Where was I? Oh, yes, my penis. It was Thursday morning and I was
showering, scrub-a-dubbing like lightning because I was late for
work. Again. Though I set my Night Jammer alarm 1 1/2 hours pre-work,
I procrastinate. Five minutes before leaving I’ll make a feta
and dill omelet or decide my floors must be mopped. Right now. By
hand. Maybe it’s OCD, but my mother would much rather hear
Rinsing the minty Dr. Bronner’s from my eyes, I exited the
shower—who needs a towel?—and dashed to my bedroom.
I selected rumpled corporate casuals. I placed them on my bed. Then
I walked toward the mirror. This is where things become a crispy.
My mirror is adjacent to my window, above the silver radiator.
My apartment's radiators operate in two modes—Amazon Basin
and Arctic wasteland. That day, the radiator operated in the equatorial
region. And I wanted to pop a pimple.
I bent toward the mirror, bending my upper torso over the hissing
radiator. Warm. I examined my laugh-creased and stubble-wrapped
mug, sizing up the pimple situated in the cleft between chin and
lower lip. Big. Steady pressure from two index fingers generated
a creamy POP. Satisfying. I leaned closer to the silver heat beast
to contemplate my nostrils. Warm. Hairy! But what about my unibrow?
I leaned in further, wondering what God I angered to merit conjoined
brows, when my lower body met 200 degrees.
I looked at my member; a lobster red ring encased the head. This
was bad. Real bad. In a less sexually active period I’d stop
masturbating for a few days. End of problem. But for the first time
this millennium I had a girlfriend. Who liked to touch my penis.
A lot! The thought of sex—all that friction and rub-a-dubbing--on
a blistery penis made me woozy. My penis needed ice.
I bowlegged it to the kitchen and grabbed ice cubes from the freezer.
Then I hobbled to my room and sat down on my bed. Carefully. I held
the preternaturally crimson head between my thumb and forefinger
and brought Arctic relief to the glans.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. The cold quelled the red, numbed the pain. I rubbed
the anodyne faster.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. And faster.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh. That felt good. Real good. Too good. I looked
down and saw my penis was betraying me once again with a 90-degree
salute. These were the facts: I was going to be late to work because
I burned my penis and was masturbating with ice cubes. I needed
to go. Now.
Though the pain still throbbed, I dropped the ice onto a dirty
undershirt. I gingerly dressed in khakis, a button-down, and loose
boxers. I hobbled down my walk-up’s stairs and shambled seven
blocks to the N-train. The train came quickly. Seats were open.
I sat down, shut my eyes, and spread my legs wide.