SQUASH WITH WHITE SAUCE
Dreamed 1983/12/17 by Chris Wayan
I'm downtown in a department store. Next to the dressing rooms are some smaller booths without mirrors: the masturbation booths. It's the modern store's solution to all those sex fiends clogging up the dressing rooms. Just give them their own booths so paying customers can try on their clothes in peace!
Anyway, I'm sitting in a masturbation booth, on a sticky bench (and trying not to think about it), listening to a woman outside, reading a story aloud. It's the tale of a man who has a huge, artificial penis. It works, the surgeons were clever--but "of course" it's quite numb. He can please others, but not himself. I wonder, in the privacy of my stall, if she's referring to me. I do have a huge, erect penis, and it does feel strangely numb.
I poke at the tip of it, up past my navel. It feel mushy, soft, though the whole thing's erect and it FEELS like I'm hard. Confused, I open my shirt and look.
I don't have a penis. I have a zucchini. A foot-long, overgrown, overcooked, MUSHY zucchini! Hollowed out and jammed onto my erect cock like some portable vagina. (Or should I spell that veggina?) I wonder how long it's been here?
But it's so mushy! No wonder I felt numb! I think "Her story was wrong--I ALWAYS come, multiply, even endlessly in dreams." Just realizing this makes a wave of excitement shudder through me and I come right now! A mild orgasm, but definite--just hidden by the zucchini! I think "Yes, her story's false! I can come even from such tepid stimulation..."
So I'm NOT numb! Just muffled, censored, covered up... squashed?
Gathering my courage, I grab my Godzilla weenie... and tear it open. It comes apart so easily, I shudder at the softness, the decay. But it doesn't shred randomly: it splits in twelve long wedges. Only a few are rotten, and only at the tips, where they muffled the head of my cock--now normal-sized, but red and quivering with sensitivity, like a movie-goer blinking in overwhelming sunlight. Well, how long's it been trapped in there--hours, days? All my life?
I think "Wasting that squash would be disrespectful of the earth." So I pinch off the mushy, slimy bits and carry the rest out of the booth with me, and go home.
Where I stir-fry the rest of the zuke with tofu and garlic, and eat it.
White sauce and all.
While thinking, "there couldn't be anything symbolic here, could there?"
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