Fiction and Poetry 3am Magazine Contact Links Submission Guidelines
Literature
Arts
Politics
Nonfiction
Music

 
   
 
 


LEW, EXCESS PENIS

by

Scott Bickmore

When I first met Louise, I didn't tell her my secret. I never told anyone at first. It was a hard thing to understand. It took months, sometimes up to a year of gradually leading them to the truth in my pants. I had to play games. I had to tease them. It was my only option. I loved women still. I just realized it at an awkward time. After years of consultations and role-playing, it took having my genitals split and inverted to finally achieve the certainty I needed. But the certainty was more important. I'm thankful for that. It could always be worse, I tell myself. I still have desires. I still have something. I transcend the pathos. The way I see it, I entered into a whole new world that's complicated, and challenging. Most people hate their lives. They deny it, but the prospect of a new life, starting over, appeals to the best of them. I got that. I found a way. I walk around, still a man. I have a man's heart. I look like a man, the kind of man most women want. I'm clean. I'm tall. I have piercing eyes. I flirt with my fears, and come off as someone without any. They love it. They come right over. Or I go over there, and they end up following me around the rest of the night. They want to follow me back to my place or their place. But I won't. There's a process I have to take them through. I was taking Louise through it. Like with a dozen or so before her, I was orchestrating all the complex connections she would have to make, the nuances, the tiny thoughts that can shatter old beliefs, and open a heart to a unique world. You lead them there. You lead them well, and they'll follow. Anyone. Most people are dying to. Each follows in her own special way, but follows nevertheless. I was getting worried about Louise, though. She seemed to be going too far. Floodgates were opening. She might surpass her acceptance of me, and just end up a lesbian. That would be okay in most cases, doing her that favor, shedding off all that tedious culture. But maybe I had broken this one down too much, because anything I would say would take hold, and take over. She was latching on. She was becoming a leech. And for the first time, I wasn't terrified or dying to tell her. I felt that telling her would commit me to her desperation for life; and to think, at that first meeting, she had seemed like the hardest to break, the most confident, my biggest challenge, the one for me. I worked hard. It took persistence and cunning and a certain something, and then finally, there she was, served up for me, by my own genius hand, her vagina aching, her writhing on the bed naked, suspecting strongly, but wanting it either way, whatever it was, whoever I was. I was disgusted, I kept thinking, by the fear and desire in her eyes. I was disgusted with what put it there. I wanted to start a new life again. I wanted the old one back. I wanted to stop manipulating them, and give them their turn. It was like having a pipe burst inside me, and the life was leaking out. Or I was just being dramatic. I recognized the feeling. I got it every time. I just forget, I guess. I grabbed her hand, like I had so many times, taunting her. But this time, I guided it in. And I drew the time out cruelly. I might've taken an hour. But she accepted it. She was well into my world, and eventually she entered me. Every inch of her seemed to be quivering. She rolled me over. She licked me passionately, and I felt nothing. I thought I had felt something through her earlier. Just seeing the quivering, the breathing--that would usually do something.

But it didn't this time.






ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Scott Bickmore is a Rhodes Scholar and he wants to eat your face.








home | buzzwords
fiction and poetry | literature | arts | politica | music | nonfiction
| offers | contact | guidelines | advertise | webmasters
Copyright © 2005, 3 AM Magazine. All Rights Reserved.