A Story Fragment from 6 Years Ago

The following passage is from an autobiographical, non-fictional novella thing I was working on from May 2014 - November 2014. The story was based on a single Memorial Day Weekend trip, took months to write, and, after I put it away for a little while, then re-read it, I realized it totally sucked. This passage is interesting, though. It shows some of the more experimental tendencies I had, which you can see being realized in a more productive way now in videos like Yelling Rape in Target. The picture above was taken by a naked chick. Me, my buddy Tim, College Boy, and three girls were all in this bathroom, getting drunk and hooking up. Seeing College Boy's giant cock is what set off this passage/digression in the short story. 

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Maybe a better question is: where does cock even size come from? Is it your dad’s side of the family? your mom’s? Is it a 50/50 mix? Does it skip generations? multiple generations? Is it totally random?

This is a pretty interesting question, since communication on the subject between family members is basically non-existent. It’s not like your typical dad comes home from happy hour one evening saying, “Ah! Good times!”

(stumbles over and flops onto the couch)

“What are you doing over here son? Video games? Xbox!?! Neat!”

(goes to the refrigerator and grabs himself a beer; comes back)

“By the way, son…what’s that dick of yours looking like these days?”

(waits for a response–doesn’t get one; hesitates; continues)

“Mine’s always been on the…well, bulkier side. But I’m curious what genes your mother–and specifically her cunt of a father–brought to the party. Never liked that fucker. I’ll bet he ruined you. A total pencil dick, that one–I could see it in his eyes.”

Five minutes later, the horrified son has yet to say a word. The only visible indicator of his deep disturbance is the performance of his character in the video game, who, since all the dick talk, has been handled most erratically, and has died almost constantly. In truth, the son’s mind is miles from the game, but he keeps at it just for something to do.

The father fails to pick up on this. “Soo,” he says, “maybe we can pull ‘em out? You know–compare sizes?”

But no. In real life, this just doesn’t happen. And as a result, the family tree, as far as dick sizes go, is always blank (unlike, say, tits–the source of which in girls isn’t hard to locate). Whatever dick you’ve got, it’s been mysteriously tumbling down to you for countless generations: snowballing in size, reverse snowballing, holding constant, flickering all over the place–who fucking knows. And the result is unalterable, yours to deal with–be it asset or a liability.

I’ve always used this–The Great Cock Mystery–to my advantage. With just a bit of historical knowledge (and maybe a sprinkle of story telling chops), I find I can reliably shift the blame away from me and my very mediocre cock, and instead pile it all onto my ancestors.

When do I do this? In any number of scenarios, really. Upon entering some poor girl for the first time and finding I barely fill her up; when I drink too much at a party and pull out my limp dick, triggering a barrage of ridicule from the other men.

But in these cases, I never panic. Instead, I just take a deep breath, put my penis away, and then pull she/he/they aside. I tell ‘em to make themselves comfortable, to put up their feet, to light a fresh cig. I offer to grab ‘em another cocktail or beer, “Because,” I say, “it’s about time I told you the story of my great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Ludwig von Mullen.” Then I dim the lights.

The Legend of Ludwig Von Mullen

For centuries, I had a real monster cock coming down the pipe. 

It’s true. And it was all thanks to my great, great, great, great, great grandfather, Ludwig von Mullen.

Ludwig had a vision. A vision to bestow upon his male descendants–thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of sunsets into the future–cocks of absolutely legendary girth and might. His own children, Ludwig realized, would likely have the sheer rotten luck of being born too soon–maybe even their children as well–but in a hundred years or so, he mused, while in the heaven or simply drifting through the universe as energy, Ludwig could claim to have given rise to a Cock Empire…a Penile Royal Line…maybe even the planet’s singular King of Kock.

But Ludwig had a problem: his penis was only of regular size. And therefore he knew that delivering on his vision would require a multi-generational string of strategic marriages.

Very strategic marriages.

More specifically, the von Mullen men would need to find wives whose fathers’ cocks were something out of mythology: cocks that could influence weather patterns when twirled, that could dredge hillsides when used to pee, that could take lives if and when they were employed as clubs.

Of course, to get the Cock Snowball rolling, Ludwig himself would need to find a woman with a father with a cock meeting the above description. Not a simple task by any means. And in the early days of his quest, Ludwig would wear out many a pair of boots trudging through the streets of his native Salzburg–eavesdropping, gossiping, chasing rumors. All in all hunting the Ideal Cock.

You heard me correctly: hunting the cock. For Ludwig realized, quite ingeniously, that the proper way to find a wife was to spend all of his time and energy seeking out humongous penises.

He worked backwards. If you find the penis, Ludwig reasoned, then you’ve found the man. And once you’ve found the man, you beg Christ that that man has a daughter. And while you’re at it, you also beg Christ that all the nonsensical complications like “attraction” and “compatibly” and “family blessing” hold together well enough to result in marriage.

            Attraction and compatibility were of no real concern to Ludwig. Family blessing, on the other hand–a pesky pre-requisite to marriage and reproduction in 18th century Austria–terrified him. His ties to Raitenau-era nobility had long since faded, and his tendency to drive conversations at masked balls and dinner parties straight to the topic of penis size had resulted in his blacklisting by the contemporary elites. Yes–a potential marriage might very well be dashed at the whim of social convention, even if the woman’s father possessed the Ideal Cock.

For a brief spell, Ludwig was driven to drinking by all this. Some say he contemplated abandoning the quest all together. But it was during this period of darkness, while having a brew at his favorite local haunt, that Ludwig was stuck by the glorious epiphany he so desperately needed. The solution to the marriage problem, he suddenly understood, lay before his very eyes. The key was to conduct his search not in high places, but low.

The Iron Cunt was the most miserable pub in all of Salzburg. Here the drunkest and most despicable of the city’s residents came before passing out in gutters and rolling with pigs in hay. Here the entertainment was limited to a single, drunken violinist: a man who played over and over again the melody modern ears would recognize as “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

And here Ludwig would sit. Sit for hours. Sit at his corner table, visible only by the dim flicker of a candle–hardly drinking, but always watching: watching men’s gaits to see if accommodation was given to an overgrown serpent between the legs; eyeing trousers for any signs of conspicuous bulge.

It was around midnight that Ludwig did his best scouting. At this time, there was seldom a soul in the Iron Cunt will less that 10 pints of ale floating around in his stomach. Consequently, there were seldom less than 10 men standing shoulder-to-shoulder out back: pants down, cocks out, watering the dirt.

Good ol’ Ludwig!

Ludwig would slip into these urine lines, and blend flawlessly with the drunken riffraff. He too would produce his cock; he too would stager and slur; once or twice, he even coaxed the whole line into song, eliciting two refrains of a popular folk tune before words were forgotten and all order was lost.

But while the real drunks were shouting and laughing and carrying on, Ludwig was working.

Carefully, and out of the corner of his eye, he scrutinized every single piece of sexual equipment in the line, and then downloaded this equipment into that cock database he called his brain.

And when closing time finally came…

Ludwig would take the half-kilometer distance separating his home from the Iron Cunt at a flat sprint, cheering and punching a fist into the air as he went. Then, breathless, home, he’d bound through the door and make for his study, for this was where the real work began.

Until dawn Ludwig sat drawing pictures of the various cocks he had seen that night. Sometimes sculpting them out of clay. Often, he’d make vendiagrams labeled “length” and “girth,” to get a better handle on which asset mattered more. Perhaps his favorite project was the 50/50 composite sketch: his own penis spliced with the biggest penis he spotted on any given night–a hypothetical model of what his hypothetical son may hypothetically be packing.

One evening at the Iron Cunt, however, scientific and artistic understanding of the male genitalia was rendered superflous.

A giant of a man, almost certainly a peasant from the nearby hillside, ducked–literally ducked–through the 7-foot doorway of the Cunt, calling for drink.

“Oy, Troll!” called one of the bar’s drunker patrons. “Why don’ ya have a drink of this an’ fuck off?” According to the legend, this suggestion was accompanied by a crude grabbing of the crotch.

The giant studied the man, and then, very casually, went about the motions of knocking him to the floor and beating him motionless with a stool.

To this day, scholars debate whether the drunk was killed instantly or if death took him that night in his sleep. But either way–everybody in the Iron Cunt kept their distance from the giant for the remainder of the night.

Everybody except for Ludwig, that is.

Ludwig followed the giant everywhere: to the bar for more drink, to the street for a smoke, and, of course, out back to have a piss. And it was there that he spotted what could only be considered a penis in the legal sense. His notes from the next day (shaky, almost illegible: clearly done up in a state of extreme titillation) draw comparison to an extinct species of Triassic slug, and emphasize several times that the thing seemed to possess an independent heartbeat. His sketches of the cock even include what some scholars insist are an underdeveloped set of gills and wings, suggesting remarkable geographic mobility.

Ludwig followed the giant all the way home. And what he saw upon peeking into the hut, after the giant was fast asleep, was transcendently beautiful. A sight that affirmed his quest, his hard work, and his entire life all at once.

“Gertrude,” Ludwig said to his new wife, a week later, in small rowboat out on the lake, “in the event that you outlive me, there is something you must know about our future children. About…the legacy they must inherit.”

Gertrude, the giant’s daughter, blinked stupidly. Not only was she 300-pounds, illiterate, and covered in warts at about the same ratio that Earth is covered in sea. She also struggled at speaking or comprehending sentences containing more than two multisyllabic words.

“Gertrude!” pleaded Ludwig, reaching out and clasping her hands. “You must understand me!”

Gertrude, by most estimations, failed to understand him. In fact, modern psychiatric analysis of her character presents a strong case for Down Syndrome. We can’t know anything for sure, though, for from here the trail of my great, great, great, great, great grandfather’s family history grows dark.

So is it all Gertrude’s fault? Her fault that, now in the year 2014, my cock is so goddamn unspectacular? Did Ludwig die young, leaving behind a wife who was, like, totally incapable of finishing what he started? Do I blame her for the sad reality that I fail the Girth Test with flying colors?

(The Girth Test: can you slip your erect cock into a cardboard toilet paper roll? If no: pass. If yes: fail.)

Actually, I tend not to be so simplistic in my finger pointing.

Knowing Ludwig, he wouldn’t have let something as trivial as a retarded wife interfere with his quest. He would have humped away at her day and night until she produced a son. He would have stayed healthy and vital during the tantalizing years of that son’s childhood, so that, the very hour the little bastard tugged out his first wet orgasm–oh, say, around age 11–Ludwig would’ve been ready to take to the streets in search of another big-cocked peasant with a daughter. Preferably a big-cocked peasant whose daughter was willing to have sex with an 11-year-old boy.

Yes. To me, the real problem seems obvious: one of my grandfathers polluted the family line.

I don’t know much about either of these guys, since both succeeded in dying before I was born. All I really know is that they fought in World War II, and allegedly received Bronze and Silver Stars, respectively. But this still fails to impress me. One of them, while he was invading Europe or chasing Rommel around Africa or shaking hands with Russians over a smoldering Berlin, must have been doing it with a tiny, tiny penis.

A fucking micro cock! What else could’ve neutralized the python-like menace that Ludwig sent down to me through the postal service of time and sex? I’m sure the puny thing made grandpa lighter and more mobile on the field of battle–but what about me!? Didn’t he know that, 60 years later, his grandson would be getting wasted and naked in the presence of coeds? Females! With assess and tits! Did it not occur to him that, in the 21st century, these coeds would gossip, and that maybe I would’ve enjoyed the curious downward glances cast by the ones in the know? would’ve enjoyed being assigned nicknames like “the Ripper” and “Bratwurst” or “Pot Roast”?