“The Oink in Doinker” by Tuelo Gabonewe

Haroldette Tawana. Forty-four. Half-widow. Between jobs. No brats.

Late afternoon, lunch eaten, and chores done. She was sitting on her stoep, minding her own business, as they say, when, out of nowhere, came a snakelike critter. The anguine specimen had come in through an opening in the mesh fence and was crawling straight towards her. She just sat there, waiting. You’d think she’d seen it five hundred times before, the way she was so calm. That thing moved slowly across the yard, leaving a serpentine trail behind it. It reached her eventually, and what do you know, it was not a snake, at least not one of the ophidian kind. It was a phallus, an uncircumcised black one, complete with a nutsack the size of a grown Doberman Pinscher’s paw. This excited Haroldette. She stood up, backed off a little, the only glimpse of any timidity, and there was not much in her. There was not much backpedalling taking place, really. Just two or three shuffles and she stopped. She looked around to see who was watching, and there was nobody in sight.

“What … who are you?”

The lost love shaft just lay there, tired, limp, and thirsty as a drunk. Haroldette didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t seen one in three years. It was not the most stunning one she’d ever seen, but at the end of the day a schlong is a schlong is a schlong.  

“I asked you a question. Speak.”

Nothing. The choad had jack squat to say. Haroldette went inside, slamming the door shut behind her. When she came out, less than a minute later, she had a broom and a dustpan. She didn’t have any further questions for the drop-in. She prodded it with the broomstick to check if it was still alive. The piece of meat squirmed lethargically. A good sign. It looked sickly, though, poor thing. There was something about its limpness that suggested it was on the verge of checking out. Haroldette knew that she had to do something to save that copperhead, but the poor woman didn’t know what to do. What kind of first aid does one administer to a dying penis? 

“Okay. Alright. Stay with me. I’m right here, okay?”

Still using the handle of the broom, she pushed the moribund member into the dustpan and took it inside. She thought about taking it to the kitchen for a wash, but she quickly changed her mind. Kitchens are for crocks, not cocks, so she took it to the bathroom instead. She filled the basin with water and immersed the wang. She put the broom and dustpan aside, and used her own hands.

“What shall we call the phallus, eh? Phineas? Yes.”

Haroldette lathered Phineas with her own bodywash and gave him a good scrubbing. You’d think she was bathing a newborn babe the way she was so lovesome. She pulled the foreskin back and found a lot of smegma down there. That billy club had been around for a minute then. She peeled off the smegma, layers and layers of it, with her nails. After that she dipped the whole head in the water for a few minutes to soften the last remaining layer of cheese. She pulled the plug a few minutes later, letting the dirty water drain, and then she filled the basin up again. She rinsed Phineas, dried him with a towel and took him to the bedroom. She put him on the bed and went back to the bathroom to clean up. Then it was time to feed the guest.

“You’re hungry?”

Phineas waggled weakly. There was no doubt in the hostess’ mind that that was a “yes”. Where she learned Dicklish from, no one knew.

“Of course you are. Okay, I’ll go fix you something. Just give me a few minutes, okay? You stay right here.”

There was much clinking and jangling of crockery and cutlery in the kitchen. The woman of the house was at work setting the table. Phineas lay half-lifeless on the bed, waiting. He didn’t have enough energy left to do anything else. Twenty minutes later, Haroldette was back, beaming like a child. Looked like she had already warmed up to the guest. It was just after 5PM and supper was ready.

“Come.”

She covered the foundling with a towel and took him to the dining room. She set Phineas on the table, towel underneath him. She slowly lifted his head and dipped it in the drinking yoghurt that she’d poured in a pudding bowl. Phineas McPhallus didn’t need to be told what to do. He started swigging right away. Haroldette had never seen anything like it. For a few minutes there she was too gobsmacked to move. Then she started thinking: what if the yoghurt goes through the channel and spills out the other side? She ran into the kitchen and returned with a plate that she quickly pushed under the one-eyed ogre. Turned out, she didn’t need to. That yoghurt went somewhere; the nuts held on to most of it while  the rest leaked out the urethra into the corpora cavernosa. The pudding bowl was empty.

“Would you like some more?”

That squirm again, which the hospitable hostess understood to be “aye” in Cocklish.

“Okay then.”

The greater portion of Phineas’ thirst had been slaked, so he took his time for the second round. Haroldette went and sat on the other side of the table, where her food was waiting. She was not hungry but she grabbed a spoon and went through the motions. She didn’t want to be rude. She wanted to start a conversation, but didn’t have a clue what penises liked talking about, so she chewed in silence, and Phineas slowly polished off his supper. Later on, they sat in the lounge together—not on the same seat—and watched TV. Just before midnight, Haroldette put out the light and checked for the gazillionth time that the front door was locked. Then she retired to bed, leaving Phineas alone in the dark.

Haroldette, alone in bed, wondered what was going on. Whose pecker was that, coming into her life uninvited, drinking her yoghurt, dozing off in her living room? Could it be her husband’s? Nah, it couldn’t possibly. Her husband’s was bigger. That man had a donkey’s proportions. And her husband was circumcised. But he was not around anymore, the hubby. He had woken up one morning and said he was going to work but no one ever saw him again. The police searched. Haroldette searched. Her husband was gone. And here she was now: Haroldette Tawana, 988 days since she last saw her husband’s penis, (which she remembered well, fondly even), horny as an Atlas wild ass, playing host to useless doinkers. Oh life, you hard-hearted sadist.

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Haroldette was woken up by the heat of the sun the next day, a whole hour later than what used to be her regular wakeup time before she was laid off a few weeks before. She checked the time on her cellphone. Quarter past nine. Oh well, she didn’t have anywhere to go. She was thinking about staying in bed another thirty minutes or so, when she remembered that she had a guest in the house. She smiled; and why not? A useless cock is still a cock. She hit the deck and went to the bathroom for a quick bath. After that, she put on a gown and went to  fetch Phineas. She shambled into the living room, and what she saw on that couch blew her away. Phineas was growing. That’s not to say that the phallus was getting longer, or thicker, because it wasn’t. There was a body growing around it. Haroldette froze and gawped at that monstrosity (what else might it be called?) with her mouth open so wide you’d think she was about to fellate a stallion. The penis had become half a man overnight. Two hirsute stumps, a waist bone, a pubic area, a bit of a waist with two clearly visible Dimples of Venus, and the most beautiful derriere she had ever seen. The towel had fallen to the floor.

“Oh my goodness. What happened to you?”

She went closer and prodded, but with her finger this time. She went straight for the buttocks. A minute later she wasn’t prodding anymore, she was caressing. How good it felt to touch a man’s keister again. She stroked the thighs. That half-man was warm, which was strange because there didn’t seem to be any blood coursing through him. Not that it bothered the hostess one little bit. Something was happening. That half-man was a gift from somewhere. She took the half-creature to the bathroom and bathed it in the main bath, since it was now too big for the basin. Then she used her own lotion on it, and took it directly to her bedroom.

She put on a dress, locked the front door, and went for a stroll. She needed the air and to catch up on some gossip. She wanted to know if there was anybody out there looking for a missing cock.

“So, what has been happening? Heard anything strange lately?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just making conversation, that’s all.”

“But why would I have heard anything strange?”

“Never mind.”

Shopkeepers. Scum of the earth. Blockheads. Always on the defensive, and for no fucking reason. You get more joy talking to a stray dog. She hailed a cab and rode to town. Better give that half-man some space. Men don’t like to be crowded, even under-construction ones.

She returned home late in the afternoon, walking briskly after getting out of the cab, realising that she had not fed her foundling all day. She found Phineas where she’d left him. She had bought herself takeaways in town earlier, which she got busy polishing off while Phineas slurped down another skinful of yoghurt.  She was excited all through dinner; she had a present for him.

After supper she bathed her new babe, and it was time to give him his gift. Underpants. Tanga briefs. Three of them. She made him wear the grey one. Grey is the most masculine colour.  She put the maroon one and the blue one in the wardrobe, and off she carried him to the living room for another chill session. This time they shared a seat. Every now and then, Haroldette slid a hand down the grey undies and stroked. She was hoping that the half-man would get a woodie. He didn’t, and good thing too; she would have set herself upon him like a condor if he had. There was a red-hot volcano seething between her legs, and ten different swarms of fire ants crawling all over her body. She wanted dick so bad she would have sang for it.

She went to bed earlier that night, with all kinds of fire whirling and twirling within in her. She left Phineas alone in the living room, again. Back in her room she took off all her clothes and lay on the carpet, naked as the day she was conceived. She thought about touching herself, not for the first time, but decided against it. She didn’t feel comfortable with that kind of thing. Turpentine trickles running down her thighs, Haroldette fell asleep clutching the foot of her bed.

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Morning arrived. Haroldette had woken up from the floor and got in bed some time after midnight and was now all snug under the bedspread. She was woken, not by the heat of the sun, but by the sound of somebody up and about in the house. For a minute, her mind slipped back to three years ago, and she thought it was her husband getting ready for work. The flame of her nostalgia quickly went out, and she was back in the present. Her heart pounded. It was him. It was the half-man. Haroldette didn’t know what to do. What was she to do? Had that half-creature grown some more last night, or was it the same headless half-man tottering about on stumps, bumping into furniture? There was only one way to find out.

Haroldette put on her gown and went to check. And there, in her very own the kitchen, stood a man, thirty-ish, whole as a banana. He did not have the prettiest face, truth be told, but there was no denying that he was a dish. How Haroldette remained on her feet no one can say. The man just stood there, smiling.

“Come in.”

Man, what a voice. Haroldette, for the first time since the strange phenomenon started, was in some serious shock. She was rooted to the floor, her whole body numb as a teaspoon in a cooler box. The visitor slowly started shuffling towards his host.

“Hello.”

She was speechless, or unconscious, or both. The half-naked man had the upper hand. He was the matador, and he had a bison to tame. He put his hands around her, and he was warmer than a pile of bricks straight out of a kiln. That helped. Haroldette slowly came out of it. Her body temperature started climbing, then overheating. Thirty-nine degrees Celsius. Forty-two. Forty-five. Soon, she was fully charged and ready for whatever that sexy spectre had to offer. She tore off her gown and stood completely naked before the man for whom she didn’t have a name, a man she wasn’t even sure was a real human being. The man’s hands went for her breasts. He squeezed, and she squirmed. They stumbled into the living room, and he lay her down on the three-seater. Then he pushed down the waistband, and what hatched out of those grey tanga briefs was a boner fit to please.

He went down, the taciturn man. He pressed his lips on her. Her whole body quivered. She had never been eaten out before. He was at it for a while. She leaked like an oil jerrycan fallen on its side. He didn’t let up. There was a lot of hair down there. Haroldette spread her legs so wide a chopper could have flown through them. The inevitable happened: an earthquake in her groin. She wrapped her legs around the man’s neck and dug her nails into his scalp. He tried to pull away but he couldn’t. When Haroldette finally relaxed her grip on the man, he pulled himself up and got on top of her. He was hard. He kissed her neck, and she whimpered. He rose a couple of inches to give himself some room, and then plunged. Things were well and truly underway. That man shagged like a monster. And that jane was satisfied.

“That was good. That was … oh my … oooh …”

And then she fell asleep, right there on the couch with her legs open. The Three-Minute Man had finished in exactly three minutes, hardly a workout, but the wind had still been blown clean out of her. She was exhausted. The man’s boneless vertebrate was slowly mutating back to its spineless, pendent, pitiable, medium-to-small old form. He had long since pulled out and was cooling down on the one-seater.

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When Haroldette finally came round, which she did about an hour later, she was alone in the living room. A lot had happened while she had been on her caboose and out for the count. The stranger had gone into her bedroom, opened the wardrobe and helped himself to some of Haroldette’s husband’s clothes. It hadn’t been a snap borrowing and putting on that oke’s rags. Phineas-the-Cock’s handler had had a bit of trouble forcing himself into a t-shirt and chinos. The shoes were not too bad. He’d put on those clothes, tiptoed back to the living room, tiptoed out of the house, walked straight out into the street, turned right, and kept walking.

Haroldette sat up straight and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. She was  lost for a minute and when she stopped rubbing her eyes, she  started palpating the couch on which she was sitting. You’d think she was looking for her qi the way she was carrying on. Her senses returned to her, she got up and got busy looking for you-know-who. He was gone. She looked everywhere. Kitchen. Bedroom. Storeroom. Every. Fucking. Where.

“Where is he?”

“Hellooo. Where are you?”

Well, he’d done her one.

She wrapped herself in a towel, opened the front door a crack, and there they were, fresh new prints on the ground, another dickhead leaving her life. She couldn’t believe it. She got really angry. Oh yes, she lost it. She attacked the fridge to beat the frost out of it. But you don’t assault the fridge unless you’re really cold-hearted, so she banged on the door and cussed.

“Pig.”

Bang.

“Aardvark.”

Bang. Bang.

“Swine.”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Screw being horny. No more capitulating. She had been right to shoo off roués and rakes and keep her legs closed all that time. Not another dirty little dicklet was getting a piece of that pumpernickel again anytime soon. She wasn’t heartbroken, just pissed off. And she felt so dirty. Well, she couldn’t abuse the fridge forever. There was nothing else to do but take the walk of shame, from the kitchen to the bathroom. She filled the bath to the brim with hot water, steeled herself, and went under. She spent the whole day scrubbing herself. And only goodness knows what she would have given to hear that fool knock on her front door.

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Tuelo (@Tuelo_Gabonewe) Works in a bank; studied Psychology and Public Management & Administration; lives in South Africa; writes fiction; has one published book – “Planet Savage” – published in 2011 by Jacana Media; currently working on second book; has registered with a South African university to study his MA in Creative Writing. Wants to write a full-length feature film in the next 5 years.