Steve Grogan is an ongoing contributor to Writer to Writers. He has published several short stories on the site, which can be found on the main page under the heading “Steve Grogan’s Fiction.” He has had several poems and short stories published over the years, some of which are available on Amazon. (See the announcement at the end of this post.)
He is the writer and creator of the ongoing, zombie, post-apocalyptic, Romero-meets-Dungeons-and-Dragons webcomic REDemption. Alternatively, Steve describes the comic by saying, “It is to zombie fiction what KILL BILL was to kung fu movies: everything I love about the genre housed under one roof and mixed with my voice.”
October 8, 2008
Man, I’m getting sick of this routine and this lousy size curse screwing up anything and everything for me. Today, a coworker of mine (Lisa Foreman) sent out two emails. One of them was addressed to several people, inviting all of us to a house-warming party she’s throwing this weekend.
Her second email was sent to only me, and it consisted of one sentence: “I really hope YOU can make it this weekend, *wink*”
The only way she could have been less subtle was if she got someone to use an airplane to write the words “I WANT YOUR COCK” in the sky. Ironically enough, it was that very appendage that forced me to make up some reason that I couldn’t make it, so I settled back on the same excuse I gave to Chris and told her I was sick.
This party is out. Mingling with other human beings face to face? Out. Getting a chance to be with a smoking hot coworker to see what could happen? Well, by now you know where I’m going here: that’s out too. Since I don’t feel like dwelling on something that angers me so much, it’s time to return to the history of my life.
Once the debacle with Mr. Washington was over, the days became uneventful. Each one was like a photocopy of the previous day, and I’m sure everyone knows the more copies you make of the original, the poorer the quality gets. It got to the point where I actually wished Mr. Washington would get mad at me about something, just to break up the monotony.
The only thing that changed was my penis size, per the whims and wishes of the size curse. As noted before, it got so small that it disappeared. On another day, it was so long that I was in the kitchen while I stood in the living room. Another time it got so wide that I couldn’t fit through any of the doorways in my apartment. This proved to be quite problematic, especially when I had to go to the bathroom. My solution? Just let my bowels and bladder go wherever I stood. I had no other choice, since holding in the waste could make it toxic. After all, I had no way of telling when my size would change. Once it shrank back down, then I could clean up my mess. Not ideal, but then again how many times does the life you live match up to the one you wish you had? My only fear was that the stench would build up or the urine would seep through the floors and give Mr. Washington a new reason to complain. If that happened, not only would I be kicked out, but everyone would learn my embarrassing secret.
Oh, Jesus. What an ugly time that would be. You know damn well the media would hear about it. Only thing is, I don’t know how they would ever air the story. The main interest they’d have in me would be based on my ever-changing penis size, and you can’t show that on television or in the newspaper. How would they get around that? It was a question that almost made me curious enough to call the media myself, just to see how they would handle things. Notice I said almost.
Now we get to a very exciting part of my history, where I recall there was one brief, fleeting moment when I thought I might be able to figure out a pattern to the size curse. It happened on evening after my new television set arrived.
MTV was doing that rarest of things: showing a music video. The artist (and I use the term loosely) was the Queen of All Asses, Jennifer Lopez. It was a video for a song called “Love Don’t Cost a Thing,” or something like that. She sang about loving a guy no matter how much he had in the way of money or possessions. To this I pose the question: when is the last time anyone saw J. Lo dating a broke guy who had nothing?)
At the end of the video she’s rolling around on a beach in a white T-shirt and a yellow bikini bottom. Her ass looked as mesmerizing as always. I started thinking about how, if I were to hook up with her, I’d just have to hit the road less traveled. With most women that doesn’t interest me but, if the bottom is amazing enough, then I’d want to put my cock anywhere I could fit it. When an ass is fine enough, it would be almost criminal to neglect it. Yet women like Jenny McCarthy and Carmen Electra have gone on Howard Stern’s show and admitted they had never done anal sex. Those are two of the finest asses in the world. How is it possible that none of their boyfriends and/or husbands tried to claim that backside cherry?
Just like it had done with Jennifer Love Hewitt, my penis sprang up and out. On this occasion, I’d been smart enough to position myself so I didn’t face the television, lest history should repeat itself. Once again, without even touching myself, I felt the grip of a climax tighten around me. Then I was gushing all over the room again.
When that wave passed and every drop had been expelled, I realized two things. First, the reason I could achieve orgasm so easily was because the nerves in my cock were so big. Their size made them more sensitive, which meant even the soft touch of a breeze from outside could send me off.
Second, my almighty rod had shot to its mammoth length once I started thinking about celebrities that aroused me. Therefore, it stood to reason that an increase in horniness might mean a change in length, right? Wrong! I knew that explanation didn’t add up because there were plenty of times when I was watching television, a movie, or maybe even surfing the web and I’d see a beautiful woman, but it didn’t have any effect on me down below. And another thing: if seeing a sexy lady was what made it grow, then why did I wilt away when I flipped the channel and happened to come across a show featuring the lovely Brooke Burke?
If someone asked me what my ideal brunette would look like, my answer would be Brooke. (For blondes the answer is Ali Larter, but I’m not going to start up a “best of” list right now so let me stop there.) Those big brown eyes. That smile. Long, silky hair. Perfect tan. Cute, curvy rump. And let’s not forget the most feminine part of her, covered by a very tasteful “landing strip.” Lopez has the ass. Hewitt has the tits. Brooke has it all, from head to toe. Speaking of toes, I’d be happy even if the only thing she let me do was jerk off on her feet. That is the sign of a true head-to-toe hottie.
Given that this is what I think of her, then I don’t know why my penis retracted to its normal length when I saw her. Was there something else that factored into the size curse other than my feelings?
The futility of trying to figure it out wore me down, and my mind wandered to other topics. I sat there looking at Brooke, but I was thinking: this woman is gorgeous and all, but why is she a part of my life? There are lots of beautiful women in the world, but they aren’t all celebrities. Brooke had been a model and the host of Wild On. Aside from that, I couldn’t tell you a single thing she’d done, and her show hadn’t even lasted that long. So why was Brooke Burke popular?
I’ll tell you what it is: society is just too willing to throw around the word “celebrity” these days. Even if you just date someone famous for a while, you become famous yourself. That asshole Kevin Federline is a classic example of this. And that rule doesn’t apply all the time either. Look at Anna Nicole Smith, a Playboy model who sustained her fifteen minutes of fame by marrying a decrepit old bag. The interest never drifted to the husband; it stayed on Anna.
Then you have some celebrities that there are no excuses for. Like Paris Hilton. What exactly has she done? She happened to be born to two of the richest people on the planet. Dumb luck made her famous. That and the fact that she’s considered to be hot. God knows why. I’ve seen better faces in George A. Romero’s zombie flicks. As far as her body goes, in my mind, “skinny” doesn’t automatically equal “hot.”
The most frustrating thing about Paris’s fame is that anything she does is guaranteed to make a buck. Even if people go to her movies or buy her CDs out of sheer morbid curiosity, they still shelled out the cash for it! Christ, look at her track record: she recorded a CD that was about as entertaining as someone blowing air across the top of an empty soda bottle. Then she was in that remake of House of Wax (starring alongside the much prettier Elisha Cuthbert) which, ironically enough, was about as exciting as watching a candle melt down.
In the Capital Region, I know musicians and directors who can create better songs and movies in their sleep, but they can’t get a break. They let Paris make a CD because people already recognize her name. That’s all the entertainment industry seems to care about these days. Their mindset is, “If it’s not popular, then it must suck.” What they fail to understand is that there is so much material out there in the way of movies and music that it would be impossible for everything to be popular. Sometimes artists just slip through the cracks. Look at Gram Parsons. He hardly got any attention when he was alive, but now there are lots of people who name him as a major influence.
Sometimes I wonder why I bother going on these little diatribes. What difference do they make? No one reads them, not even me! It’s very rare that I go back and read old journal entries. They serve the purpose of helping me vent. Once they are out of my system, I don’t look back. But even this act of flushing out my anger becomes a moot point because tomorrow I’ll see some other purposeless celebrity and the rage will flare up in me all over again. So in the end, what’s the point of doing this? As a matter of fact, what’s the point of anything?
I doubt I’ll figure it out tonight, no matter how long I dwell on it. Time to watch TV and let myself just veg out.
If you like what you have read and would like to purchase this serialized novel as one complete PDF, then please send $3.50 to Steve via PayPal: email@example.com
Also, don’t forget to check out his other writing at the following links below:
Author: Redemption Comics
Steve Grogan was born in the often-filmed city of Troy, NY. He has written in a variety of formats (novels, short stories, poems, screen and stage plays, blogs/articles) and genres (horror, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, drama).
Steve is also a father, a boyfriend, a musician, a fitness fanatic, and a martial artist. He has been studying Wing Chun Kung Fu since 1995, and he maintains a blog/YouTube channel that describe his training habits, epiphanies, and advancement. It also candidly discusses his stumbling blocks, such as his struggle with nutrition and mental health issues.
He is no relation to the New England Patriots quarterback from the 1980’s.