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Elmore Snoody
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The Hipster

 

Elmore Snoody

 

 

The man went into the restaurant to order a beer and a hamburger. He sipped at the cool one, enjoying his beverage. A teenage boy passed by the table—he couldn’t have been more than 19. Naked, he probably looked like Michelangelo’s David—with a rock-hard torso, and a tight scrotum to boot. And that little penis, how our M. de Charlus longed to fondle it!

 

Well, now, the man thought, sipping at his . . . fermented barley and oats inside a glass. He looked at the boy, with a shuddering intuition inside him that his time was running out.

 

“Hey, kid,” he said— immediately thinking of leveraging his ability to get beer or drugs to entice this young hottie—“would you like a . . . cocktail in the form of . . . Mead?”

 

The kid looked at the degenerate Falstaff. Was this a bad joke? the teenager thought. And he immediately turned and walked away from the pervert, continuing on his way.

 

“No!” the dirty old bastard called after the boy. “Alcohol! I have sac! Brew, Chill, Lager, Oil, Stout, Suds, Ale . . . No!” he screamed, clutched his heart, and just like that, died.

 

The problem that caused his death was a problem as old as the hills: He had run out of synonyms.

 

 

 

 

nailgun.jpg
Clipart Bing.com

The Revenge of the Short-dicks

Elmore Snoody

 

I had seen an ad in a certain magazine: “Alternative male-enhancement for males with small penises.” There were three beautiful, topless women in the ad. All three were pointing at a man’s small, flaccid penis and holding each other’s shoulders with their other hand so as not to fall backwards laughing. At the bottom of the ad was an additional caption: “NOTHING IS LESS STIMULATING FOR SEXY WOMEN THAN A SHORT DICK.” I am telling you, this really got to me! If three chesty beauties ever give me that sort of attention, or even just one normal woman does, I don’t want to be caught with a short dick!

There was a long line, which was becoming shorter, outside the large building to which the ad directed me. Some of the men were exiting the building, having entered it only minutes before. I saw on a few of their faces, however, an odd look of pride. Had these guys been given a potent drug, unapproved by regulatory agencies, to enhance their penises — and were they such idiots that they thought this gave them the right to look smug?

As the front of the long, slow line I was a constituent of became less erect, and neared one of its terminating points, I felt my anxieties intensify, become softer, harder, and softer all at once, and eventually realized that a scruffy man in a white lab coat was asking me to show him my penis in a very small room.

“I really don’t know much about your program,” I stuttered in answer, “I literally came in just off the street.”

At this I think he smiled politely, but his beard made it hard to tell, as if a flea had somewhat too brazenly launched an attack inside one of the striations of his scrotum, causing him to momentarily flinch by means of raising his upper lip slightly. I took off my underwear obediently. He unceremoniously took out a ruler from his back pocket that had been snapped in two and after measuring me, he nodded brusquely with an affirmative grunt, asked for my clothes, jotted down my name, and told me that I was to proceed down the hallway, naked. If having a short dick was passing the test, then I may have just passed — even, possibly, with flying colors.

I exited the door at the end of the hallway and found myself in an open-air courtyard full of about two to three hundred naked men. Each of us, down to a man, had a small penis. I waited there, exchanging awkward small talk with a few of my fellow pornography readers. Occasionally some brave soul would look up at the sky (it was a clear night) and make an astronomical observation. All in all, we didn’t make a very respectable-looking bunch: Some penises were smaller than others, some were larger. Generally speaking, all the penises were small.

After an hour I heard the feedback of a loudspeaker screech and crackle. “LOOK HOW SMALL OUR PENISES ARE,” the deep voice paused after having boomed through the entire courtyard, beginning again abruptly: “WE DO NOT ADVOCATE THE USE OF PHONY PILL-POPPING DRUGS, OR THE USE OF PROSTHETICS OR ANY FORM OF SURGICAL ENHANCEMENT.

WHAT WE ADVOCATE IS JOINING TOGETHER TO EFFECT THE IMMEDIATE AND COMPLETE EXTERMINATION OF ALL MEN WITH LARGE PENISES. THEY HAVE THROWN THE CURVE OFF SO DRAMATICALLY AS TO RENDER THE REST OF US COMPLETELY USELESS. THE MEN YOU ARE PRESENTLY WITH ARE YOUR BROTHERS. CONSULT ONE ANOTHER’S HEARTS. TALK TO ONE OF OUR REPRESENTATIVES IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN OUR PLAN. YOUR CLOTHES ARE LOCATED IN THE FRONT ROOM, INSIDE A BAG WITH YOUR NAME ON IT.”

That was it — the entirety of the message we had waited an hour, naked, to hear. The message, probably like the speaker’s penis, had been kept short.

On our way out of the gymnasium a polite-looking, clean-cut man in an expensive-looking suit handed us each a card, which had on it the name and phone number of a representative we could call if we were interested in taking part in the insurgent slaughter.

“Please, call us if you are interested,” he said to me with a friendly smile.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied, accepting the card.

I saw Harvey the next day at work. We had tried to avoid looking at each other the night before at the courtyard, but I suspect we both knew very well that this was an uncomfortable, extended silence that could, if not broken, ruin each other’s working day for years until the first of us left or retired.

“Yeah,” Harvey said flatly when he saw me. “That was a one man operation. It was all orchestrated by the guy at the door as we were leaving, who wore a disguise when he did the measurements. A real nut... He was arrested this morning. Some loudmouth must have called the cops.”

“Nonetheless,” I said, “he must have gotten a lot of calls.”

A minute or so passed and I looked at Harvey. He was sneering. “That Mark,” he said, looking over at accounting, “the women really like him."
 
I nodded. "He should go first.”
 

 

 

chiefmasturbator.jpg
Art by Brian Beardsley 2011

The Masturbators

 

Elmore Snoody

 

 

          The chiropractor told me to go to the hospital where I had initially gotten my x-rays taken the last time my back went out, so there I returned to retrieve them so I could take them to him and he could take a look at them.

           The hospital was huge, and after entering through the imposing electric doors I walked in the direction of the information desk, expecting to find someone who could direct me to the radiology department. The pretty woman sitting behind the desk, who was showing far too much cleavage, looked at me suspiciously as I approached her. She looked even more unfriendly as I drew nearer, so I decided I would just find my way without her guidance. I walked past her and her desk with as much defiance as I could muster. I might have overdone my rebellion, however, and instead shown myself walking with a somewhat awkward and effeminate strut. That cleavage, though, it sure was something.

          One large corridor led to another, and there was a peaceful lack of urgency somehow lurking all around the hospital. But then suddenly, up ahead, I saw a man tugging on what seemed to be a mustachioed hot dog near an elevator. Was he…

          A man passing to my right turned and looked at me with an expression of sympathy.

          “I know,” he said, “it’s pretty unsettling to see for the first time. But he can’t help it—he is a masturbator!”

           He looked at me, clearly suspecting that this explanation would satisfy my curiosity; and never being too quick on my feet, I simply nodded at him, and he walked on. 

          After a few minutes I turned down a new hallway and saw another naked man, this one right in the middle of the hallway. He was openly tugging at his phallus, and it was totally disgusting. It occurred to me that sexual love is something that is so sought after by men and women, but if you put the rudimentary male component under bright lights and take away one of the participants, it loses its luster completely. The way this second masturbator did it in the center of the hallway made the act much more lewd and aggressive—at least the first masturbator kept near the wall.

          A pretty nurse passing by looked at me and must have seen the way I was just standing there gawking, and she said: “I know, Mister, it is a little over the top to see for the first time, but this guy can’t help it—he is totally crazy!”

          “Yuk,” I said. “What is going on in this building?”

          The woman motioned me toward her and we walked to the wall, near an artificial tree. “Well,” she began, folding her forearms tightly under her breasts, “this is a psychologically controlled experiment, and these men are exhibitionists who are being observed in a natural setting by scientists like behavioral psychologists. These masturbators were sanctioned to do whatever they wanted—and just as the psychologists wanted, they immediately started masturbating.” She pointed to a picture of a gypsy cavalcade on the wall. “There is a camera in that gypsy’s eye. The scientists are viewing what sorts of critical reinforcements these guys respond to when they are observed by strangers.”

          “I may need to be observationally observed by the time I get out of this building,” I said, glancing at the woman’s breasts, which were medium sized, and which softly displaced the cotton of her blouse.

          The nurse tapped my forearm. “Oh, no—don’t you start!” she said, laughing.

          I smiled. “But why is everyone giving me these explanations—a man told me ‘he is just a masturbator,’ or you, with ‘they are so crazy,’?”

          “I know,” the woman laughed, “it is total bullshit! But be quieter! I don’t want the masturbators to overhear us. Because they are unwittingly masturbating for a purpose, or at least the scientists tell us this—the reasons they are doing this in public could explain all types of strange self-defeating human behaviors. For example, take committing adultery when you know very well your spouse is hyper-vigilant and is going, inevitably, to find you out. Things like that. I forget the other examples they gave us.”

          “You seem pretty accustomed to this,” I said, noticing her utter lack of disgust as she looked at the meaty penis of a man who had approached and had begun to tug at his throbbing phallus.

          “There are worse crimes.”

          “But this is a hospital,” I said, “and there are people who probably have enough problems already and don’t necessarily want to see this after having just been diagnosed with some disease or other.”

          “Well, like diseases, these masturbators are doing something that is just a part of life, the way I see it. Whether they do it here or in their own bedrooms makes no difference to me. And anyone would say that their masturbation has far more meaning here, observed by genius scientists, than masturbation done in private, which I am guessing has much less meaning, if any.”

          I admired her open-mindedness, and thought that she had a point. “Hey, lady,” I said, “I like your style.”

          She said, “Don’t get the wrong idea, I am just saying I am broad-minded when there is a justifiable reason.”

          I felt the friendliness in her voice give way to a slight impatience, even testiness. There was a pause in our conversation. The only sound was the wheezing of the two—no, now there were three masturbators. It was an unpleasant gasping drone, and I couldn’t help but start to feel a strange sort of sympathy for them. “Don’t any of these guys have any idea this is an experiment?” I asked.

          “No,” she said, “and that is sort of deceitful. I guess I sort of assume they are kind of stupid. You don’t automatically think of public masturbators as… I’ll just say that ‘intellectual’ isn’t the first word that comes to mind. But they may be more crafty than anybody thinks—they may know that a camera is on them, and this may suit them fine. Whatever the case, these guys aren’t exactly innocents—some of them go to college sororities, sniffing around for some fresh snatch, and dropping their trousers at the first opportunity.”

          “ ‘Fresh snatch,’ huh?” I said. “Hey, let me tell you, I am feeling some real simpatico here.”

          She looked at me. “You are feeling it by yourself and I am sure you are no better than these buzzards here!”

          With that she stormed off, and my partial erection went down as she left and her physical absence revealed a fourth masturbator. Up and down, up and down…

           She was a nice girl; and now she was gone too! I looked at the gypsy’s eye in the picture; I may even be watched and my reaction to the masturbators and the woman gauged. The woman herself, along with the receptionist, may have been props only meant to frustrate my desires and skew my judgment.

 

*        *           *

 

          I walked along the hall, hunting for signs that would lead me to the radiology department. I had seen at least forty more masturbators in the last ten minutes, and they were all as intent and glassy-eyed as the first two, all tugging away with an astonishing persistence.

          When I finally found the radiology department, I hunted around for the most official looking door. I knocked first, though I suspected that the door only led to a waiting room of some sort. It was a good thing I knocked, because a partition next to the door, resembling a ticket stand snapped open, and I saw an irritated man looking at me. He gave me the impression that if I had simply tried the door and walked inside he would have been extremely angry. I told him that my chiropractor had recommended that I pick up the x-rays that I had had taken at this hospital a few months ago. I gave him my name.

          The man said: “that is not usually how it is done, but I will check with Dr. Smithley.” He snapped down the partition and I started to hope this wasn’t going to take too terribly long, or that there would be some bureaucracy involved in retrieving the x-rays.

          The partition snapped open again.

          “Sir,” another angry looking man said to me, “we don’t generally give out x-rays that are taken here, it isn’t our policy. I am sorry.”

          “Look,” I said, “I would really appreciate it if you made an exception.”

          “Fine, then, take them,” he said, throwing a manila envelope at me.

           I sat down on a nearby chair, and opened the envelope, hoping to see the x-rays and some documents with my name and medical history on them. Indeed, they were there.

          Sitting there, I overheard a curious monologue coming from a room to my right. “You’ve been sniffing the wrong scrotums! Again! What did I tell you about that?” The monologue definitely piqued my curiosity, and I impulsively got up and hesitantly approached the room.

          Angered, perhaps, and, so, emboldened and made reckless by my frustrated desire due to the cold receptionist and the woman in the corridor, I simply pushed the door open and walked into the room.

           A scientist dressed in a huge white lab coat was, apparently, talking to a dog. He looked up; the dog looked up; they both looked at me. I found myself momentarily speechless, but was able to quickly formulate some nonsensical pretext.

          “Is Jenkins around?” I said informally.

          “Jenkins,” the scientist said with equal informality, “who the fuck is Jenkins?”

          I realized I was just being stupid, so I looked down shamefully. “I am sorry, sir,” I said, “I was just pretending to look for somebody as a pretext for looking at what was going on inside this room.”

          The dog suddenly barked and growled. The scientist smacked it gently on the snout, to quiet it. There was a pause and the scientist smiled roguishly.

          “Well, that is understandable,” he said, “and I would be a hypocrite if I didn’t understand, as well, that curiosity is a component of desire. Masturbation—which is what we are investigating in this part of the hospital—is an attempt not just to mitigate an anxiety-provoking biological need, but a flawed means of assuaging the intensity of sexual desire. I for one feel that the man or woman—we couldn’t have women masturbating in the halls, of course—who is masturbating really doesn’t get over the psychological need of touching the person he is fantasizing about; I believe that there is a residue left after orgasm—a curiosity and a longing as to what the desired object feels like. Attempting to find a means of measuring this psychic residue of pseudo-body contact psychologically fooled into physiological attainment—that is what I personally am interested in. The genitals have been stimulated, sure, but the genitals are being fooled into thinking they are touching the person they are being artificially revved up to enjoy. If masturbation weren’t so obviously inevitable a temptation, then I would certainly do away with it.” He smiled with patient kindness. “Is your curiosity satisfied?”

          I was immensely pleased by the down-to-earth explanation the scientist gave me.

          “I imagine there are more masturbators than just the ones in the hall,” I said.

          He smiled with indulgent patience. “I will show you the chief masturbator’s room; he should be masturbating right now.”

          He picked a door situated somewhat awkwardly behind what was probably his personal desk and, swinging it open, went through it. Immediately the smell of semen insinuated itself up my nostrils. I grabbed the door before it fell closed again, and followed him in.

          The chief masturbator, as he was called, was seated in the center of a large room, on a stool. He was wearing what appeared to be a hat of about twenty oscillating penises, all occasionally discharging semen onto individually suspended dishtowels. Electrodes were attached to his completely shaved scalp, and their leads disappeared upward in a jumble of metallic and electric parts and yet more wires, which quavered busily under the hat as it oscillated. Extensors reached down from the ceiling and vigorously whisked up the cum-soaked dishtowels, flinging them up into one of the four interstices in the ceiling. Other folding arms swung downward, clamping fresh dishtowels onto the hooks.

          “He’s got a good hard cock,” I said to the scientist, pointing to the chief masturbator. In addition to his oscillating hat, he had in his hand a good-sized, stiff erection, about nine or ten inches long.

          “That traditional erection is aesthetic,” the scientist said a bit uncomfortably, perhaps not noting the understatement I was trying to convey; instead he apparently perceived my comment to be a form of homoeroticism.   

          “Well, that is important—a sense of the aesthetic,” I said with as much sarcasm as possible. After all, there were already enough erections ejaculating all over the place; if he was to take my ironic understatement as homoerotic, he was then being presumptuously blind to his own constricted, sterile sense of reality.

          “What this setup lacks in elegance it makes up in practicality,” he said in a somewhat suspicious tone. We looked for some time at the ejaculating penises as the chief masturbator stroked his primary cock.

          Suddenly I heard a scuffle start in an adjoining room.

          Two male voices were heard, and the argument, which was progressively becoming louder, could be heard plainly:

          “Can you please give me a hand?”

          “I don’t need a fucking hand!”

          “Can you please give me a hand?”

          “I don’t need a fucking hand!”

          “Can you please give me a hand?”

          “I don’t need a fucking hand!”

          “Can you please give me a hand?”

          “I don’t need a fucking hand!”

          Then there was what sounded like the blade of a guillotine coming down, and then a horrific screaming, as of unspeakable torture.

          “Gee wiz,” I said, looking at my companion, “is everything all right in there?”

          He smiled sheepishly, and totally disregarding my question, said, “well, that’s about all I am prepared to show you,” pointing unambiguously toward the door.

          I left the laboratory and returned to the hall. There were many more masturbators than before. There were now some semi-naked women dancing in front of the masturbators, and this changed my conception of the supposed inappropriateness of the act, public as it may have been. I undid my belt and pants’ zipper, let my pants and underwear drop to the floor, and started tugging on my suddenly stiff cock. I dedicated my thoughts not just to the many women who, like the receptionist and the nurse, had through the years flaunted their lack of obtainment so nastily in my face, but to all the phalluses in the world, all the phalluses that were putting their meat so flagrantly into the pussies of the women I desired.

 

 

Elmore Snoody is 37, lives in West Virginia, and is blissfully/un-blissfully unemployed, while trying to pursue a degree in English Literature. The Masturbators is his third Yellow Mama story.

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