Ceremoniously (or so I think
about what is before my little opening) dad plunges into an open container then
reappears with smudge on him. In no time he is in again, then out, relish on
his face. Just newly begotten at the time, I would later come to experience the
immense pleasure that sat on dad’s face as I watch him that night.
“Son, it is our call. It is our duty to sire and put to
the plow, as it were, desires and schemes of man. That is your duty.”
Then he’d let himself be wiggled, “shiggled” and tickled then tucked in.
Dad used to tell of that time
long gone when my ancestors sat amongst men. He said when the Declaration of
Independence was signed, his great granddaddy saw to it. He also mentioned the
Magna Carta. That at its conception and birth, hand in hand did our kind walk
alongside men, oh, and a woman.
From birth, we are made
assuredly. Restricted to a certain length and bulk, but not restricted in
capabilities. I seem to wonder though: why all the flesh and just a streak of
vein, and eventually the pointed cap, yes, a cap like that of a Cambodian rice
farmer, atop my whole shaft?! Just because of the sludge? Does it make it
spurt? Does it add to the flurry of sensation, making it hit home; bam?! Well,
thinking of it, that sludge, through that one singular vein, could sire
millions. I wonder what the human race would have been without us in existence.
Would they have prospered? Would they have multiplied? Would families have been
constituted differently compared to how we know today? Hmm…Kudos to our Creator then.
On the sides though: what was
the maker chewing upon when it crouched somewhere in his or her head and he or
she decided that just as I and my kin are made, is how we are going to be made?
To think that I could have been anything but an object for sticking out and
sticking in, I think is quite not ingenious. Varying in length and spurting
different colours as the case may be, (well, that’s a good thing though) I
still find it upsetting that all am made to do is just: stick it out, scribble
with it and swoosh, stick it in.
Disconcerting as I may seem
about my use, I take delight in these uses. I could thrust. I could swiggle. I
could wriggle. I could mingle. I could even scribble! But the greatest pleasure
comes when the juice dribbles down my “spine.”
If you, say, raise me heads
up, my drawy sticky juice wouldn’t flow out. For reasons I do not know, I just
wouldn’t function that way. But were I to be “rock solid” (the word is ram-rod)
in my full glory, slightly tilted like the earth is on its axis, thrusting me
harder against that surface, then, I’d bet you will find my usefulness can be
very pleasing.
Come to think of it, the
sheer thrill I provide in that posture is well documented. Take Louis Hamilton
for instance. It leaves him smiling for years. Ah! To the bank man! The juice I
provide, splashing like perforated lines! One time too, a certain human took me
up with such care and warmth then stuck me into a tight conical tract so dark
inside that I thought I was snaking down a tube somewhere in an underground
London, then draws me out to scribble on “that surface.” The impact of that
action is still felt today.
Of all humans, the ones I
like most are the types that make me release my priced juice extendedly, over
time. (Another insight here: the longer it is delayed the more pleasurable on
release!) These ones know how to enjoy life!
Left hand hefted or right
hand hefted. My, my, you know, my whole in that hole with enameled white
centurions! Hmm…hmm…
I cannot divulge the other uses
have been put to, except of course you wield some sort of Parliamentary Act
before my opening. Yup, am sorry I can’t help you there.
Alas, my family has been
serving humans since time itself!
By the way, am a pen.
