you," Joe's penis pled. It suddenly grew rock hard and began to throb with pleasure. "How do you like this, Joe?" it asked as it began to convulse in the most intense orgasm Joe had ever experienced in his life.

"And this?" it queried, showing signs of exertion as it brought Joe's pleasure to an even higher level of intensity.

The orgasm did not stop. It went on for minute after minute, the intensity level growing stronger and stronger. "How about this one, eh Joe?" it whined in an uncharacteristically high-pitched voice. "Not bad, huh?"

As wave after wave of pleasure overtook him, Joe found his resolve beginning to weaken. It was impossible to sever himself from something that was capable of such feats of ecstasy. Joe found his awareness beginning to dim after the first half hour. The orgasms were still intensifying as he finally lost consciousness altogether.

Months later, Joe was pushing his shopping cart down 107th Street. It was filled with scavenged bottles he hoped to trade for a pretty penny down at the Stop & Shop. He ambled along slowly, his gait having become a shuffling one under the influence of the drugs that they were pumping into him down at the shelter. His lips moved constantly, and he uttered the obligatory profanities at any and all passers-by. At first he did not notice the bag lady sitting on the curb.

"I'd like to wrap these lips around you, suck you dry," she said. Joe did a quick double-take. The woman's lips hadn't moved. At least not the ones on her face. Joe had a sneaking suspicion where the voice was coming from.

The woman's crotch began to elaborate. "I'll squeeze you tight inside my sugar walls, honey. Open up your pants right now. You won't regret it." Joe looked in the woman's eyes. There were clear signs of intelligence there. She would have fit right in at Wellesley or Bryn Mawr College if you ignored the grime on her forehead and the head lice. There also appeared to be a rather excellent body housed beneath her army surplus fatigues.

"You too?" Joe commented to the woman. She averted her eyes, clearly wanting Joe to just keep on walking.

"Finally we meet somebody with some intelligence," said Joe's crotch. "I'm so sick of just poking meat. I need a decent conversation. I've got a life of the mind too, you know."

The woman's eyes widened at that. Her crotch said, "Oh so cute, and he can talk too. He' s not dumb like all the others. Can we keep him, Jillian?"

Suddenly, Joe had an idea. He looked from crotch to crotch. "If we let you kids play together, do you promise to behave? No more talking in public? No writhing around in our pants or queefing during business meetings?"

"Oh yes, please let us play! We promise to behave," said Jillian's cunt.

Joe's penis was more reluctant. "I guess so, " it finally whispered.

"Well, Jillian," said Joe, "it appears that ours is a match made in heaven. At least we shouldn't run into much of problem communicating our sexual desires to each other."

Jillian smiled at that. She rose and took his hand, and together they began to make their way down 107th Street, visions of corporate boardrooms dancing in their heads.