Slip of a Knife
My penis gets cut off in an accident. But I don’t know what kind of accident it is. Am I chopping vegetables and do I miss? Do I miss the carrot or celery stick, miss the cutting board entirely and sever the stick in my pants? Does the momentum of my arm carry the blade all the way past the counter and through the stalk of my dingus?
Or is it some other kind of accident? A sex-game accident? That would be more likely. It would be easier to lose your penis in a sex game than in salad preparation. Maybe my partner and I are engaging in knife play. Or tomahawk play. The tomahawk would be more suited than a knife to my identity as a person of color. In the guise of a native American, I will wield the tomahawk, and maybe it will be my turn first. And since I cannot go for a penis — since my sex partner has none — I will go for a breast. But I won’t really cut it off — that would be wrong. I’ll just pretend to cut it off — that is hot.
When it is my partner’s turn, she can’t go for the breast — since I have none — so she’ll go for the penis. But maybe the feathered headdress falls over her eyes and her hand slips and actually chops off the pecker.
Luckily, I’ll still have my testicular basket. This is not a story about (dare I say it?) castration. I am no castrato. My voice is still low, which helps when I am mistaken for a woman. I can say, “Did you call me ma’am?” or “Are you talking to me?” in my deepest voice when a counterman or clerk addresses me as a woman. And the server might say, “Oh, sorry, I saw you out of the corner of my eye,” or “I’m talking to you now.” But I’ll be ticked off anyway, because what is it that makes people see my gender as female? Is it my stature? Or is it my hair? Probably both: my short stature and my puffy hair.
I just don’t have a schlong anymore. I don’t have a sausage that is long. That’s probably not what schlong means, however. It doesn’t mean “sausage that is long.” It probably just means “trouser snake.” I don’t have a one of those, either. When I open my pants, no snake strikes. The good thing is, I can’t catch my trouser snake in my zipper by mistake. I won’t have to dance around swearing, “Sheesh and Scheisse, I’ve pinched my Schlosse!” I won’t have to do the dance of the damaged dingus. I won’t have to look for a pair of pliers to free my pinched pecker. The pliers can stay where they are in the toolbox, safe from the hands of a fucknut like me.
Thaddeus Rutkowski’s work has appeared in the anthologies Between the Cracks (Daedalus) and The Unbearables Big Book of Sex (Autonomedia). He received the Apollinaire Award for prose poetry from the Erotic Authors Association, and his e-books are available from Renaissance E Books, Berkeley, Calif.
(Next BAD SEX story: Plaza Trinidad by Noa Sivan)
(Previous BAD SEX story: Ad Augusta per Augusta by Mark Budman)
Feel like submitting? Check out our submission guidelines
(Picture by Charaf-ed-Din)