Ceremoniously (or so I think about what is before my little opening) Dad plunges into an open container then reappears with smudge on him. In no time he is in again, then out, relish on his face. Just newly begotten at the time, I would later come to experience the immense pleasure that sat on dad’s face as I watch him that night.
“Son, it is our call. It’s our duty to sire and put to the plow, as it were, desires and schemes of man. That is your duty.” Then he’d let himself be wiggled, shiggled and tickled then tucked in.
Dad used to tell of that time long gone when my ancestors sat amongst men. He said when the Declaration of Independence was signed, his great grand daddy saw to it. He also mentioned the Magna Carta. That at its conception and birth, hand in hand did our kind walk alongside men, oh and a woman.
From birth, we are made assuredly. Restricted to a certain length and bulk, but not restricted in capabilities. I seem to wonder though: why all the flesh and streaks of veins and eventually the cap, yes, a cap like that of a Cambodian rice farmer, atop my whole shaft?! Just because of the sludge? Does it make it spurt? Does it add to the flurry of sensation, making it hit home; bam?! Well, thinking of it, that sludge, through one singular vein, could sire millions. I wonder what the human race would have been like were we not have been made. Would they have prospered? Would they have multiplied? Would families have been constituted differently compared to how we know today? Hmm… Kudos to the Creator then.
On the sides though: what was the maker chewing upon when it crouched somewhere in his or her head and he or she decided that just as I and my kin are made, is how we are going to be made? To think that I could have been anything but an object for sticking out and sticking in, I think is quite not ingenious. Varying in length and colour as the case may be, (well, that’s a good thing though) I still find it upsetting that all am made to do is just: stick it out and stick it in.
Disconcerting as I may seem about my use, I take delight in these uses. I could thrust. I could swiggle. I could wriggle. I could mingle. I could even scribble! But the greatest pleasure comes when the juice dribbles down my “spine.”
If you, say, raise me heads up, my drawy sticky juice wouldn’t flow out. For reasons I do not know, I just wouldn’t function that way. But were I to be “rock solid” (the word is ram-rod) in my full glory, slightly tilted like the earth is on its axis, thrusting me harder, then, I’d bet you will reach an height unequalled,ever! (Thank me later for this insight.)
Come to think of it, the sheer thrill I provide in that posture is well documented. Take Louis Hamilton for instance. It leaves him smiling for long periods. Ah! To the bank man! The juice I provide, splashing like perforated lines! One time too, a certain human took me up with such care and warmth then stuck me into a tight conical tract so dark inside that I thought I was snaking down a tube somewhere in an underground London. Trust me, I wiggled, smiggled, tingled, then trickled which in no time made him extract me. Hmm, such delight!
Of all humans, the ones I like most are the type that make me release my priced juice extendedly, over time. (Another insight here: the longer it is delayed the more pleasurable on release!) These ones know how to enjoy life!
Left hand hefted or right hand hefted. My…my…you know….my whole in that hole with enamelled white centurions! Hmm…hmm….
I cannot divulge the other uses have been put to, except of course you wield some sort of Parliamentary Act before my opening. Yup, am sorry I can’t help you there.
Alas, my family has been serving humans since time itself!
By the way, am a pen.