Twelve and you've got it made. They can hold a ruler up to it, or a girl's forearm. When I say twelve I mean eleven. The camera adds an inch, and we measure from the base, bottom-side.
I'm an eight and a half, but my stat sheet says I'm a ten. No one's
ever called me on it, but it's pretty obvious when we're doing DP and
the other guy's making me look like a stack of dimes.
I take a piss before leaving. I search for new bumps. Flaccid, I'm more like a six than an eight and a half -- not good for publicity shots. Sometimes I try to stretch it with my hand until it's about to rip. I don't think this helps, but I've got to try something.
The freeway's bumper to bumper. I turn on the traffic report. "The freeway's bumper to bumper," the guy says. I close my eyes and pretend I'm on a boat in the Caribbean. Mermaids rub ice cubes on my balls, sing Nina Simone. In the distance there's a faint smell of barbeque. The cars around me start honking.
At home, there's an email from my mother. "Your father's back is out again," she writes. My parents know what I do. They don't approve, but they put up with it. In this, they are not unlike most people's parents. They send me twenty-five dollars on my birthday.
Sometimes I wonder if my mother watches my movies. I wonder if she's seen my eight and a half, and knows with her motherly instinct, that I don't have a chance.
Last time I was home was for my mother's sixtieth. My father asked me to slip him a few blue pills. I told him I'm all natural, I don't use that stuff, he should ask his doctor. He said the pills were bad for his heart, might make him stroke out mid-hump. Go out with a bang, he said, laughed. I want to feel like a young man, he told me. Just once I'd like to feel like a young man.
I wonder if he has civilian one, or an 8-10 range like me. I must have got it from someone. Maybe an uncle on my mother's side. Maybe generations back -- like, during caveman times -- my ancestor let a horse fuck her. In Idaho they were fucking bigger horses.
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