I have a big cock. I had to get that out of the way first. On paper it is easy, but in the real world it is very hard. I have a twenty-seven-inch cock. An old girlfriend called it The Onion. I was very proud of the name. Many years later I found out she called it the Onion because of the smell. I always thought she named it The Onion because it brought a tear to her eye.They wanted to see the thing, they wanted to touch the thing, but they never wanted the thing inside of them, mouth or vagina. I was a virgin until I was thirty-seven.
My teeth have all fallen out. This is the second incongruity that attracts the attention. I refuse to wear dentures. I could choke on the dentures. I have a wide mouth; I am able to swallow two fists. A girlfriend found it very funny. I would swallow a tennis ball, the tennis ball would undoubtedly get caught in my throat, and she would shove a hand down my throat and retrieve the tennis ball. She never complained about the saliva and vomit. She would hold up the tennis ball which was covered in a dripping patina of saliva and vomit and say aloud we should join a circus. I came in her mouth once and she left me.
I am famous. If I were not famous before this statement, I am now. That is all it takes. I am famous. I have a thousand friends; I have never met or talked to any of my thousand friends. All of my friends are famous and brilliant, I love them dearly. My friends follow my every word. I can do something the Mona Lisa cannot, I can turn my neck. My name is a disease, it spreads, it fecundates, I am a mushroom. I am a fun guy. I have read two thousand books; each book was dirtier than the last. My fingertips are permanently purple. I know musicians, film stars, fab-celebs, cheats, sycophants, hooligans, gangsters, drug dealers, child molesters, and murderers. I have six fingers on my left hand. I have one leg longer than the other. My parents were always pulling my leg. My parents eloped. They never went through with the wedding. Even so they still share a last name. I have three nipples, but saying that many people have three nipples. I have two assholes, one of the assholes is very particular, it is a snob, it refuses the things the mouth will take with pleasure; it rebels against the things the belly digests with ease. The other asshole is as good a judge of character as my tongue. My mouth and tongue are to blame for the loss of my teeth.
I have two souls, they are always dirty. I refuse to wear shoes. I am hip.
There is a strange odor that emanates from me. It is fusty. When it rains roots and nodes of moss cover my body. I have found worms burrowing into my flesh. I have plucked earwigs from my ears. I have stopped centipedes running up my legs. Every morning I have to go through deracination, I have to break away from my bed. I am able to retain my heat. I am fucking hot.
I have a Siamese twin. He is much taller than me. Sometimes He will carry me. He is a simpleton. I have to do the reading and writing. My vocabulary is huge. I have more than twenty-six thousand words in my arsenal. I can say yes nine different ways. My Siamese twin is always copying me, following me, He is worse than my shadow. For many years we hated each other, it was tricky. One night he stole my girlfriend. I found them in bed together. They had just finished sex. They were smoking. It was the cigarettes pressed against my flesh that awoke me to
I have run marathons. I have fought in two wars. I work in a bank. I am as horny as a dog with two dicks. I have many children. I know Derrida. I am blind like Borges. I wear women’s underwear like Joyce. I chew my food like Kafka. I have written a book. I have a second penis. It is connected to the frontal lobe. For years I was told to get into porn. I tried. The porn star stripped off. She was very beautiful. I was overwhelmed. I fainted. My doctor said the rush of blood to the head almost killed me. He warned me never to get so excited. I was lucky he said. He asked to see my penis. He called it a diving board. He was once an Olympian. He won Bronze. He is very proud of his endeavor. I hope I never get a goiter.
Paul Kavanagh’s ‘The Killing of a Bank Manager‘ is out now, priced £7.99/$12.99.
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