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 Category:  Satire Fiction
  Posted: October 18, 2018      Views: 218

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 ABOUT
LANCE POLIN 

Faceless yet voidless, with no form that can ever stop trying to grow. Some may call this survival instinct viral, or parasitic. Yet it is the only way to keep moving on . . .

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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.
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A detached penis hurtles to its end
"Is There Meaning to My Life?" by Lance Polin



When he tore me off I knew what was happening. This was not an issue of gender identity. It was not a suicide attempt. It was just a kink, just the frenetic hysteria of a compulsive masturbator drained of all feeling by his perpetually increasing perversion. I mean, the ordinary wouldn't make him cum anymore. Nothing could make him cum, the testicles so slammed into and mashed it was more likely they would just explode during the process than release any fluid other than blood.

So it was not a surprise, in his anguished frustration, that he simply ripped me off of his body and hurled me out the window before he started screaming. I could hear that screaming all the way down.

But this is my story and not that drugged out creep's fantasy, so I will go back and articulate who it is that I have always been. I am the shaft of a male genitalia, nothing more, really, than skin covering nerves and blood. Of course I used to be attached to other essential parts of the human body, those that made life and others that fought off the cold emptiness of death, something I will know before I splatter into the bottom of the mostly empty trash dumpster I am careening towards.

I was, as for some reason the man took pride in, rather small. Perhaps this is why he became such a degenerate. I remember guys in gym class back in high school and girls who had mild passing interest getting his pants off, covering their mouths to suppress the laughter, maybe jerking me off, usually never to completion because they got tired or their hands slid off or I stopped being hard. Those girls would never talk to him again.

But it wasn't my fault. I was formed and designed exactly as I was supposed to be, size notwithstanding. And I understand that this is a real issue and that people have their own ideas on what this means and everyone has their taste and sometimes there are things that only the slightest among us are capable of. But I also understand that none of this prideful nonsense mattered one bit to me. Others of my breed did not care either. We were all just cocks, all meant for the same use. I would piss out the cum and clear my prostate after another ruined orgasm, and then I could be back to normal for another few hours, warm in the throbbing pain, until he started tugging at me again.

There is not much to this life. We are thought of as tools of pleasure, but we are also present for the moments when everything goes wrong in a person's life. Sometimes the person gets sick, and a tube with a camera on the end of it is jabbed up inside of us, choking us, taking away the regular air that silts through our head, bulging us into a tense ball of pain. Or the body gets cancer and suddenly I have blood coming out of my mouth. And the chaffing--the horrible dry chaffing that scabs over and sometimes scars. We are in pain far more than we experience pleasure. All we can do is just hang there or try to stand up. But eventually . . . eventually, we all end up where I am right now.

All I can see is wet blackness (and I know I don't have eyes, but give me some leeway; my whole life is supposed to be flashing before me and the disappointment I am experiencing upon reflection I believe gives me the right to experience sensations I could not otherwise have had). There is a smell of rot in the air. It is an alley. There is a wino passed out or dead against the dumpster. A prostitute I couldn't get it up for a few weeks ago is vomiting against a brick wall. And here I come, down down down, racing away unto the last few seconds any cock with a proper sense of--

A few hours later a pregnant raccoon staggered into the dumpster to huddle out of the rain, breathing heavily and trying to sleep. It found a squishy and bloody lump of flesh. And this gave the raccoon hope, a nibble here and there and then the remainder gnashed up and fed to the newborn pups. Life continued and the rain stopped.

The Flying penis contest entry

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Author Notes
The author decided to try and take this effort seriously, despite the outlandish nature of the prompt. It was fun. I decided not to be as vulgar and disgusting as I had originally planned, focusing on a character sketch instead of a suicide note.
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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