Bone Thugs-N-Harmony

Bone Thugs N Harmony - By Simon Holmes (c) 2004

In the weeks after my fourth operation, I had to learn to love music in
a whole new way. Now I wait for the seventeenth, flesh sticky and
clammy with sweat. This one is just reinforcing the point, you might
say.

A woman walks over to the DJ in a crowded discoth?que and announces
that she would like to fuck him. He says, 'Excuse me?' He has to answer
like that because he hasn't heard her properly and he's concentrating.
He's listening to the current song in his right ear and his next song
in the left. He's trying to stroke the decks in front of him to get the
beats to match together.

One musical mistake and he could lose his job, and anyway, girls come
easily to DJs, or so you might believe.

What they promise you in surgery is hope: imagine how good it feels to
slip a full sized penis in and out of a woman. Imagine pushing through
the soft moist skin that flexes and contorts to hold you there; then
the even greater thrill you can have in a long deep thrust where you
almost slide all the way out before plummeting back down. This move
draws gasps from the prone female like you wouldn't believe, they
say.

Imagine how much better it must feel if your penis is tiny, but you
have still managed to find someone to fuck.

My mother used to call it my lollipop, which was a compliment. Notice
how I refer to my penis as 'it,' like some hideous creature hidden away
deep in the cellar. Something you wouldn't want the family friends to
discover over a scone and tea. Well it was. My mother always loved it
though. In my formative years I would lay in bed at night and suddenly,
yet predictably, hear someone entering the room and sneaking up to the
side of my bunk. Sometimes I'd open my eyes to look, but mostly I
gripped hold of the blanket. When I did look it was always her, never
anyone else. Then I'd feel the duvet being lifted up around my waist.
I'd lie there very still, trying not to breathe.

There's a thrill about being stroked to ejaculation by a hand other
than your own. In adulthood I would find someone who would do this for
me on demand. But before then I had to rely on the help of household
objects. Sure they weren't as soft and warm but they had such a tight
grip: my grand mother's favourite vase was mine too. I had an unhealthy
bond with the top of my school kiddie flask, before it made the orange
juice taste sour. But I had a real penchant for compact discs.

I counted that I'd slept with twenty-three women in total before I met
Danielle, though not feeling me inside them when we did it apparently
made a difference to what they got out of the relationship. None of
them wanted to give me a hand job. Twenty-three women, sex twenty four
times.

Survival of the fittest, you could say.
That one extra time wasn't really sex. I just ended up fucking the
unlucky girl in her sleep. I couldn't even get it inside, but rubbed
myself against her until I came, leaving a string of pearls near her
oyster. Then I stood up and left. She must have woken up and felt most
of it, but she didn't move. I agree it was disgusting, but women had
treated me like nothing. Well, I'm not nothing, I'm a man, the doctor
told me, and that's how men behave.

Had my penis been a few millimetres shorter when I was born I'd have
probably have been turned into a woman and grown up just like my twenty
three girlfriends. I'd have gone through life with the shadow of rape
over me too. Even the chance of being raped by a man with a micro
penis. Unsurprisingly, she didn't speak to the police about me. Perhaps
I had already been punished enough.

I am sure that, when I was younger, we had a fucking orange chart on
the wall in my kitchen that counted fractions of inches with gold stars
stuck on it as the reconstructive surgery took place. I may have
created that out of some more horrible dream, but I wouldn't put it
past my mother. By this time, my father had left us in disgust and she
still used to reach under my duvet and grab hold of my lollipop,
stroking it with her thumb and index finger until it grew slightly like
she wanted. I would be squirming for breath. I never once saw her check
to see if my eyes were open or closed, but then I didn't care either in
my act of rape.

Her fingers would stroke up and down precisely and quickly with
increasing speed as my brain lit up with pleasure and confusion in
equal measure. When I came nothing would come out, just a burning
sensation that would shoot up through me. As her hand withdrew my hips
would be thrusting and squeezing for more. I am sure this made me
become addicted.

A stack of about twenty compact discs could emulate my mother's finger
and thumb motion quite well; I became a music aficionado, my room
filled with an ever growing collection of CDs I hardly played. To avoid
too much suspicion I stuck to a genre, hip-hop. This made it seem like
I was collecting for a purpose not just to screw them. Not knowing
anything I picked ones with pretty pictures on the sleeves, judged them
by their covers. Luckily artists that splash out on flashy covers
usually have something worthwhile to say.

After the 'big operation,' as they called it, it all had to stop. I was
now too wide to fit into my CD hole, although I was still small in the
eyes of other humans and the deadly bell curve of nature. So as I got
back to eyeing up household objects I started to do something else with
my impressive music collection: listen to it. From listening grew a new
and different love. I made mix tapes, and then I wanted more and more.
Somehow having control over harmony and finding keys that fit together
was a metaphor for a coping strategy. It was natural to become a
DJ.

So now we disco strobe flash forward to meeting my current girlfriend.
What Danielle actually said to me was, 'I want to help you.' The music
really had been too loud. Does that make you think better of her? It
did to me when she moved closer and repeated herself. One of her
friends had known me, in the biblical sense, and had told her.

Danielle seemed impressed, not revolted. Despite all my troubles I was
still going out, conquering my fears, or whatever - being a popular DJ,
whom the girls flocked to. She said she wanted to make a man out of
me.

After eighteen months of going out together I had outgrown the orange
kiddie wall chart. My penis was made wider by dermal grafting. This
means doctors slicing tissue from the fat on my buttock and adding it
onto the shaft. I couldn't sit down properly or have any kind of sexual
contact for well over a month, but the alternative was a year long
program of penal injections that sounded disgusting.

Danielle had rich parents who could buy her anything she wanted, and
she wanted to help me. She was a wonderful girlfriend and was happy to
give me hand jobs; she said we should wait to have sex until after we
were married. This was fine by me. But I was never allowed to touch her
in the same way.

The hardest part of the process, excuse the pun, is the surgery to
lengthen, which involves cutting the ligaments from the pubic bone that
support it to make it hang out further. There was always going to be
some risk of nerve damage and infection doing this, but I was lucky.
The only problem was that the lack of support meant my penis became
destabilised, like a falling tower block or a junkie thrown out of
rehab. Doctors said I might be impotent.

Danielle's parents wanted the best for her. I don't know at what point
she told her father that I had no dick, but I often caught him looking
at me strangely, picturing what I might look like in the shower
perhaps. It was kind of embarrassing. He also wouldn't take no for an
answer and paid for all my surgery. If nothing else it gave me
something nice to tell my mother, something she had always wanted to
hear, your son is going to be perfectly normal.

My mother had probably put a 'number of operations' chart on the wall
at the house now. Well today number seventeen gets the gold star
treatment. My cock is already sore at the prospect of a doctor slicing
it open near the base. I can taste the slimy green liquid they give to
prep me snaking back up my throat. It tastes like I imagine slimy green
juices coming out of the lymphatic vein in my cock might taste while
it's busy being lengthened, but suddenly I don't want a bigger cock
anymore.

I don't need one to pleasure Danielle.

I stand up and announce to the room that I've had enough and am leaving
sans super-schlonger. People scurry all directions in a mild panic, but
I can hear them all. I am a DJ. I can separate them out like I'd
separate out a kick drum in a track. I can slow them down so that they
phase into one another.

Cute Nurse: We can't let him leave while prepped.

Just outside of the room, Danielle is pleading with her father to let
me be.

Father: No, I want the best for you. I want a real man for you. It's
what you deserve.

Cuter Nurse: How can we stop him leaving?

Father: You know how I feel about it.

Cute Nurse: We can't stop him.

Danielle: I don't care how you feel daddy.

Everyone has a different voice. The world is made of their harmony. Any
detail can be picked out, any word twisted.

Father: Why his change of heart? What's someone said to him?

Danielle: Daddy, stop living a lie.

She's right, but we are all guilty of it. I should stop living in my
own lies; you see, what Danielle said to me was, 'I want to thank you.'
She wanted to thank me because something about me lit up an inspiration
in her. People whose sexual organs didn't measure up could still have
real lives. The truth was Danielle was born just short enough to stop
her being Dan. An inch away from suffering the same painful
testosterone injections I had to go through. And everything else that
came with it.

So, what do you think of her now? Imagine how it must feel to be scared
to sleep with a man in case they run screaming from the family
cellar.

As I walk out of the hospital with the ties on my smock flapping
carefree in the breeze, arguments blazing, no one caring about anything
other than themselves anymore, I have a plan. What I want is to go back
to the DJ desk, and to have the girls who follow the fashions flock
over, and wait for the one, the one whom I know is truly the one,
because she will come over - she won't want to fuck me, or help me, or
thank me. She will want to wank me. Life is about making your own
fashion. And in my fashion fall catalogue - the new black has a small
cock. Now see me strut.