Full dick or get the fuck out.
He stared at
the screen and absorbed Rita’s message, the acknowledgment of his cop-out
deflating Roger’s confidence faster than the flushed, un-full dick that was
still drooped sadly across his knuckles like an ulcer-prone salamander.
Drawing the
blue alien thing/palm tree over it in the photo he’d sent her had been a stupid
gamble, stupid enough for her to forgo an acronym and use proper punctuation in
her response. He’d remembered her telling him about how she, before sending a
pic, would sometimes doodle Pac-Man ghosts skirting across her cleavage, how
she and her friends would turn their nipples into cute rabbit noses or penguin
eyes or a “titmouse,” her favorite pun.
When he
couldn’t find adequately flattering lighting in his bedroom or seated on the
toilet, when he’d only managed to achieve the thin-blooded hard-on of a gun-shy
high schooler, when he’d found it impossible, given the length of his arm, to
get a proper dick selfie angle that wasn’t an anatomy-book close-up but didn’t
provide too much unnecessary perspective, he’d decided to compromise. Life was
compromise. A breast partially obscured by a stick-figure rendition of a
woodland creature was still a breast. He could live with that.
He’d
positioned himself at his computer desk, scrolled through a few of Rita’s newer
college-age Facebook photos, worked himself to a state of slightly less
embarrassing semi-stiffness, gripped the base, extended his phone-wielding arm
and snapped. The image had been fuzzy, the lack of contrast between skin and
white tee making for an indefinite, less than enthusiastic representation of an
appendage that had been deemed above average – either tacitly or explicitly –
by roughly half of those who’d seen it in its engorged majesty.
He’d used
the app’s drawing tool to make a cobalt blue outline around the vital area,
liberally expanding its parameters, then shading it in. He’d added green palm
leaves or antennae on top of the head, and two eyes or coconuts about halfway
down the shaft. Not bad, he’d thought. Whimsical even.
But there
would be no reciprocation.
Doesn’t count since I can’t even see it.
are you racist against blue dicks?
No. a little. come on roger. Full dick or
get the fuck out.
fine, fine.
Roger
listened for noises beyond his locked door, hoping one of his roommates might
need to borrow his laundry detergent or ask why the bottle of Lubriderm was
missing from the bathroom. He glanced out his curtain-less window to see if any
of the ambiguously Asian? guys doing construction on the (much shorter)
adjacent building were having one of their frequent smoke breaks-slash-gawking
sessions but the rooftop was empty except for a pair of plastic bags doing
battle in the breeze. He remembered a movie from a while back where a weird
dude filmed a similar scene and later told his equally weird girlfriend that it
was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. To Roger, the twirling sacks
reminded him of a vague sadness he couldn’t quite place, of hiding from something
under the guise of total freedom.
More
importantly, he had no excuses for Rita, whose ubiquitous emoticons had gone
from tongue-flicking and joyous to now something that looked like a
crying/barfing zombie.
