Flash Fiction – written by Lee Bailes
In all the years that I’ve worked in the porn industry – as fluffer and adult industry makeup artist – I’d never questioned anything except the morality of myself and those around me. But when a naked has-been porn star comes at you wearing nothing but a determined grimace and wielding a scalpel, it really makes you reevaluate things.
Pussy is the main commodity in this industry. The pecker is usually incidental. They’re also often suffering from stage fright. Occasionally one rare stallion comes along and shakes things up a bit. This one particular stiff shook things up so much that he became a major player and a living legend.
Way back in the 90s this young Spanish dude bedded an upcoming glamour model and future starlet. All of a sudden there’s talk of a Latin John Holmes, tearing apart the fleshy walls of many a sex kitten; talk of a guy gifted with model looks, a fighters’ frame and a third leg that would make the often flaccid and coke-addled Holmes green with envy. It was inevitable that the industry would welcome him with open legs. It was also easy to see how they were happy to turn a blind eye to the rumours; from past lovers that intimated he’d surgically created his talent and the claims that, whichever city he worked in, women inevitably died.
He loved the fame, courted the infamy; but he never seemed to enjoy the women who worshipped before his impressive one-eyed and permanently turgid girth. Unlike many other stars he didn’t find solace in drink or drugs. Rather surprisingly, nor did he turn his back on the industry. But eventually when his looks faded, his frame weakened and his movies stopped selling, he got mean. Then no one except the most desperate girls would work with him; those that didn’t believe the rumours about what happened when the cameras were switched off. And then one night he disappeared after a drunken party; the same party that lit up the scandal rags, when a young girl died from a brutal rape. The police could find no trace of him. With time he soon became nothing but a whisper of warning, to the wannabes that dropped their trousers at auditions; those equally hungry for fame in fucking. That is until he just burst onto our film set, naked, wrinkled and waving a wicked looking scalpel around; with the package of an under-equipped new born hanging limply between his legs. If word got around that he was missing his star performer, it would cause such a commotion I can tell you – that is if anyone believed it was possible.
No one knew why he went after Brawn Johnson with that scalpel, unless it was purely professional jealousy. I mean Johnson was no looker like our boy was in his day, but he did have a prick to rival the best in the business. He was busy using it in one of the women who originally launched our boy’s career. But did he have to kill Johnson out of jealousy? The two had never even so much as met. They were from different eras for chrissakes.
Of course once Johnson felt the kiss of a scalpel blade, he was spraying blood like a fountain. Our boy then started raving in his mother tongue like a lunatic and Johnson’s bloodied playmate screamed in terror. Right then no one cared about the ‘why’; everyone fled in panic – everyone except me that is. I was speechless and standing in a puddle of my own urine and as invisible to him as if I was a statue.
The shame is that now no one will believe what I saw. I am not even sure that I believe it now either. It defies logic and reason. Nowhere is it written that a man’s proud plonker can uproot itself from it’s host and slip out of the back door faster than a hunted rat. But that is what happened – whether you believe it or not.
The thing was alive.
The joke of a man having two brains was true! Where pubic hair had once hidden the charms of past stars, the modern unshaven undercarriage was now clearly in view. I could see every vein-like proboscis retract from the skin between Johnson’s legs. As his body gave out its last tremor, the monstrosity stood proud and erect and seemed to fix our boy in its one-eyed view. Then as he lunged for Johnson’s member with the scalpel it shook itself off the tiny pecker beneath and fled; using the testicles as feet. Our boy gave chase and the two were never seen again.
I took a closer view of Johnson’s bloody hole-ridden crotch. The instrument that I had fluffed up and puckered upon merely half an hour before was no more. In place of the parasitic pecker was nothing but a grey, shrivelled, flaccid remnant of his real schlong.
It was a few months later that I heard the reports of a new talent appearing on the scene. Another one in a million discovery. A few months after that the first body of a murdered female was found and more followed soon after. For all I know our boy is still out there too, looking to put an end to the abomination.I guess sometimes the worm really does turn.
End
