Penis Head Wilson

Penis Head Wilson was a normal kid. He knew he was.  He liked playing outdoor games such as football with his pals, hide-and-seek and kick the can, and eating ice-cream until, aged ten-and-a-bit, he began to grow hair around his penis and his testes descended at puberty. Then his behaviour changed and it had knock-on effects. Stella, his mum, phoned and made an appointment to visit Clydebank Health Centre because her son had annexed the toilet

Stella sat in the waiting room Health Centre, in a row of padded chairs near Reception, reading Reader’s Digest stories about normal family life that has went awry in some predictable way. Stella sighed, got up and went to a corner table, leafed once more through the selection of other shiny magazines, looking for something more her, more Cosmopolitan, which reflected serious lifestyle choices. She intended to be thin, modelled herself on Cher’s aerobics and worked full time at it, but had a face like a tractor wheel and wobbly spoke of a chin with a dimple.  Penis Head, squirming, in the seat beside her, was a distraction to becoming overly engrossed in her reading and getting caught up in photos of David Beckham’s modest acceptance of an OBE for services to being wealthy and beautiful and having good looking children. Penis Head, her only child, stood out in the way other sick people didn’t. Younger kids in cute little denim suits stopped playing and running around the chairs in a game of tag, stopped to stare at him.  He rubbed incessantly at his head and gawped – flicker,  flicker, blink, flicker, blink, flicker blink, blink, blink – at  the young woman with fizzy brown hair in the orange plastic seat across from them, who buttoned her raincoat to the neck and hurried away before the receptionist called her name to see the doctor.

 Dr Gardner was a locum; no printed nameplate, situated on the last door on the right, beside the fire exit, last on the list regular patients wanted to see. But hers was an identical sterile room as the other practice members, painted lilac, which smelled of antiseptic rub and with a window which looked onto the car park.    Stella didn’t hold a grudge, the doctor was younger and prettier than her, looked about twelve with shiny black hair and National Health spectacles to give her face a pleasant adult shine. She was pleased the doctor wasn’t a foreigner that didn’t know how to speak English with a proper accent and was very thorough with her son.

The doctor pulled open the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and delved inside, and snapped on two pairs of latex gloves, one atop the talcum powdered other. She asked Penis Head to step on the scales in the corner of the room. Noted he weighed just over 85 lbs. Took his blood pressure. Listened to his heart with a stethoscope, while he looked at her cleavage. She said that was nothing to worry about. But looked a bit peeved,  flummoxed even, about the head rubbing and blinking, how excited Penis Head got when she asked him to lie down on the shiny couch, how eager he was to get kicking off his  denims. The black leather was covered with a prophylactic roll of coloured paper towelling in case of accidents.

After the examination the doctor asked a few cursory questions, but she seemed glad to get behind her desk, told Penis Head and his mother not to worry about the spontaneous ejaculation. She typed her notes onscreen and glanced over at Stella to make sure she understood the medical jargon and what she was saying.  ‘Praecox ovoviviparous is for boys, a rare genetic condition in which the penis rises and doesn’t stop until it’s taken over his whole body, including his head. He’ll be walking, talking penis,’ concluded the medical expert.

‘Will he still be able to play for Celtic?’ Stella asked. 'He’s always been crazy about football.'

‘Yes, of course, because of the massive boost of testosterone, they are usually more adapted and always up for it.  He’ll have a marked advantage over his peers. Many penises go on to play for Celtic and other big clubs such as Manchester United.’ Dr Gardner concluded, ‘it’s perhaps not politically correct, but you can usually tell them by the way they look in the team photograph. They tend to have a balding head very early.’

Penis head rubbed his head and blink, blink, blinked, gawping at pretty Dr Gardner. He was always up for it and knew that he’d go onto play centre-forward for Celtic and father thousands of other little penis heads that would look just like him that was his only goal in life.