For several weeks afterward, I came home on my lunch breaks, and while you were at work at the Baklava Warehouse over in Glendale, I practiced new and (what I thought would be) complicated methods of “creative pecker play” there in front of our bedroom mirror, by myself.
     I developed a technique of performing a “Three Stooges”-like scenario around my penis, in much the same manner as they chased each other around a couch, with the penis acting as Curly, my balls playing Larry and my right hand as Moe – obviously. We both used to laugh at how mean he could be to his brothers! Wait – were they his brothers? Now I can’t remember. You were always the one who could clear up such mysteries. Oh well. I was impressed with my own apparent brilliance, to say the least, having devised such play-acting rituals. Truly “creative,” wouldn’t you agree? I did the “wubwubwubwub” that so often came out in the frenetic falsetto from the high-strung
Curly directly before receiving a beating from Moe. I lifted my balls up either inside my inguinal canal or up and under my legs where I would tuck them in between my butt cheeks. Larry was always the scared but calm one who seemed to be able to get away from Moe, so it made perfect sense to me to hide my balls. When I did the reverse tuck (which I opted for most of the time), I would turn around and bend over to see what it looked like in the mirror, and decided to call this Part 2 section of my pecker play “Oops I sat in hairy gum!” Back to the Stooges. I’m so bad at staying focused! Aarrgh! You were right about that, Sweetheart. And I’m sorry. But what really worked about my act, if you want to know the truth, was the labored “Why You” that I started just like Moe from the side of my mouth right as I began flogging my penis with all the confidence of a toilet plunger in a plumbing factory. I mean, real confidently. For the grand finale, I would hum the ending notes of the Stooges theme song, emitting a steadily timed stream of semen onto the mirror, ending with the “da da da duh – da duh.” You know the song I mean, Honey – it was always your cue to get up and use the bathroom on those late Saturday mornings when we’d stay in bed watching tv.
     Sometime soon after that, I decided I was ready. I tucked a couple of cans of Old Milwaukee into my leather coat and went down to the Friction Booth. I didn’t recognize anyone there at first, but soon enough I noticed that the cook from the House of Pancakes (the one we ate in last June every weekend when we had the kitchen re-done) was there. What was his name? I forget. He must have come directly from IHOP because he still had that floppy white hat on with the “Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity” button flair pinned to it. And Mr. Hilton from those bird painting classes you took down at the park was there. He took a while to register in my head, but then I remembered the Baltimore Orioles baseball cap he always wore, and when he took it off later on during the session to launch his entire load right into it, I realized it was indeed him. He didn’t spill a drop or anything! You would have been so impressed because, if I recall correctly, you always used to come home from that class and tell me stories about how the old guy would consistently spill his paint jars on the floor. So strange, how sometimes you can be so wrong, and other times, you can’t help but get it right. Right as he put the cap back on, I saw some white jizz dribble down his left temple as the wet stain began to seep through the black space behind the bird. I thought for a second that it looked like the bird had taken a shit on his head! But that’s going too far, I suppose. He didn’t care either way, though – he just brushed the goo back into his sideburns and behind his ear, readjusting his cap pretty much the same way Cal Ripken did in every game he ever played. And I know you know what I mean! Aren’t you glad now that I made you sit through so many baseball games? Otherwise, you’d have no idea what I was just referring to.