The Prick With No Prick

How do I begin the tale of the prick with no tail, the prick with no prick, the real prick? The middle of the story is already revealed: the prick has no prick. I could begin at the end and roll back like a fading orgasm, or start when the prick was born in the 1970s. Maybe I could poll you for the better of the two paths to launch this prick-less story. Why don’t you click on any prick to start the story from the start, or on any other word to die first and then live. I can wait a bit.

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The poll was a slide for the beginning first. When the end is known, the beginning loses its grasp and slides into a stark start. Still, the latter would have been more literary, more fiction-doesn’t-imitate-art, though it’s a stretch to call this art. Yet, whether you like it or not, porn can be art. I find it out every day and every night.

The prick in question — let’s call him Myles — was born, like most pricks in the famed 70s, with a spoon, or was it a fork, up his ass. Silver was scarcer than oil and thus the spoon was plastic, white like a toilet bowl and expendable like a soldier’s life. Fucking plastic will eventually kill most life on this lapis-lazuli planet, unless the planet kills us first. We already know that story from beginning to end.

Myles, the prick, had a mild childhood. A few minor issues here and there, several good friends, ordinary parents and siblings, and a prick-less personality. He was accommodating with everyone save perhaps his prick, which took a beating every day: snow, rain or shine, morning or night, alone, hand to prick or prick to hand, a match made, like life, in the stars.

Myles, the prick, grew, his prick too, until they reached an optimal height and length. Myles, the prick, passed the six-feet-tall peak and his prick penetrated the six-inches-plus province. Then, after several successful interfaces with young women his age, Myles, still a prick nonetheless, met Olivia, the woman of his prick; I mean, his dreams. His prick-less existence was sealed but the delivery, I know, was late.

There’s something wrong with my little prick which affects the big prick in many ways, Myles, the prick, told Olivia on their first date. We’ve heard and or read it before. Some of us even typed about it. What a bunch of pricks! For the women that composed about it, it applies to the pricks whom they knew or lived with. What poor women, having to put up day in and day out with a prick! Life is unfair. You never hear about a prick having to bear with a pussy. Bare it? By all means. It’s show and don’t tell, though some pricks do tell as if they knew how to type, as if they knew how to prick without a prick. Dangling pricks!

I would have been a lesbian had I been a woman, Myles, the prick, told Olivia on their second date. Wait! What happened in the first date? Did she get up and leave? Why don’t you type the story, then? You can even answer your questions. Are you referring to me, the reader? Is there someone else here? It’s me and you as far as the text can see. I type, you read. It’s a simple relationship. You can even highlight and clap. And if you’re touched or tickled, you can even send a message of some kind. Like You blew me away. Did I, now? I didn’t feel anything. The words can be warm, sometimes boiling, but the text is often cold, black on white. It’s the reason why I prefer blue. And not only blue on white. Blue on every damn thing! Blue insights. Blues. Peacocks. A blue existence similar to the one in, A String Theory (linked at the bottom). Did I digress? You’re only the reader, my reader. I supply the words and perhaps some stressful solace.

“You obviously don’t like men,” replied Olivia on the second date. “Should I too refer to my little pussy as affecting the big pussy?” replied Olivia on the first date. Olivia was wild! Olivia was born in Oklahoma! You can do the word-tracing. It’s not math.

Had Myles, the prick, been standing, Myles, the prick, would have sat down. What a prick thing to say! And Olivia said it. Which one? Are you typing again in your head? Both, of course! How can Olivia compare the little prick to the perfect pussy, which in the case of the latter, is perfection itself! What is more perfect than a little tight pussy? Two tight ones! That’s the easy retort. You could, at least, have replied, a tight pussy in love with a prick. I would have typed, I am typing, you’re reading, a tight pussy in love with another tight pussy. What blissful reverie! And a woman isn’t a big pussy. Only a prick can be a big prick.

It’s rather easy to surmise that since they had a second date, the first one couldn’t have been as bad as you read, that is unless Olivia felt sorry for Myles, the prick, and accepted to see the prick again. You can pick the right prick. I won’t type anything else about it because I don’t care. Bear with me! Or is it, bare with me? Both work but one is better.

I do like some pricks. I even call them men, continued the prick, on their second date (fuck the first date for now).

“Which men do you like?” asked Olivia.

Some, I even love. Nietzsche, Freud, Charlie Chaplin, Woody Allen, and Hitchens are the first five. Would you have known that I was referring to Charlie Chaplin had I only said Chaplin? asked the prick.

“Of course! I don’t think that I know any other Chaplin.”

How about just Allen?

“It’s a shorter word. Perhaps more commonly used. So, no! Unless I associated the Allen with the Chaplin preceding it. So, yes! Perhaps.

You are the woman of my dreams, replied the prick, his face more emotional than a chihuahua chasing a leg. You’re pretty amazing, you’re beautiful, and you admire Charlie Chaplin. Do you prefer a spring wedding or one in October when trees shed their tears? asked the prick.

Why don’t you call him Myles? It’s his name. I’ll let this question pass, but only because you’re not an editor. At least I hope that you’re not. I refer to him as the prick because once a prick always a prick, no matter the given or adopted name associated with his prickhood. I don’t know about you, but I’m a prick too. It’s not a type name, not a pseudonym.

“We’ve just met but I’m flattered that you want to spend the rest of your life with me,” replied Olivia.

Are we set or do we need a third date? asked the prick.

“It takes only two to tango,” replied Olivia.

Do you remember our previous date? asked the prick.

“Yes! It was also our first!” replied Olivia.

Yes, my dear Olivia. There was the issue of the two pricks. One little. One big. I’m the little one. He’s the big, said the prick pointing to his prick.

“Oh,” replied Olivia, smiling and lowering her bluest eyes.

Do you want to see it? asked the prick.

“Here?” replied Olivia.

In the washroom, in the car, in the garage, at your place, in the tub, yes, in the tub, anywhere else you wish, my dear Olivia! Does it really matter? replied the prick.

“You’re right. Here, then!” replied Olivia.

Here, in the restaurant where there are no people? What a great idea! replied the prick.

“What do you mean there are no people?” asked Olivia.

I meant other people. I can only see the two of us, replied the prick. What a prick!

“Wow! You have a good answer for everything. Answer me this, then! What is your real name?” asked Olivia.

My dear, Olivia! And pretty amazing, and beautiful, and admires Charlie Chaplin! Will you marry me? replied the prick. What a prick!

“Are you writing a play?” replied Olivia.

I’m actually working on one titled, Pornman: The Man Who Lived in Porn (also linked at the bottom). But I may turn it to a novel, or a series of funny tails and worshiped pussies facing the world together, having fun like kids who believe that to be an adult is better. We were stupid. Sorry! Uneducated. I want to be four again. Life was mostly fun. Life is now mostly life, replied the prick. What a p..rick!

“I Knew it. I’m educated. I’m not a dumb blond,” replied Olivia.

Thank all the gods from Egypt to the USA and beyond! I only love redheads, replied the prick. And you’re a pretty amazing, and beautiful, and admires Charlie Chaplin redhead. You’re a gift from heaven, added the prick. This prick is going to kill me. I need a break. The story may change.

The keto bar was good. You eat one and you’re Good to Go. Olivia looked pissed. But her eyes became teal-blue. Is that colour even possible? Any heaven would have to include a section in that colour. I think that I fell in love with her eyes. What a prick! I’m back.

“We’re not in a play or whatever it is that you’re writing, and you didn’t tell me your name,” replied Olivia.

But we are in a tale (no pun yet), my dear Olivia. I’ll stop there. But my state may entail some of you forever and ever.

“Oh! I don’t know what to say. Except that I’ll go out with you on a third date,” replied Olivia.

I’m still a prick with no prick. Remember that! said the prick.

“What do you really mean? You have a prick. You wanted to show it to me everywhere. What is your name?” then asked Olivia.

I am who I am. I’m Pornman. I wish. I’m a little prick attached to a big prick who thinks that it’s the prick. Nothing more! Nothing no less! I’m Sasportas. I can open many doors. Perhaps six at a time. It’s in my name. Maurice Sasportas.

“What a lovely name!” said Olivia.

Olivia your-last-name Sasportas sounds healthy.

“Olivia Saks Sasportas sounds more like the name of a porno film,” replied Olivia.

So, you don’t care for porno. What if I was Pornman! Would you care, then?

“I think that you’ve just cancelled our third date,” said Olivia.

I told you that I was a prick with no prick.

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