Razor Dildo

Contributor: Joshua Dobson

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"Your ass is fuckin' beautiful," I tell Jenny the stripper as she claps her gelatinous cheeks against one another a few inches in front of my face.
"It's too big," Jenny Jellybutt says in her high-pitched nasal voice while reaching back to smack her ass. The gunshot crack is audible over the industrial music blaring from the sound system. The impact of her hand unleashes ripples that jiggle across her bountiful butt cheeks.
"No such thing as too big when it comes to ass. And anyways people are too hung up on size, shape is far more important than size and your ass is perfectly formed," I tell her as she flexes her gluteal muscles making her cheeks bounce and shimmy.
"Glad you like it, but don't get too attached, its days are numbered," she says.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've saved up almost half the liposuction money," she says.
I could almost cry.
"Bl-ass-phemy! Like pouring ass-id on a Pic-ass-o," I exclaim a little too fervently. The thought of the world losing such a gorgeous ass almost drives a stake through the heart of my boner. Then the hamster in my brain starts double timing around the wheel and an exceedingly perverse notion inflates my wiener anew.
"Perhaps I could help," I tell Jenny the stripper as she grinds her big butyraceous butt against my boner.
She turns around and shoots me a quizzical look.
"I could give you the rest of the money, but . . ."
Her expression goes from inquisitive to wary as she fondles her fake tits and continues dry humping me.
". . . but I get to keep all the fat they suck out," I say, licking my lips as if I can already taste the ice cold liposuction milkshake I'm gonna make out of Jenny's butt-fat . . . if she agrees.
She freezes mid dry hump and stares at me like I'm a pubic hair she just found in her macaroni salad. My mouth waters and the Final Jeopardy music ding dong ding dong ding dong dings through my head while I await her reply.

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Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun.

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Author: Joshua Dobson

Contributor: Liam Lawrence

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The promise is always the same.

If anyone wants to get to know you – to truly know you – they have to accept the fact that you are a fake. You are a phony, a liar, a cheat.

And you can’t help but tell them about your sins.

And by ‘you’, I mean ‘I,’ and by ‘I,’ I mean ‘me,’ or ‘he,’ or whatever works best at distancing myself from my own wrong-doings and makes you – as in ‘yourself’ – feel most uncomfortable.

It wasn’t until I was in the sixth grade that I realized there was nothing in the sewers – no clowns waiting to pull me down whenever I dropped my pants in the bathroom to go #2 - and by #2 I mean shit; no colossal alligators that had been flushed.

Nothing.

It might have been later than sixth grade, I can’t remember, but who wants to admit that there was no reason for their mom to accompany them to the bathroom up until that point because there was nothing to fear? Then ghosts became more prevalent in movies and I couldn’t go upstairs without a light on.

Then, it wasn’t until I was almost through with elementary school that I discovered masturbation doesn’t mean there's something wrong with me. Everybody does it. They just also happen to realize, however, that masturbating doesn’t mean you’re no longer a virgin.

I didn’t learn that until the third or fourth grade.

Probably fourth.

And it wasn’t until the seventh grade I learned the proper spelling of “cum” was “come,” and that the other, more notable way, to write it out was just crude slang, like referring to “poop” as “shit.”

It was freshman year of high school when I realized I had a habit of saying things without thinking them over first. Too long and I risked over-statement; too brief and it became a jumbled mess that wasn't entirely beyond comprehension but might as well have been.

I like short girls – girls in the 5’0” to 5’5” range – but when I told that to a group of people for the first time, it came out “I like little girls.”

I was eleven when I finally learned the meaning of the phrase “to get laid.” I knew it had to do with sex, but I’d always thought it meant “to get laid on a bed,” or something like that.

I was five, and this man attempted to abduct me. I was staring at the comic books in a store, and he approached me and said he had all of them in his car, and would I like to go see them.

But I was already seeing them right there, what was so different about the ones in his car?

I told him I had to go ask my mom first, and left to find her. When I went back, he was gone. I never said anything about it until I was seventeen or eighteen, maybe a little younger.

I was still in kindergarten – probably, hopefully – when we went by plane to visit my grandma in New York. And I saw someone with earplugs and didn’t know what they were, but decided to improvise and put chewing gum in my ears and ended up picking bits and pieces out the entire time we were there.

And it was when I was three I put a French fry up my nose and it got stuck.

I was eighteen years old the first time a girl gave me a hand job, which was also the first time I got a blow job, which – consequently – was the first time a girl made me come (cum?). But that was because of the former, not the latter, since her blow jobs were the equivalent to putting my dick through a tube of used, dry toothbrushes.

The first hand job resulted in a raw spot, because I couldn’t get hard; the second made me laugh because her continued stroking after I’d already came tickled. One of the later times was the first – and last – time a girl ever farted on my hand while I was fingering her from behind.

I only stayed with her because she knew how to get me off.

She thought we were in love.

From nineteen to twenty years old, I became obsessive over the girls I was interested in - so much so that I couldn’t stop sending text messages, pouring my heart out, pleading my case and hoping they would finally give me a chance, though in retrospect I now see there was never a reason for them to ever do so.

I was twenty-one when I finally got over it and stopped.

I was three or four when my possible prejudices of race were corrected. We were at a red light, there was a black man in the car next to us, and I said “I don’t like black people,” and my Mom said “But Winston is black, and you like him” – Winston being one of the Ghost Busters – and, after mulling this over briefly, quipped “Okay… I like black people.”

Up until high school, I opted never to use the words “god damn,” preferring instead to abbreviate it to “G.D.” if I came across it in a book, so as not to offend anyone, especially the God referred to in “god damn.” Once I was in high school, all religious notions of mine were shot to hell. So, to make up for lost time: god damn, god damn, god damn, etc. so forth.

I was a senior in high school when I received my confirmation into the church. Afterward, my girlfriend jerked me off while my parents were downstairs.

Sometimes I think there is a little bit of a devil behind my smile.

I was thirteen and fat and pimply and quiet and weird, and I was thrown into middle school amidst seventh and eighth grade girls - girls who were hitting puberty and getting breasts and developing figures, and those girls – combined with my overwhelming hormones – meant that, when I wasn’t paying attention in class, I was thinking about fucking every single one of them.

It was after school on a Friday, when my mom would pick me and my girlfriend up from school, and she (my girlfriend, not my mom – that’s sick) wouldn’t let me come in her mouth, so I went on the floor in my bedroom and cleaned it up with a Santa Claus hat, and later my brother came into the room and put the hat on and danced around, and I was laughing too hard for the wrong reasons to tell him the truth.

I probably wouldn’t have either way.

At seventeen years old I tried to kill myself at a friend’s house by using the sharp point on my house key to slit my wrist, but it wouldn’t break the skin.

After that I just gave up altogether.

I don’t remember how old I was when I became obsessed with anal sex. I was fascinated; I just never knew you could put it in there.

But my friend’s brother was convinced that anal sex – even when it’s with a girl – means a person is gay, and I wanted him to like me so I tried to stop liking the idea of it; I didn’t/don’t have a problem with gay people.

But it wasn’t until I had a dream about anal sex with a porn star and woke up and my dick burned that I finally lost interest.

I was seventeen when my Mom asked if I knew what a “pearl necklace” was – in regard to that song – but I’d always thought it was just about a girl who wanted expensive jewelry.

I was twenty-two when she asked if I knew what a “camel toe” was.

I threw a football at her to change the subject.

I still don’t believe I’m a fully-actualized person. I’m constantly comparing myself to everyone else, attempting to put myself into their skin – to try and become them, to some extent –, in hopes that in a bizarre way, I’ll be able to successfully transfer and live out the rest of my life within the confines of their persona.

Being me is just too boring.

I was/you were/he was twenty-three years old when I/you/he felt it was time to make these confessions. But it’s because of these confessions that I don’t even know who I am anymore… who I was then… who I am now…

And the promise is always the same.

If anyone wants to get to know me – to truly know me – they have to accept the fact that I am a fake. I am a phony, a liar, a cheat.

Because I can’t help but tell everyone about my sins.

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Liam Lawrence is a graduate of Texas Tech University, with a degree in Creative Writing. His work has been featured in the Harbinger Literary Journal. He calls Texas home.

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