Penile Implant

J.C. Sutton

Word Count 1299

My first foray into computer dating brings a Harvard grad: Montgomery Kingsley Yardley Abernathy the fourth.

“I never cared for ‘Montgomery’,” he explains in the course of our one and only telephone conversation. “Didn’t care for Kingsley or Yardley either” – he pronounces it ay-ther. “Settled on K.Y. Like the jelly.” By the time I hang up, that old feeling, the one that rhymes with “torpedo”, is already ramping up.

A week later, “libido girl” takes the train to the Big Apple, followed by a cab to the Harvard Club, where a doorman ushers me up the marble steps and through a brassbound door into the crimson-carpeted foyer where K.Y. awaits. His thick, side-parted red hair is going white. The result is oddly pinkish. His barrel chest pushes against the brass buttons of an impeccably blue blazer. His white-collared and cuffed pinstripe shirt is anchored by a perfectly knotted rep tie. Crimson, of course. What else could it be?

K.Y. offers his arm to escort me to the dining room and seats me opposite at a beautifully set table draped in creamy white linen. A crimson-jacketed, white-haired Black man balancing an oval silver platter on his raised right hand appears table-side, setting it down with a flourish.

The glass liner holds a ring of Ritz crackers topped with rosettes of what has got to be aerosol-can cheese. Is this how they hang onto their endowment? I wonder as I reach for one. Our lunch more than makes up for the appetizer, and ends with us spooning obligatory hasty pudding.

The conversation is so easy, and the mutual spark so unmistakable, I just say yes to his invitation.

“My old flat’s rent-control status was dissolved, so I’ve purchased a coop. Care to come up and see it?” He twirls an imaginary mustache.

“Sometime?” My Mae West voice gets a laugh. 

“Now.”

“What, no etchings?” That gets a bigger laugh.

“Not unwrapped. But it’s walking distance.”

Our West Side stroll ends at an impressive mid-rise with a green canvas canopy from sidewalk to entrance. The elevator holds just us, and that current – the one that happens when it becomes obvious what’s likely to come next.

The view from the foyer is a living room full of wardrobe cartons and quilt-wrapped furniture, except for a pair of crewel-embroidered wingback chairs with a piecrust table between them.

“Make yourself as comfortable as you can.” K.Y. disappears through an archway. If there are closets, I can’t see them, so I drape my basic black jacket on the back of the chair I choose. K.Y. returns with a crystal decanter in one hand and a pair of small snifters in the other. He pours; we sniff; he sips; I follow. Elixir.

I’m savoring a second pour when K.Y. pops the elephant-in-the-room question: “Care for a bit of canoodle along with your Napoleon XO?”

“Didn’t canoodling go out with the bee’s knees?”

K.Y. moves the table aside and leans in.

“May I?” His fingers halt at the jabot of my ivory silk blouse. I nod; he loosens, smoothing the panels down over my breasts. “May I?” he repeats, reaching for the top button.

K.Y. is a practiced canoodler. My blouse comes off, followed by my beige lace, front-fastened underwire bra. He pauses to admire me before turning his attention to my pencil-skirt zipper. I help him ease it onto a lovely old floral-patterned carpet – Aubusson? I’m not wearing stockings; except for red lace bikini briefs, I’m undressed.

I stand up and step closer. He strokes me from neck to waist, front, and back. I feel comfortable. Followed by good. It gets better when K.Y. adds kisses, fondling my face slowly, steadily, thoroughly. He runs his fingers through my hair, trails them up and down my arms. I quiver – like jelly! – when he palms me from hip to hip, below the waist and above the navel. He’s yet to touch my breasts or genitals, but they’re as aroused as the rest of me.

“Before we carry this any further,” he says, nodding to the archway, “There’s something I wish to share with you.”

I don’t know what I expected to hear, but what comes next is a stunner.

“I possess a penile implant.”

“And - ?” I ask: when I have the breath for it.

“And?” KY repeats. “What a refreshingly open mind you have, my dear.”

I shrug my bare shoulders. “I’ve always been curious.”

“I shall be more than delighted to satisfy your curiosity – and, hopefully, satisfy you as well.” His arms go around me in a strong, sure hug. “Would you be more comfortable remaining here while I expound as I ogle?”

“Ogle away.” I lean back in the wingback.

“Seven years ago, I required a radical prostatectomy. It was successful. I remain cancer-free, but previous heart difficulties ruled out erectile dysfunction drugs. Five years ago, I grew weary of the efforts I was making.” He leans forward. “I looked into the efficacy of implants for men such as myself. After researching the procedural options for the surgery, I chose one.” He pauses for effect. “And remain as sexually active as I ever have been. Or intend to be.”

His full-frontal frankness has a surprisingly erotic effect. “May I see for myself?”

Indeed you may.” I stand up. So does he. The big bedroom’s still carton-walled, but the big bed’s ready. So are we.

“Without further ado…” K.Y. unbuttons his Brooks Brothers shirt; undoes his gray flannel slacks; pulls his white cotton tee over his head; unsnaps his matching boxers,  revealing a penis ringed by pubic hair redder than his head’s, nicely hung between thighs as freckled as his arms.

“If it’s done correctly,” he points, “it’s entirely undetectable.”

“Does it feel – different? To you, I mean.”

“Exactly the same, actually.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you can still – climax?”

“Absolutely. As I’ve always enjoyed them.” He leans back against a bank of pillows done in blue and white ticking. “Preceded by erection, of course.” 

Of course.

K.Y. lifts his penis from its red nest. “Pair of cylinders in here now. Bit of tubing runs from them, up behind my groin muscle, to a small silicone reservoir holding a simple saline solution.” He lifts his testicles. “Another tubing bit runs down to a pump under the scrotal sac. A few gentle squeezes –” his freckled thumb suits action to words as his nicely hung penis rises higher and harder. “Reservoir empties, I fill.” He smiles. “Unfailingly.”

I can’t keep from giggling, not at him, but from a memory flash of the muscle-bound “pump me up” skit on Saturday Night Live. 

“Care to try?” He guides my hand until I feel a cork-size version of the foot pumps that come with an air mattress. He reaches for my bare top and bikini’d bottom. “Lovely bits,” he murmurs, mouthing a nipple that needs no pump to erect. I remove the last of my underwear and sit astride. He nuzzles my neck as he puts himself up inside me.

“Penetration for mutual pleasure.” He pushes deeper: “Nothing quite like it, is there?”

No, there isn’t. It lasts for – I don’t know how many minutes. When he ejaculates with grand finale gusto, I orgasm around his still rampant erection.

“What happens now?” I have to ask when he’s withdrawn it.

“The pump’s release valve is ready for a push.”

K.Y. catches my hand in mid-reach. “No need, my dear. The valve is quite miniaturized, simpler for me to tend to.” His fingers disappear under his testicles. “Reservoir refills, I empty, all’s well, without and within my sensual world. And yours?”

Libido torpedo! I don’t share the thought. My satisfied smile speaks for me.

I’m still smiling as I board the return train. 

*

J.C. was born in Flushing Hospital, uprooted at four, replanted in St. Louis, Delaware, and south Jersey. J.C.’s New Yorker subscriptions have been delivered to many addresses. Discovering Dorothy Parker on library prose and poetry shelves fed the desire to become a “real writer” of both. This led to a diverse writing life, from arts reviewing, ghost and copy writing to a freelance business, plenty of spoken word, and, on retiring from bookselling, a pair of novels. Additional detail at J.C.’s self-publisher website www.wordsworthpublications.com