Tyler Knight

PENI’s factory floor is the sound of a radio stuck between stations. The hollow expanse’s air is flavored with the drone of machinery spritzed with Spanish. White noise of Southern California Industry. Workstations are islands of fluorescent light floating in a sea of blackness that stretch across the work floor. Workers mill about the second-tier, wooden loggia bringing supplies down to the floor below.

Industry in this particular factory is sewing vinyl pubes on “Vanessa Velvet’s Vice-like Vagina”, rumpling rubber foreskins, and attaching “nubbed-for-your-pleasure anal-tract A to sphincter B; rotate 20° counterclockwise until click.”

The Artisan’s workstation is situated on the periphery of the action, unique from the others in that it’s an island of shadow. A child-sized man is hunched over in deep concentration, jeweler’s loupe squinted tight in his eye, he peers through the opening of the halo-lamp at his work. He paints his prize with the zest of a teen brushing a pinstripe on a model Corvette. Hands steady, he is a master craftsman putting on his finishing touches. Except in his case the car is a latex dildo and the stripe he is painting on a vein. The master finishes his task before setting his brush down and placing the loupe in its worn leather case. He stands.

Eyes cast down, he moves toward us through the station as if remembering where he buried the land mines. He moves in labored steps, the fluorescent lights beat upon his narrow shoulders, seeming to diminish him before my eyes, like a cup of hot tea shrinking a chip of ice. He stops, eyes scan from face to face until settling on mine. He stares as if burning every detail to his retina.

Jen introduces us, says she’ll be back when it’s time to do the body cast and leaves. Stan stays.

The sex-toy artisan hands me a magazine and some Vaseline and tells me to go behind a curtain hanging at the end of his station and to let him know when I’m ready. Stan looks like he’s going to follow me but the murder in my eyes stops him cold.

It’s a leg fetish magazine. Not my third choice but it gets the job done. When I emerge, I follow the man to the factory floor, not breaking stride as I stroke to keep the erection going.

I’m instructed to lay on the table, I do. The craftsman hands me a plexiglass tube which I insert over my stiffy. He has a bucket of a gummy, viscous solution he’s whisking with a painter’s stir-stick. He then pours the material through the open end of the tube and onto my genitals. The sensation feels as though I’m being buried in cold, wet mud. He tells me it is extremely important to hold the tube still so that my penis does not move while the solution sets. As the mixture dries, I feel its weight. There is a tightening sensation around my dick, like a fist clinching deliberate and slow. The feeling is transitory, going from the periphery of perception to a very fleeting stage of “Hey, this shit ain’t half bad”, to the discomfort of a shoe a full size too small. Just as it starts to strangle the Artisan says it’s set. He gives the tube a tug and my dick comes out with a hushed schtooop. Stan gets a close up of this.

First mold done, I’m instructed to roll on my belly. More workers rush in with buckets and get to work while the Maestro barks orders. Cloth soaked in plaster of Paris is then layered on my back from my lower lats, across my ass, and to mid-hamstring. It feels the same as wet washcloths. This takes considerably longer than the dick-in-a-tube mold to dry.

Bottom half done, the cast is removed and I’m rotated onto my back by the assistants with the efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew.

Yeah, there is no fucking way I could get and stay hard without help for the front part of the casting. I can’t believe these people would even make a this a point of contention. It’s win-fucking-win if they get the best cast possible from me, right?

El Maestro tells me he is going to fetch Jen who will then get my fluffer.

She’s here? That was fast. I’ll bet they had her on the way the entire time. Christ, what the fuck was all the hemming and hawing about? I’m tired of these fucking mind games.

The crew starts plastering the non vitals and I’m counting my chicken-head ho’s before they smoke crack. I do the running man in my head.

Fluffer time!

Jen peeks her head in the station, goes out to the floor and shouts a command in Spanish. The factory workers stop and through the shadows, a woman of a certain age comes forward, wiping her hands on her apron.

Fuck my life.

Jen, heels clicking, trots over to a group of less battle-hardened factory girls, spreads her arms like a horse whisperer and corrals them into a tight group. The chicas look bewildered the way cows get when they’re in line and they can only hear the crackling sizzle but can’t quite see the electric killing-lance around the corner. Jen isolates one girl and rustles her over.

The Girl. This black-haired, sun-toasted chica can tell me in Spanish to stick my cabeza in an oven and my skull is a skillet. More ass than brain, the girl looks like she back-hand slapped some director named Rodrigo, walked off a Mexican soap opera set and didn’t stop strutting her sweet ass til she got to America. Parchment-thin jeans are shrink-wrapped over her camel-toe, keeping it vacuum sealed for freshness. Her t-shirt, hanging there on pissed-off aspirin-hard nipples, is begging for a super soaker gun.

Hey, pervert. Yes, you there, all up in my brain. If you were to interpret my thought, “she can’t possibly be legal” to mean, “she can’t possibly be legal” or “she can’t possibly be legal” The answer is: Yes.

The Woman. A low-to-the-ground, Weeble Wobble shaped specimen with canteens half-filled with sand for tits and features sandblasted by many seasons of desert wind. She could have ridden with Pancho Villa.

There ought to be a law.

I say to Jen, “What the fuck, man! I asked for a fluffer and you give me a tapped-out migrant worker with skin-flaps-for-tits and some underage Sponge Brain, Tight Pants?”

“I speak English,” says The Girl.

Oops.

“Sorry.”

“You should be,” The Girl says.

Jen snickers and leaves.

The more…seasoned of the two ladies, without any more comment than a Jack o’ lantern smile, scoops a three-fingered gob out of Vaseline from the container and smears it on my cock. The girl does not seem to be experienced. She’s resorted to interpretive dance which is supposed to pass for a slow tease mixed with cheerleading the old woman in a dial-a-date voice. While I’m on a roll, I say something sensitive like:

“Stop talking, pull your pants down and show me your ass.”

I know I’m self absorbed but I still wonder if these women had any idea that this day would come when they filled out the application. I’m the only one that’s hung up on the situation because both of the women take to their duties of giving me, some strange dude, my jollies without complaint. Because some skinny bitch in a suit told them to. Just like that.

Another fulfilling day at work. You never know what adventures you face on the job working for the man the U.S of A; cleaning toilets or stroking phat-negro cock. But hey, God bless America, right?

Doesn’t take much to get me hard again cuz that’s just the kind of buck-toothed pervert I am. The women back away from the cock and the crew rushes in does their thing.

The crew is working, I cup a handful of young-girl ass and ask two questions?

“How old are you? Swell. After this is over, you want to go somewhere and fuck?”

Why the fuck not? She’s already handled the package, right?

The crew has gone, taking the casts and my ipso-facto commitment to PENI with them. The Girl and The Woman stay.

Somebody forgot to tell The Woman the job is over and she pounces on the dick. The mastery of her hands is unsettling; each twisting downward stroke sends sparks shooting through my shaft sending my jaw slack. She is stroking me way past the point of pleasure. The place where any normal man would have long since surrendered control and just release but I hang on where it’s uncomfortable. I still have this hang up about what’s going on in my head but this moment, I am hers. No silly nom de guerre to hide behind. No on-screen alter-ego bravado bullshit. I’m just Eric. And I’ve got nowhere to hide. She double-fists me, the slick, wet schlip of her hands dripping with Vaseline goo is warm with the friction. I’m in a place I have not been since I was half my height. Actually, stature isn’t relevant because like now, I took my medicine laying down.
—–

Why is there a jar with popsicul sticks in it but no popsiculs? I feel so hot. I realy want a popsicul now. That would be nice becuse my throat is so scrachy. My favorite popsiculs are blue. Blue tatses the best. I can put it on my head becus its cold and my head is very very hot.

That skelitin is kinda funny looking. Not scary like the ones in the hawnted house at Haluween time. Maybee its a good skelitin and the nurse has him hear to protect me til she gets back. I wish it can protect me from that fat Chris Burke. Hes mean and he has a big bellie. My bellie hurts. Chris and the other kids are gonna make fun of me becus I throo up in class. I hate him. I wish he– here comes the ners.

“Hi, Eric,” she says.

“Hi.”

I sit in a chair. She stands in front of me. I look down.

“Mrs. Cutts tells me you’re not feeling well today. Is that right?”

Mrs Cutts told on me to the ners that I messed up the floor. I dont want to get in more troubil so I better tell the truth. I didnt mean to throw up on the floor. I hope I dont get on punishmint.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I look at my shoes. They have some mud on them becus I steppd in a puddil when Chris pushed me. But I didnt fall down.

The nurse goes and gets a buncha stuff from the desk and says, “There’s nothing to be sorry about. These things happen, Eric. When you don’t feel well you really should tell somebody. You can’t always be so quiet.”

When I speak up in class the other kids make fun of me when I dont know the anser and they laff and I wish I was in my bed.

“Eric?”

“Yea.”

“Your mother will be here to pick you up soon,” She says.

“Are you gonna tell my mom I throo up in class? She will be very mad at me,” I say.

“Yes, I just called your mother. Like I said, she’s coming to pick you up.”

“Can you tell her Im sorry I messd up the floor. She will be mad that she hasta come and get me becus she says work is very hard an her boss is very mean.”

She says, “Don’t worry. When your mommy was a little girl I’m sure she threw up in class too. Now take off your pants and hop up on the paper. I have to take your temperature.”

I take off my shoes and pants and hop up on the tabul like she told me too.

“Ok,” I say.

Why do I hafta take off my pants to take my tempacher?

“Can I stay til after my dad gets home?” I ask.

“Here,” she says, “let me help you up on the table.” She helps me up. “Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do you want to stay here until after your daddy gets home?”

I swing my feet. My socks have a big hole in the big toe. They dont match. I say, “Becus hes always in a bad mood when he gets home from work.”

And he will get very mad at mommie becus she left her job to get me and that will reely make him yell becus they always fite over monie.

The ners sits next to me. She is prity. Her hair is kinda yellow. I feel reely sad.

And then hes gonna come and get me becus my secrit hiding place does not work becus he always finds me.

She looks very sad to. “Eric, remember when you came in here after you fell down and I made you feel all better?”

“Yea. Chris pushd me down.”

She puts her arm round me. “Remember what I told you?”

“Um. That we have the same birfday and that makes us frends.”

“Yes,” she says. “You can come to me about anything that’s bothering you, remember?”

Her feet dont touch the floor also. My head hurts reely bad. My bellie hurts to.

“Yea.”

“We got Chris to stop picking on you too, right?”

“Yeah. Sorta.”

I like ners. She is reely nice to me. And prity like mom but she does not yell at me when I make mistaks. I like her yellow hair. Stacy Silvestry has yellow hair to. Stacy called me fuzzy bear becus she said my hair looks funny and something about vellcrow? I askd her what is vellcrow but she didnt anser me. Ners has a realy big…um… chest. I better not look. She will get mad.

“Can you come home with me?”

“I’m sorry, honey.” she says. “I have my own children at home waiting for their mommy.” She smiles.“How about you stop by my office to visit after school, okay?” She hops down. “Now lay on your belly, ok? I’m going to pull down your underwear.”

I lay on my belly.

Why is she rubbing Vasuleen on the thumomiter? That skelitin looks like he is smiling. Hes funny.

“My goodness! What are all these bruises on your bottom?”

“I forget.”

When I knocked over the lamp dad got for Chrismas and it fell and broke and I tried to glue it back together before dad came home but I couldnt get the peeses to fit. Then when I pressd I broke some peeses some more. Then dad was home and he asked me what happened and he told me if I tell the truth he would not get mad. I told him and he got mad. I said thats not fair becaus he didnt tell the truth but I had to. Then he reely reely got mad. I askd mom to help me becus she was thear too but I dont think she heard me.

“I see,” she says. “We’ll talk about this after we take your temperature. Now relax.” She sounds reely sad.

Why is she putting the thumomiter in the wrong place? My mommie puts it in my mouth.

She says, “Eric, I need you to relax.”

“Im trying.”

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Your safe with me.”

I feel funny. I feel like I hafta go to the bathroom. I hope I dont have an acsident becus she wont want to be my frend anymore. Shes reely reely prity. And nice to me. I feel funny.

“Good boy.” She talks soft to me. Like shes gonna read me a story. She rubs my hair. I like it. “Just hold still for a minute.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a very captivating, Eric.” She laffs. She has a nice laff. “Don’t worry, that’s good. It means you’re interesting.”

“Thank you.”

I feel funny down there like when Stacy hugged me and then she kissed me on the bus.

She takes the thumomiter out and frowns. She says, “Well, you have a fever but don’t worry, we’ll make you all better. Let’s get you off the table and put your clothes back on. I’ll see if we can find you a lollypop, okay?”

Oh no! If I get up she will see that it is standing up too and she will get mad at me becus she will think that I want to kiss her like Stacy kissed me!
—–

La Maestra (The Woman) reads the conflict written all over my face. I’m running through my mind opening rooms in search of my stoic mask is but it’s fruitless, she’s behind every door I open.

“Shhhh. Calmase,” she purrs. Her voice and the rhythm of her hands lulls.

And I feel…safe.

My body relax my body one muscle at a time, melting into the her petroleum-jelly slicked hand. The tug-of-war for Oedipus’s ghost is lost, I let go. She slays me. I empty into her hands with all the shame of eating meat on Lent.

La Maestra wipes her hands on her apron and rubs a hand through my hair. Her voice is soft. It’s nice. So nice, it takes me a moment realize the girl has vanished. Like a freshly-turned-30 Hollywood ingénue, you don’t notice she’s faded off the lips of conversation until she’s long gone.

I’m back in the Artisan’s station. He’s gone for the day. My clothes are folded on a table with a copy of the receipt I signed on top. Next to the table is a gift basket full of PENI merchandise. After I dress I root through the basket. A clear-pink stapler, a clear-pink tape roll, A penis pump, a box with a picture of a blonde with parted legs. The copy on the box says “The Mold of My Molten Muff Will Melt You.”

These copy editors are morons.

I’m digging the next item out from the bottom of the basket when someone kicks the back of my knee and I nearly dig a semicircle of snapped-off teeth in the concrete.

Stan says, “Ha ha, Dude! I can’t believe you actually got hard for that old hag. She looked like that woman selling bananas on the side of the freeway.”

In my vulnerable state, emotions and hormones still coursing through my veins, it takes borrowed strength to restrain myself from stamping his ass return-to-sender.

“Now is not a good time, Stan,” I say.

His tongue, day-glo orange, flicks the air like a snake to punch his point, lest I misunderstand his cleverness. He is close enough so that when he laughs I smell Cheetos vapors on his breath, “You got jerked off by fruit lady and liked it!”

“STAN!”

I close my eyes.

Birds warbling. My hand in a rolling meadow picks a happy violet.

Kill. Don’t-kill. Kill. Don’t-kill. Kill-

I open my eyes in time to see his heel lifting up and vanishing around the station corner.

I pick up the bag again.

A thought claws it’s way into my mind but I slam that door shut and prop a chair against the knob. The thought puts a shoulder into it, the door buckles and cracks. I run to my secret hiding place.

The last items in the gift basket are a latex, rough-cast of my penis — and t-shirt. I look at the t-shirt and then to my test clone, working the first half of the joke to go with punchline in my hand when-

The door explodes, sending splinters of wood across the room. Through the horizontal slit of my hiding space, I see them enter the room. Straight to me. I’m dragged from my warren under the armoire without effort.

My replicants. Flimsy knock-offs of a cheap copy of a real man. My father. Each generation doomed to lose a bit more soul til there’s no trace in the latest translation.

Without words, I know the query.

The very example of what life isn’t poses the question; what’s it like to be alive, to someone whom often wishes he wasn’t.

End.

Share on Facebook

Tweet This Post

Tagged: Creative Memoir