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In Search of Moby Dick

S.L. Dixon

    I never hung out with the boys; boys always want one thing. Sex. Sex. Sex, that’s what every adult motherly figure told me, growing up.
    I fell for it.
    It isn’t that I don’t like the idea of sex, no, that isn’t it. Not at all. All my girlfriends drone on and on about their lovely, sweaty, sticky, sexual escapades, but when I try it I always end up bored, and not even sweaty.
    I’ve tried all shapes and sizes of boy, but none have what I need. It isn’t their fault. It’s not you it’s me, I think I have the right to use that one, because, physically, it is true. It’s always me.
    When I was a kid, I wanted to be a girly girl. A little flirt, but mom stopped me outright, she didn’t let me use the showers after gym class. I told her they had curtains, nobody would see, but “no way,” she said. I couldn’t wear cute belly tops or two-piece bathing suits, all my friends got to, but not me.
    Now that I look back, I’m glad she didn’t let me. It was in my best interest to hide my dirty secret, that awful, shameful thing.
    At the time, when I was a little kid, six, maybe five and a half, I went to visit a specialist, a gynecologist. She wasn’t a nice woman, old and cranky.
    “Drop your pants,” she demanded in her wispy, yet firm voice.
    I looked at my mom pleadingly, but she couldn’t help. In that little office, I belonged to the doctor. I dropped’m all right and the look on the doctor’s face was that of shock and intrigue.
    “Look at that,” said the doctor and she turned on her chair and rushed to the cupboard over the little sink. In her hand was a little pink measuring tape. I had to turn away; I was embarrassed and mortified. “Look at that, nearly thirteen inches. Not a record,” the doctor said and smiled at me when I turned back, as if it was some funny joke.
    “It looks like everything is normal in there,” the doctor said, she was still smiling, that bitch. “It may cause trouble later, with pleasure, that is, the works are all hidden in there. I feel like Indiana Jones looking for the Ark of the Covenant.”
    Indiana fucking Jones looking for the Ark, what a bitch.
    The doctor went on to explain, so my mother told me time after time, that there wasn’t anything wrong, I was just different. For a long time I was fine with it. I just had to remember to tuck my shirt in, the damn thing tends to peak above my beltline.
    As I’ve aged and grown, it has also grown. The last time I had the nerve to measure, it was close to fifteen inches front to back. Still not a record. Thank God. I’ve never measured depth or width, I can see it sticks out more than a normal one. Having a jumbo you-who is bad, but add in the thick patch of fur that grows on my stomach and I can hardly stand the thing.
    I’ve thought about getting it sewn up, but I am terrible with pain and I worried how the water works would, well, work.
    So, I just dealt with it, always hoping a man would come along with a pharaonic phallus. The lack of manmade orgasm has led me down the road of self-fulfilment from the farmer’s market. Don’t worry, I wash the veggies and no I don’t eat them afterwards, get your mind out of the gutter.
    Listen to me, HA. That is the very line my father used every time I began a dinner table discussion of my lady bits and by the way, not that you should care what I do, but I only used farmer’s market goods until I have the gumption to venture into the adult stores downtown.
    I remember the look on poor Ronald Truman’s face when I lied back on that lumpy motel room bed, donning sexy pink lingerie, ready and waiting. It was prom night and I was ready to have my pretty rose pollinated, at that time, I still hadn’t come to appreciate the magnitude of my predicament.
    Being the gentleman he was, Ronald held back any signs of anxiety after the initial shock and slid me to the edge of the bed. He tried, that boy did try. He flicked and licked, but it wasn’t going anywhere and I was horny and I mean horny. I wanted him to find what he was searching for, the Ark of the Covenant perhaps, I tried to help him, I pushed downward with my hips, but still nothing. I could tell he sensed my annoyance, he dug in, face first. I felt a brief, but noticeable tingle. I tried to slide gently to him, but those damn rubber coated motel sheets were slick and I slipped.
    It felt amazing at first, I rocked and bucked, I thought right there I’d marry that boy. I noticed after a bit and I like to think I acted accordingly immediately after sensing the problem, but in reality, I may have enjoyed the tickle a few extra seconds.
    Ronald’s arms flailed and pushed hard against my thighs. It seems, probably during my little slip, the poor boy’s head, beyond his ears, popped right inside. I screamed and tensed, that didn’t help as I really gripped his head. I could feel him screaming, the sound muffled by my muffin, and it felt so damn good, I was almost there, but I had to let go. His sadness ruined the moment, or so I thought. The boy was a trooper.
    He sat on the floor, backed away from what could have been his vaginal tomb with wide bugging eyes, his hair was greasy and matted, “Maybe just missionary,” he suggested.
    Right on big boy, I thought and he mounted and I waited. I didn’t feel anything really until that hot splash. Ronald rolled off and it seemed after the juice expended his satchel he came back to earth. That wasn’t normal sex and his face said so, “I... uh... I gotta go,” he finally spat.
    Just socks and boxer shorts on, he gathered his tuxedo and ran from the room. I felt horrible, ashamed, but that was then. Now when I think about Ronald Truman I just feel sorry for him. I probably should’ve mentioned my peculiarity.
    There have been men since Ronald, I began to pick and choose based on what the men said, but that didn’t work. As many men lie as tell the truth about the size of their manhood. But, in the end, it never worked out. I gave up on sex, but it always left me lonely and single. Eventually, all men want is sex, or so I thought.
    I started dating David Greensboro almost a year ago. It was a blind date, he looked alright and I guess he thought I passed the test, even after I explained, and rather emphatically, that I wanted to wait for love to have sex. He said he was onboard with the idea, they always say that and a week later, they’re trying to stick you with their equipment.
    David wasn’t like that. He didn’t even try, I wondered if he knew somehow, like someone spilled the beans and it disgusted him. When we danced or cuddled he always leaned out, as if he didn’t want to come anywhere near the colossal crevice lingering below my belly button.
    I started to wonder if maybe he just wanted me to take the lead, grab on and ride him like a bronco. I did eventually grab on, but he pulled away, “I’m not ready,” he said sheepishly, “I’ve had bad experiences before.”
    Hell, who hasn’t, I thought, if he only knew, knew all the trouble I’ve had. I began to wonder if something wasn’t wrong with his ding-dong, but it felt normal when I grabbed it for that brief moment.
    I tried to sneak peeks when he was in the shower, but he always locked the door. He didn’t even like to sleep over and on those strange nights he did, I reached around his heavy pants. He always woke up as soon as I took the thing in my hand and gave it as many strokes as I could in the limit time permitted, but he pulled away, furious.
    “I just can’t yet, got it?” he stated, firm and a little angry.
    “Fine,” I huffed back at him, in reality, he was the first man to make me forget about my prodigious puss.
    He was a prefect boyfriend aside from the no sex deal, so I shouldn’t have complained, I still had my plastic battery-filled lovers and not to dwell, but I had a particularly eventful one-night stand involving cleverly placed mirrors, a flood lamp flashlight and a vibrator fastened to the end of a wooden spoon with duct tape at a Best Western. That night it almost worked twice, so close, but sorry miss, not for you, you only get one turn at a time. It isn’t fair, not by a long shot and how I’d longed.
    I’d grown quite anxious for a proper sexy-time with a human being; I didn’t even care if it didn’t work at that time, I needed some human contact.
    Two years, three months and two days after meeting, and to my surprise, David asked me to marry him. He had a huge ring in a little box, I almost said no, but he was so close to perfect that I gave him an ultimatum instead.
    “Look, if you want me to marry you, you’ll have give it to me first,” I said firmly, yet playfully.
    “I am giving you the ring,” said David, he pretended not to understand, but I could see he did. I felt a bad about pushing him, but I’d given him time.
    I started to strip, always the bottom half first, I have great legs and it didn’t give away the secret right away. I knew from experience to get the motor running before you floored the gas pedal and my panties covered my titanic tantalizer nicely.
    “I can’t,” he said and looked as if he would burst with tears. “You’ll never understand, women never do.”
    I could see the anguish he’d lived with, it almost paused my haughty ambition, almost, but not quite. I pulled off my top, my bra and my panties. I expected that look, that familiar “what am I supposed to do with that?” look. It didn’t come; he smiled instead.
    “What? Something funny?” I said it seemed my turn for anger, I’d had men laugh at me before. I don’t care for it at all.
    “Soul mates,” he whispered.
    I didn’t expect this and I said, “What is that supposed to mean?” in a defensive tone.
    “Soul mates, body and soul,” he smiled the widest smile I’d ever seen on his face and began to strip.
    He got down to his boxer shorts and everything looked normal, he was obviously horny, I was still confused by what he meant by soul mates. I wondered if he was some kind of freak, into monolithic menge, but when he dropped his boxer shorts he reached between his thighs and pulled away a piece of cloth taped to his legs.
    When we first met, I hoped he was a walking tripod, but when I felt his average sized Johnny, I didn’t mind, well to be honest I was a little disappointed. What I saw made my heart sing and my thighs quiver, it was just an average sized weenie that I saw at first, but only at first. When that tape let, three more erect love muscles jumped up alert, one above the other.
    “Soul mates,” I muttered back and finally found that sensation I’d sought.

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