The Trouble with Penises
A Hallowe’en Story

(FF toys <*>)

Father Ignatius

© October 2000

“The problem with penises,” says my fully-liberated, happily-divorced, man-eating friend Vicki, “is that most of them are attached to men.” Attitudes like this meant that, despite prolonged and uneasy fencing around by both of us, we never ended up in bed together. When I married Carol, that became irrelevant, of course. A lost opportunity to be regretted, maybe. Nothing more. Just good friends. An unscratched itch, nevertheless.

Carol wasn’t cool about Vicki. She was uneasy about how matters stood between us and once went so far as to say, “You should have got over each other before we met”. Maybe, but we didn’t and that’s how matters stood, with Vicki and her long string of fucking-friends and me amongst her just-good-friends. Carol had somewhat of a point, but what to do?

Carol’s birthday falls on Hallowe’en which means that she tends to get a pretty oddball selection of gifts. And she’s had more pumpkin-flavoured birthday cakes than most people get. This year, to prove my unflagging physical interest in my beloved wife, or something, I had visited www.adulttoychest.com and ordered her a clingon. It’s categorised under “vaginal enhancement” with a cross-reference under “anal”. They cost a bomb because they’re “individually hand-crafted” out of Pyrex glass by “our select group of artists”. A clingon consists of a combination glass clitoral-and-G-spot stimulator and a glass anal probe. It also has a handle for optional manual manipulation “but it is designed to use the rectal and vaginal muscles to move it hands free”. When the clingon is in place, the handle gives the female wearer the appearance of having an erect, glass penis.

The individual hand-crafting means that it takes three to four weeks to ship. This is because, for each one, the client (in this case, the loving husband) has to provide a series of pelvic measurements to ensure that the product is tailor-made for the designated recipient. I stand before the world and attest that greater love hath no husband than he who shall measure his wife up for an individually hand-crafted Pyrex clingon without spoiling the surprise. Never in the history of human relations can the phrase “Nothing, dear, never mind” have been more abused.

When I saw the price, though, I fell off my chair. That’s surely too much for a gag gift. It is for me, anyway. I wanted to do it, though, and finally convinced myself by throwing a big-spending-customer hissy fit with the suppliers and insisting that they craft the handle in the form of an erect penis. “Yes, sir” they said, “if you want the handle of your clingon to be a glass dildo, for $476.95 you can have one.” Capitalism is wonderful.

They’re annealed for extra strength and you can pre-heat them in warm water before use. This also happens to make them dishwasher-proof, by the way. I know you wanted me to share that. The ad didn’t go there but it did mention that, with proper use, your product “can last for hundreds of years”. I can just imagine my great-grand-daughters claiming dibs on Great-Granny Carol’s clingon. Proper usage starts with safe storage in a padded black drawstring bag.

On Hallowe’en morning, Carol was opening her birthday presents amongst the ruins of the breakfast-in-bed provided by her loving husband. Jodie, our pyjama-ed seven-year-old daughter, was bouncing around the bed excitedly, guessing what was in each of the packages. Carol kept my gift for last as she always does and I skilfully timed Jodie’s breakfast contribution of making fresh coffee in the kitchen so she was out of the room when Carol opened the padded black drawstring bag and drew out the crystal-clear clingon.

“What the fuck is this?” she said, appalled. Maybe she’d been expecting a pearl necklace, or something. Anyway. I handed her the promotional pamphlet and she read through it, jaw hanging.

“Do you think I need to ‘regain a woman’s sensitivity to orgasm with a man during intercourse’?” she enquired.

“Not at all, dear. It says ‘keep and regain’. Keeping I’m hot for.”

Well, she eventually came round to the idea and, giggling, went to the hand-basin to run warm water over it.

“Close the door,” she said. Jodie was still vrotteling around in the kitchen, unhampered by parental interest in coffee. Carol drew her nightdress above her waist as she climbed back in bed. She handed me the clingon and said, “Go on. A gentleman’s prerogative, after all.”

This was a reference to my Granny’s Victorian etiquette that dictates that it is the prerogative of any gentleman who gives a lady a wearable gift to put it on her the first time. This works fine if the gift is jewellery or gloves or a hat but can lead to trouble with her husband when it’s stockings, garters, underwear or even a dress. Ergo, in my Granny’s world, a gentleman gives such gifts only to the lady who is his wife. If he gives her garters, for example, it means he regards her as being less than a lady and, indeed, harbours hopes of being less than a gentleman with her. Etiquette is cool—something for everyone.

Carol lay in bed, legs apart and knees up, scrunching her nightdress under her breasts and peering fascinatedly down as I respectfully nosed the vaginal probe up and down her slot.

“Oooh!” she said, snapping her legs together convulsively.

“Sorry,” we both said together, and laughed. She opened her legs again and was dripping in no time. Artfully, I applied the anal probe to her cunt, slicking it up nicely, pressed the two probes against their target orifices and firmly slid them home. They went in like, well, a cock into a cunt, I guess, and Carol sank back on the pillows, eyes closed. Her hips moved and, fascinated, I watched the tip of the handle-dildo making small movements unaided my me.

The bedroom door burst open. I whipped the covers back up to Carol’s chin in time to cover her but not in time to conceal the tenting caused by the clingon’s handle. Not surprisingly, it looked just like a hard-on under a blanket and I remembered the day, a couple of years back, that Jodie had caught Carol and me fooling around and seen the tenting of the bedclothes over my cock.

“What’s that?” she had piped, accusingly. “What are you hiding under the blanket?”

“Nothing,” said Carol, putting her leg over my thighs to conceal the traumatic evidence that Jodie’s parents have a sex life. Like, saying “Nothing” to a five-year-old is going to fob her off? Hell, five-year-olds invented saying “Nothing” to mean, “Something very interesting”, but Jodie never did get an answer she found satisfactory to her question.

This time, it was my turn to do the leg-over-thigh trick. Jodie rolled her eyes and sighed. “You two have been fooling around again.” Seven going on seventeen—that’s our Jodie. She’s going to be traumatised by that memory one day, you mark my words, unless some nice young man gets his act together and gives her a clingon in time.

“I couldn’t carry the tray in cuz you shut the door,” she accused, bringing it in. There was a Dr. Seuss book on the tray, too. Jodie has firm views on who should be the centre of attention and Carol had exceeded her ration by having a birthday. And, if mum and dad were free to fool around, it was time to re-establish control.

“I want you to read to me,” she whined and climbed into the bed on the other side of Carol from me. Jodie lay in her armpit, forcing a cuddle. I was already doing the same on the other side. Carol was pinned. Jodie opened the book and thrust it under Carol’s eyes.

“Read” she commanded, focussed on the book.

“One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish,” began Carol obediently, with Jodie joining in. Masterfully excluded from the centre of attention, I was left to my own devices to compete as best I could for a share of Carol’s attention. The glass dildo-handle appeared magically under my fingers without conscious volition from me.

“Oh!” said Carol, jumping.

“Mo-mmee!!,” said Jodie exasperated, “It’s, ‘Oh, the thinks you can think’!”

“Yes, child.”

And a competition, with rules instinctively understood, began between me and Carol. If she could get to the end of the book in a normal tone of voice, she had won and was a good mother. If Jodie figured out that I had won the lion’s share of Carol’s attention from her, I had won and was a bad father.

“Not so fast, mommy,” instructed Jodie obliviously as a page whipped hurriedly over and Carol started to gabble.

“Yes, dear,” I said, evilly speeding up my activities with the handle, “Not so fast. read properly to the child.”

Jodie looked triumphantly at Carol, and Carol slowed her reading, choking slightly. I gave her a break by slowing too. She sneakily started speeding up again slowly, thinking I wouldn’t notice but I did, and stepped up my pace to match. She fooled Jodie, though.

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere,” she gabbled and snapped the book closed as her hips started to buck uncontrollably.

“Jodie, Mommy wants to sleep now, like the Zeep, okay? Go with daddy and get dressed before you’re late.”

Okay, she’d won and I wasn’t a bad father. Playing fair, I led Jodie out and closed the door as the creaking of the bedsprings started to become noticeable. I chivvied Jodie into her room, and closed her door, too I stood in the passage listening to the sounds coming from our room.

“Oh, God!” said Carol’s voice, just once, and I heard the bed go quiet. Grinning broadly in the gloomy passage I though I could call the gift a success. I heard Carol get up and walk with shaky feet in the bathroom.

“Oh, shit,” she said, and I heard a thump on the carpet, for all the world as if a substantial Pyrex item had been dropped on the floor.

“Having trouble with that?” I asked, going back in.

“I just need a bit of practice,” she said. “Thanks for the practical and useful gift.” Again with my Granny’s etiquette. And she kissed me.

I got home early from work to get into my costume and take Jodie out trick-or-treating in hers before we went to Vicki’s Hallowe’en party.

“Do we have to go to this damned party?” Carol whined.

“Yes, we accepted ages ago. What’s your problem?”

We both know what the problem is. Carol’s not cool about Vicki.

My costume was a pretty standard skeleton, a thick, black body-stocking with phosphorescent bones painted on it. It was reasonably scary, I guess, and I was admiring how good I looked in in the bedroom closet mirror when I realised that Carol had been ages in the bathroom. Getting in and out of my costume was a mission and I wanted to start the evening with an empty bladder.

“Hoy!” I yelled, beating on the bathroom door. “I need to offer the municipality a urine sample. Shit or get off the pot.”

The door swung open and there stood Carol in her costume. I was amazed. I’d never seen her looking that good, not even on our wedding day. I’d never seen her looking like that, especially on our wedding day.

“Wow,” I said. After a while, I said it again. And, somewhat later, again. Pleased, she strutted past me, modelling her costume. She was dressed like a devil, in tight red body-stocking that revealed her excellent figure in a way that would have Vicki’s male guests foaming at the mouth. From red high-heels to red, horned hood, she was completely covered in red, except for her little, round nun’s face smirking mischievously at my mouthing admiration.

A red devil’s tail sprouted from her coccyx and squirmed down between her buttocks. She had the barbed tail hooked over her arm and she struck a sexy pose at me, showing off the pièce de resistance of her ensemble—a rearing, perpetually hard, red devil’s cock, proudly pushing out its own special pocket in her body-stocking. She was wearing the damned clingon to Vicki’s Hallowe’en party. Fuck.

“Just so’s you don’t forget who you came in with, huh?” she said, and off to the party we went.

We made the mistake of arriving too early before enough drink had been drunk and before the shop-talking, sport-talking boringness had been washed away in alcohol to reveal the party animal beneath.

The sexes had segregated in obedience to tradition and, ho hum, the women were talking about cooking at one end of the room and the men were talking of sport at the other. A woman who, at some previous party, had emptied the room by talking about different ways of preparing rice, was now holding the floor on the virtues of maize flour. How a woman like that gets invited to Vicki’s parties is amazing. She’'s really not Vicki’s type. I assume blackmail is involved somehow.

At the other end, the men were discussing the final of the synchronised swimming at the Sydney Olympic Games. Vicki, who despises cookery, sport and sexual segregation with approximately equal passions, was nowhere to be seen. Not the anxiously-hovering hostess, she.

“How do they keep together underwater when they can’t hear the music?” someone was asking.

“They broadcast underwater, of course,” I said, drawing attention to our arrival. That stopped all conversations. Carol’s costume was the sensation of the evening, no doubt about it. Vicki materialised, dressed like a slut in obedience to her own Hallowe’en tradition, and took Carol by the arm.

“Thank God for one interesting guest,” she said to Carol and looked unflatteringly at me. “Run away and talk about sport with the grown-up little boys, dear,” she dismissed me.

The grown-up little boys had an interesting conversation about how the gold medal winners in the synchronised swimming reminded them of The Billy Girls in the third series of Allie McBeal. There was some salacious exploration of the topic of what else in their lives they might do in unison.

“I bet they even give their urine samples in synch,” said one wit. That was enough for me. I set off in search of diversion and wickedness.

I found it in Vicki’s bedroom where Carol was fucking her with the clingon.

“This is the best birthday present I ever got,” she gasped. “If you can get out of that costume, you can come and join in.”

Vicki ’phoned me at work the next day and said, “Yup, I’ve been right all along. All it needs to make a libertine is a penis.”

• Thank you for reading me.
• I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@ANTISPAMananzi.co.za , about whether or not you liked this story or not, and why.
• My collected stories are hosted on my web site.
• Thanks to DrSpin for the editing, advice and encouragement and to Denny for meticulous proofreading.
• The original version of this story was written in three hours as a Write Club duel with Jimmy Hat refereed by DrSpin. Thanks, Jimmy; thanks, Spin.
• The Challenge Words were:

  Jimmy Hat	thump libertine flour
  Father Ignatius	Hallowe’en clingon toothpick
  DrSpin	underwater synchronised swimming urine sample