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I didn't really expect to do what I did last night. I mean, I had thought about it for years. I had dreams. In those dreams, I was spending the night at my friend Morgan's house. It was junior high, and we had spent the evening playing Super Nintendo and eating pizza. And I awoke in the middle of the night, the air conditioning barely beating back the summer heat. I tiptoed down the hallway to the expansive kitchen. In this kitchen, a knife block, full of gleaming Wusthof Tridents. I felt my way across the counter until I felt the cool hardwood, standing tall, oblique. I ran my hands over the handles, settling on the long, full tang of the wide chef's knife. I pulled it out, ran my finger down the blade. A dry, scraping sound, and a ping as I pulled my finger off the blade. It gleamed in the moonlight.
I walked back down the hall to the bedroom. Morgan's bed, a sprawling king, floated on its frame. He was sprawled across its length, the nylon comforter kicked down to the bottom of the bed. In the dim light, his pale body lay akimbo across the dark sheets, his white briefs clinging tight to his ass, gaping softly in front. I reached across his torso and pulled him gingerly onto his back. I wriggled his briefs down around his ankles. His cock was stocky--a dark purple head sticking out from a short squat shaft. His balls, on the other hand, were prodigiously large and splayed languidly from a long, sparsely haired scrotum. I was surprised by the amount of hair gracing his inner thighs--a forest of thin, dark curls. The whole package was beautiful and foreign, nearly opposite of my long, thin rod, my tiny grapelike balls, held tight against my hairless body. He smelled of pollen and steak.
The action of the dream is fairly swift. I bring up the Wusthof, gleaming in the moonlight, press it against his cock, and let its heft do the work. It pressed through the flesh until his penis smoothly comes away from his body in my hand. Because it is a dream, there is no blood, no gore, just a cock in my hand, forlorn, snail-like. I throw it to the side and walk away into the night. Morgan awakes, the next morning, goes to take his morning piss, and only realizes what has happened when his urine sprays, unruly, blood-tinged, from a hole that used to be a penis. He screams and passes out, a boy destroyed. But this is all a dream, following that dream logic that overlooks the real chronology and detail of things. Because last night I awoke, in a cold sweat, from this dream. I had had it so many times before that I knew its paces, knew how the dream branched and shifted. It was hot, brutally hot in the apartment. My air conditioner had died, and I was getting what fitful sleep I could, under the musky sheets on my floor-bound twin mattress. I got up and went to the kitchen, poured myself a tall glass of cold water from the tap. I drank the water, drops falling from the edge of the glass down my body. I awoke slightly. Still in a daze, I felt around the kitchen until I found my Henckels. I felt around until I grabbed the handle of the santoku and slid it from the wooden block. "Fuck you, Morgan" I said, muzzily, as I pulled my flaccid thin cock out from my body, and sliced it away at the base. I held my cock in my hand, now freed from my body. It felt like a snail, a gizzard. I tried to blow through it like a straw. I felt suddenly faint, and realized that I should probably go to sleep again. I also had some premonition of the gravity of this situation. I say this because on my way back to bed I threw my cock down the garbage disposal, and had the wherewithal to turn the thing on. I heard it grind and spurt and return to its neutral high-pitched whine. I reached down and felt the blood running down my leg. I screamed for my roommate and passed out. Needless to say, there wasn't a member to retrieve. When I woke up this morning, a counselor told me what had happened. I felt a little panicked when I realized that I had actually done something that I couldn't undo. I pulled down the sheets and threw off the robe and saw my crotch--a scrotum floating about a network of stitches. It looked weird and sad, and I thought of my cock, getting torn into pulp in the kitchen drain. I retched.
I think I'll learn to love my cocklessness, in time. For now, I wonder how I'll get off, or how I'll piss for that matter. I'm sure it'll work out somehow. Wish me luck. --------------- Let me know what you think of the story!
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