The Derrick

"99th percentile penis?"

"Yeah." She subconsciously glanced downward and back up at his face. Jeez, obvious much? He bet she wasn't even a psychology student.

"Well, whatever the reason, they got me fixed up right. It's...", he paused, "...shocking."

Her eyes were locked on his. "It?"

The trick was to leave it undefined. Put a name on it, and you scared them away. "You know what I mean. Strictly biologically speaking, of course."

"Of course."

She pursed her lips and turned her head thoughtfully. "I suppose, if you can promise to be the perfect patient, I might be able to run a small clinical trial. With a sample size of one, it won't give the scientific community much to work with, but...", she paused and placed her hand boldly on the head of his penis, wrapping her delicate fingers around it, "...it may open up a whole new area of research. You have a very special penis, Oliver."

Oh, God. No Mojo necessary for this "session," he thought. He'd give this girl the old college try.

"Who knows? If it's replicable enough, someone else might try to reproduce the... results." She squeezed. Did he just get bigger?

"It's very important that I get my... results, Oliver." At this word, she stroked her thumb up the underside of the tip and across the head of his cock, dragging a line of precum from the spot that had formed on the outside of his dress pants. He hoped he wouldn't have to get them dry-cleaned.

He didn't understand what she was prattling on about, but he was happy to lie motionless and let her yap. The feeling was exquisite.

"Are you going to give me my results, sweetie?"

"God, yes."

Her hand slid from the head of his cock, along the underside to the base, where it reversed its motion. She dragged her fingernails along his shaft, sending tingles deep into his core.

"Okay, then don't move. I don't want any unexpected variables."

No problem. He didn't know what "variables" were, but "unexpected" was normally bad, and lying motionless while this stranger spoke a kind of sexy English and fondled his meat was decidedly GOOD.

"Roger."

She started to speak like she was talking to a class or recording notes. "The patient is quite aroused. At least, this examiner believes him to be quite aroused. The patient's organ was extremely large when first visible through his clothing, so basis of comparison is unclear at this time. At first visual approximation, the organ appears to be, roughly..."

She gulped, "...excuse me, approximately, twelve inches in length from the base of the shaft to the tip of the glans, and...", squeezing his cock through his pants to a groan, "...at LEAST two inches in diameter. Though obstructed from full view, it appears to be quite smooth." She ran her hand quickly down the full length and back, and was awarded with another groan from Oliver.

"Having completed the initial examination, I will now attempt to retrieve a sample."

"Sample" sounded good. He wondered if he should crack a few knuckles, then thought better of it. Why waste a freebie, when she was giving him a "five finger discount?"

With no warning, she reached her hand down his pants. There was barely enough room for her arm to fit, and she crammed it up to the elbow inside his waistband. "Holy shit!"

"The patient is definitely aroused. The organ is quite firm." She squeezed her hand directly below the head of his dick, her lower arm touching along the full length. He noticed that her hand was somewhat cold. It felt good against his warm cock. "Yes, quite firm..." she trailed off. He looked around; there was no one in this room of the club.

"God, that feels good."

"The patient will remain silent. For reproducibility, of course."

He could take a hint. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the woman's nerdy game.

"The examiner notes that the organ seems to pulsate in her hand. Quite, um, fascinating." She swallowed hard again, her head near his chest to give her arm a comfortable angle. This caused her breath to waft down his pants and tickle his member. "The patient seems to respond to tactile stimulus. Investigating this response."

He felt movement in his pants, suddenly feeling the club's stagnant air on his exposed prick. She leaned forward to bring her face up to his cock. Her tongue darted out, flicking across the tip. Oh, fuck. Placing her mouth over the end of his cock, she swirled her tongue around and across the tip, making him squirm in the seat. Both of his arms were now across the seat back, and his head was tilted back in pleasure as his little psychologist gave him brain.

All too soon, he started to feel the familiar sensation rise in his abdomen. He started to hump against her face, but her strong right hand was around the base of his shaft, keeping his hips pinned against the seat of the booth. Her mouth, however, continued its sexy slurping as the dick throbbed of its own accord. So close.

--

"I'm gonna..." he started, but it was too late. He erupted upward, and he felt cum splash against his chest. Angry that she had removed her mouth at the critical moment, Oliver jerked his eyes open. "What the fuck!"

But instead of the back of his science-y new friend's head, he looked down to see The Derrick, for it could not be imagined as his own penis at this moment, alone on his lap. Brought to climax by what he now realized was a wet dream, the angry monster was pulsating in his nicely-dressed lap, delivering load after load of sticky semen onto his light blue dress shirt and black pants. It had forced its way out of his pants while he slept in the booth, abandoned after he had, apparently, drifted off to the science lecture.

Cha-ching.

He looked in horror at the front of the shirt. It was a respectable cumshot, and that was the problem. Several ropes of sticky jizz had launched upward, coating the front of the classy duds. He was happy that he hadn't been seen (or sniped by his wet dream, he thought disgustedly), but what now? He had to get out of the club.

A waittress was walking up. Fuck. He crossed his arms over the nasty jizz streaks, lost for time.

"Umm, your 'friend' left. She said you clearly weren't that interested in her."

"Fuck you. She's wrong. She's the one that wasn't interesting." He was confused, though. Why had he fallen asleep? It must be the circulation thing again.

Disgusted, the woman continued. "Get you anything?"

"No."

"Good." She walked away. Fucking slut. He should make her fucking lick it off.

--

He thanked his lucky stars that it was dark. At least, he hoped they were up there. Today his luck hadn't shined very brightly, despite plenty of opportunities. His orgasm at the hospital with the fat woman had been welcome, but unsatisfying. The one at the club with Carol had been satisfying, but unwelcome. Also, not "with" Carol, per se. He realized that he'd heard a chime. What perk had been triggered in his sleep? He worried about how much his nocturnal emission had cost him.

As he walked uncomfortably toward home, swinging his legs wide around his new girth, he raised his right hand to call Customer Service. God DAMN, he thought to himself, this finger hurts.

"You've reached Bodyaug Customer Service. How may I lend a helping hand?" Well for starters, you can make MY fucking hand better, he thought sarcastically. It was a woman's voice.

"Balance, please."

"Yes, Oliver." The voice had a kind tone to it. "I show that after that session at," her voice paused, "oh, um, just now... After that session just now, your balance is 40 Mojo."

"WHAT!?" Without the company of the HitchARide, Oliver bellowed into the night.

"I'm sorry sir, I'll check again. Yes, it looks like your session consumed 89 Mojo from your previous balance of 129 Mojo, leaving 40."

"How in the actual fuck did I manage to use 89 god damn Mojo Minutes in one session?"

She paused. "Sir, please refrain from using coarse language. I am unable to see itemized details of your session, as that would alert me to the device Bodyaug has supplied you with. Not to mention what an extreme invasion of privacy that would be."

"I don't give a shit about that anymore. I've got The Derrick; I don't give a fuck if you know. Just tell me how I used so much in my sleep."

She paused. "Sir, again, I apologize, but I am not with Technical Support. I cannot view the information you are requesting, and I am not familiar with that model anyway. It is not a question of willingness; it is a question of access. I am simply unable to pull it up."

"Fine. I want to talk to Technical Support, anyway. There's a few more questions I need answered."

"Sir, their office is closed for the evening, and I am unable to transfer you. I have logged your complaint, and a Bodyaug representative should be reaching out to you at his or her next convenience."

What about MY convenience? he thought. "Fine. 40 Mojo, now, though, right?"

"Yes, sir."

He hung up, realizing too late that he hadn't asked if there were a way to disable the remote. Not that she would have known if there was.

--

Oliver couldn't fall asleep. His hand throbbed with the implant, and he had to fight off wooziness whenever he thought about either it or the new penis. Normally, if he had difficulty sleeping, he would have masturbated. Out of the question tonight, for several reasons.

He briefly wondered if someone could hack his penis. His mind wandered back to the HomeSecure scandal of the 2030s, when several computer-savvy felons had found "back doors" into thousands of home security systems, turning customers of the "Convenient Camera Company" into unwitting exhibitionists.

He shivered. Whatever, let them watch. Maybe he'd become some kind of famous porn star. That'd be cool: "The Oliver Show."

He was unsatisfied by the customer service lady and her cattiness when it came to answering his questions. Turning to the Internet, he decided to do some research.

After several minutes of searching, Oliver gave up. The doctor had been very secretive about the organ, and the information he found online was no different. On the Bodyaug forums, there was plenty of discussion about the other fake dicks, Benji, Earl, Orville, Roderick, and Ned, but searching with multiple engines turned up zero results for The Derrick. It was even named differently, almost like a title. These inventors and their egos, he thought.

He felt for Benji, though. The owner whose petite namesake now looked at thousands of visitors from the pages of the brochure, must be very proud to have it listed first, even if the reason was its minute size. It was just a little bigger than his "old one," which he realized with a pang he now missed. Whatever, he was just being a pussy. He'd get used to it eventually.

The was a forum section marked "Experimental Organs," but there was only one stickied post (rules for using the forum) and a handful of simple requests for information, none answered. Big surprise there, he thought. He wondered if Technical Support was even a real department at Bodyaug.

The stickied post listed the names of several experimental body parts, but nothing mentioned his new dick, or anything like it, for that matter. He closed the window angrily and navigated to Lifted. He had experienced height discrimination again, and only these fellows could understand him.

--

"Oliver?" the attendant called.

Tuesday. After skipping his normal Monday donation for his surgery, he was at the plasma center. Poor circulation or none, he had to try. His stomach growled as he realized how hungry he was. They'd better take his blood. Scratch that, he'd better not pass out. He was pretty sure there wouldn't be an issue with the blood itself.

He looked forward to the cookies and juice waiting for him at the end of his "donation," which would net him between forty and fifty dollars, after accounting for the HitchARide each way. Not as good as the sperm bank, but this didn't require a six-month commitment to "not masturbate" during the week. Like that was gonna happen. Gullible idiots.

He walked into the small room that held the medical equipment. He didn't look at it. He never looked at it. If he wanted to finish the donation, it was very important that he only looked at the nurse. Even better if it was a sexy nurse; his blood pressure wouldn't be as weak.

He realized with excitement, and a bit of apprehension, that Teresa was working. Maybe I can turn this whole thing around, he thought. He'd been coming here to donate for a few years or so, and she was here from the beginning. She was a homely-looking woman, brunette and about 40: self-proclaimed "unmarried, not dating, not anything, ever."

He would always chat her up the whole time she was in the room. They talked about everything, from her foster cats to his hijinks to avoid paying rent. He'd always end his donation the same way:

"Teresa, we've been flirting for years now. I'm into you. You're into me. You know it, and I know it. Why don't you go out with me some time?"

She'd always respond: "Sorry, Ollie, I don't date patients."

He'd envisioned a thousand scenarios in which she responded another way and they finally consummated their shared passion, but it was always the same: "Sorry, Ollie, I don't date patients."

He'd allowed no one else to call him Ollie, not even his parents. But he was gobsmacked from the first time she'd said it, and he would never correct her. She was his Helen of Troy, even if he didn't quite get the reference.

"Hey, T."

"Hey, Ollie. Feeling pumped?" It was the same joke with every patient; he'd heard her saying it to countless other kind-hearted adults who came to save a life. And make a few bucks, but who was counting, right? She fastened the blood pressure cuff firmly to his arm.

"A little too tight."

"Oops, sorry. You know you get me going."

"Ditto." It was their little thing. He played along, plotting.

"Any illegal drugs, nicotine, or bloodwork in the last... four days?" she asked, checking his chart.

"Uh..." he hesitated. It was the normal question, but he'd had surgery yesterday and his usually-quick impulse to lie was weak, for some reason. His head felt foggy.

"What's up, Ollie?"

"Well, it's kind of embarrassing..." He had a plan to plant the seed of an idea here.

"What, sweetie? You know you can tell me anything."

"I know, but it's kinda personal."

"I mean, I'm about to stick ya. That's as personal as it gets." He felt woozy. "I'm only asking the questions they make me. I've got no 'stake' in this." Vampire jokes: another occupational hazard for this one.

He didn't hesitate now: "I got surgery, T. But it was from Bodyaug, so I was in and out with Same Day Stitches, no big deal."

Her face dropped immediately. "Oh, Ollie, sweetie, that IS a big deal."

Wait, what? He halted his train of thought: he'd planned to drop hints that he was packing heat now. Teresa never dated, and he knew that she'd be a pent-up ball of sexual frustration. She was bigger and had wider hips than the girl from the bar, so he liked his improved chances.

She continued, her face difficult to read: "You can't donate for six months from the date of your surgery."

His heart leapt in his chest, momentarily distracting him and robbing him of breath. SIX MONTHS!? He felt queasy. "Trash can."

She deftly grabbed it from its perch near the reclined chair he was laying on. He turned his head and retched, throwing up in the can she continued to hold for him. She puckered her face and turned her head away.

Oh, God. Six months with only the promise of future income from the sperm bank. Six months to make 40 Mojo last, and somehow eat and pay rent, as well. His credit cards were almost maxed; no bank would listen to a word he said once they'd pulled his credit report.

"I'm sorry, sweetie, rules are rules. You can't be my patient for six months."

Hearing her phrase it like that, he raised his teary eyes to her, hopeful. She grimaced and set the trash can down, reaching for some Kleenex to hand to him. "Wipe your mouth, hon."

He did as she asked, the wheels turning in his head. "You can't be my patient for six months," played on repeat in his mind.

"Teresa." He rose in his seat. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I bet I'm thinking ABOUT what you're thinking ABOUT."

Close enough. "Listen, you know me better than anyone. I'm sure I've shared more about myself with you than with any other living person. I'm dead serious."

She looked away toward the door and blushed, clearly flattered by his positive attention.

"If I can't be your patient for a bit, then will you finally go out with me now?"

She waited for a long time staring at the door, savoring the moment. Then she looked at him. "Ollie, of course I've been saying for the last few months that I wouldn't date you because you're a patient, but the truth is, you're really just not my type."

It felt like a gut punch. "Few months?" he wanted to say, but he suddenly couldn't find air to breathe. The room was spinning. His chest hurt. His left arm, which had been briefly squeezed, but not measured, by the blood pressure device, ached.

She turned away, embarrassed. Of course she was embarrassed. He would be, too, if he was forced to lie to remain professional.

"Oh. I get it. Right." He looked around the room for the cameras.

"No, Ollie." Her eyes were back on him. "I mean... you're a great guy. Obviously, we match on so many levels, personality-wise." She grabbed his hand in hers.

"You're even really handsome, to boot. It's, just..." she trailed off, then seemed to find the words she was searching for. "Physically, you're not my type. I just need a tall guy. I mean, you know me. I'm a climber." It hurt, but it came as no surprise to him. Typical female. She had only gotten into the sport a few weeks ago, it seemed like. Awfully fast to change your "type," he thought.

He was failing. He needed to double down. Think, man. WWRJD?

"I've got something you could climb." It was cheesy, but it would have to do. Taking a look at the doorway, he released her hand and pressed on either side of his bulge, causing his new cock to be outlined against his cargo shorts. Following his movement, her eyes widened, but she sat frozen, bolt upright in her seat.

Before she had a chance to move, he'd tugged the leg of his shorts up slightly so that the helmet of his warrior was peeking out. Her eyes widened even more. He snapped his fingers painfully. The cock leapt upward as his vision tunneled. It strained the leg of his shorts as it crept outward to its "starting length," he thought of it.

"It's called The Derrick. That's why I got surgery."

Teresa finally seemed to come to her senses. She looked at the door and back at him, her hand toying with her necklace. "Oh my God, Ollie. You can't be serious. You'd kill me with that thing. It's enormous."

His heart sank. Wasn't its enormity the point, to improve upon the old one? To be the 1% for once? To get the girl? The, what, job? Maybe he hadn't thought it through very clearly, after all.

No, fuck that.

He turned on her. "You're right. I probably would, you're so weak. Whatever, I don't need this 'job' anyway." He snapped his fingers and shoved the deflating penis back into his shorts.

Wrenching his legs off the chair and setting his feet onto the floor, he rose. She had risen from her seat as well, backing away toward the door. She was in his way. "Excuse me."

She cowered away from him, and he strode through the doorway toward the exit. A security guard was walking quickly toward his direction, just a few feet away. He looked at Oliver, then at Teresa, eyebrows raised. "It's fine!" she yelled. Of course it's fine, he thought. He pushed his way through the double doors, out into the Austin sunshine.

Balance: 39 Mojo. For some reason, this singular Mojo Minute felt like even more of a waste than the 160 before it.