Arcing ropes of hot piping semen spewed forth from the hole in my rigid dong for the first time the very day Ronald Reagan was re-elected President. I was despondent about the election but at the same time relieved to finally be able to shoot something out of my cock. At least I could ignore the justice struggle for four years and focus all of my energies on stroking my dick.
I was around 13 and a late bloomer. Most of the neighborhood kids began ejaculating around 12—one even as young as nine, but he went on to literally be a circus freak, so that doesn't count. I paid no attention to politics and simply buckled down on pounding my meat.
When your confidence just spills out everywhere.
Those four years passed in a blur of buckets of piping hot semen shot out of my blue veined member and, before I knew it, the SAT preparation classes I was neither conscious of being enrolled in nor ever having attended, paid off with a very high score that impressed the bolo tie wearing admission lesbians at Antioch College in Los Angeles.
At the end of that final summer at home, I readied to watch the people my parents hired put all my shit in moving vans and drive it two miles down the road to the school, and knew that both I, and the nation as a whole, faced a burning hot question: would we idly sit by and watch George Bush be elected the first left-handed President? He promised not to raise taxes and was obviously a fascist. The only thing standing in his way seemed to be Michael Dukakis, the less than impressive son of Greek immigrant Bobbleheads.
I stood out on our green lawn watching the movers' van drive off and the cleaning van drive up, its crew there to chisel clean and then repaint my room walls so mom and dad could rent it out to a student just like me. At that moment I made a solemn promise to dedicate myself immediately to the cause of, not only defeating George Bush, but also securing the election of Socialist Labor Party's candidate, Juan Ponce De Leon, in his steed.
Arriving on campus and seeing all the fresh, nubile poon, including the sign-waving girls, with their "no bra on—look at me!" attitude, naively calling for immediate adoption of some professor's pet academic agenda as the only panacea for injustice everywhere (which other signs said was a threat to justice anywhere)—when I arrived and saw them with those, my rod immediately grew diving board-taut and was in danger of tearing at the weakly knit seams of my light blue, Taiwanese-made running shorts with the built-in undies.
Did I look gay? Judging by the friendly hellos I received from men running up in bleached Levi's cut-off shorts wearing George Michael glasses and perfectly white Stan Smith's to ask if I wanted to join Judo club, I'd say I did.
My erect penis and I walked to my dorm and mounted the steps of some side entrance and jogged the five flights of stairs that took me to the academic support hall, where, thanks to my sister having gone here too, I knew I was to check in.
I was greeted by a gaped-mouth sophomore whose pupils grew wide at the site of my dong. She handed me a packet that included chow hall meal times and curfew rules and pointed me in two opposing directions simultaneously before passing out. I went down one hall, and it was wrong, being for girls only, as I discovered when one screamed emerging topless from the laundry room with a towel wrapped around her head, so I turned around and passed the girl who'd passed out, now being woken by another girl whose tits looked awfully big hanging from her shirt as she shook her friend's two shoulders and made her tits jiggle too and said "Julie, Julie, wake up."
She did and then her friend asked if she was okay. Julie said fine and asked her friend, "Did you see the size of that guy's dong?"
I continued my proud jaunt past them only to bump into an African-American who just happened to be really tall but turned out not be a basketball player but an oboe player instead; and, he too, was wearing poorly-seamed Taiwanese shorts and had his own, rather ginormous dong sticking straight out of them in full flush of heaving, blood-engorged erectness too.
I went to my dorm room and pushed the door open with my cock. Damn it all to hell, I thought, I have a fucking roommate.
This boded ill for my beating off. And how would I fight for social justice and stop George Bush and get Socialist Labor Party Presidential Candidate Juan Ponce De Leon elected in his place with this huge boner sticking out of my pants?
My roommate said hello and asked where my bags were. I told him some movers would bring them by.
"Mexicans he asked," pointing the beer bottle he was drinking from at a half case he had next to his row of Stan Smith Sneakers.
"Nice cut-offs," I said. "Those seem to be in style around here."
"I invented it," he said and took another sip.
The movers came in speaking Mexican, and I hate being around labor, so I took off. I apologized for leaving but my roommate said his great, great grandfather owned some huge latifundia in New Spain and watching Mexicans labor was in his blood.
The beer had drooped my boner and though my cock flapped and jangled around in my shorts and attracted a lot of attention, it attracted considerably less than the amount it got when it had been so blazingly erect. A goo-goo eyed girl even maintained her composure in the face of it long enough to give me coherent directions to the student newspaper office before passing out.
I burst through the swinging double doors to the large newsroom and announced that I was a master of English prose, and they'd be fools not to immediately give me my own bi-weekly editorial column, to be called "Words From On High."
After some words that turned acrimonious rather quickly, an assistant sports editor of some sort escorted me out of the room and said to bring in some clips from my high school newspaper that would back up my words. I told him I never wrote a word for my high school paper, that it was an administrative mouthpiece, edited by rally girls and their sad hangers on.
I went on rambling out in the foyer, vowing to stay until they caved in to my demands. Finally, the faculty advisor came out, a woman in her thirties, eyed my dong, and said that as a prose stylist, I'd be better off calling on the staff of the school's literary journal and seeing if they might be interested in taking me on.
I told her suggestion had more double entendres in it than an Emily Bronte novel and said I'd wish I'd met her when she had been younger, with less droop in her tits.
I left and homed in on the literary journal office and burst in to find what I'd learn later was the editor kissing a fat woman's ass. She turned out to be the faculty advisor.
They seemed both embarrassed but I said not to worry: we all know the behind the scenes process of putting together a small literary journal is sausage making type labor of love process.
I told them that I came upon the solid recommendation of the newspaper faculty advisor, who said my prose was simply too professional for the paper, as it would intimidate too much the other writers into quitting, make them change majors, and that would be the death knell of the whole journalism department. I also said that between me and them, journalism was a big fucking joke anyway. Look at how they all but propped up Ronald Reagan and were now doing the same to Bush. I asked if they'd ever heard of Ponce De Leon.
The faculty adviser was obviously eyeing my flapping dong and the editor got the picture and began putting his things into a cardboard box in the face of my relatively massive appendage. The advisor said she had heard of me and asked if I played the oboe, who I liked for the Super Bowl that year, and if I'd mind her fellating my cock.
I said no, Dolphins, and what's in it for me?
I drove a hard bargain and let her suck it on a trial basis in exchange for letting me be editor.
My shit came to the dorm. My roommate turned out to be cool about giving me space to beat off, but I didn't need it as I took to porking that girl who fainted the day I checked in. She thanked me for doing her so much and said it really mellowed her out and helped her focus on her studies. I told her it was no problem, but once she had a career, I'd hunt her down and demand a cut from her paycheck.
She dumped me for threatening to hunt her down. My roommate was very understanding and for two weeks after our break up, bought full cases of beer instead, which we drank threw a funnel and a huge tube he got from the chemistry lab where he did his work study.
At the journal office, I reviewed manuscripts and was absolutely shocked to find that all of the prose and poetry we received consisted of nothing but vile, anti-homosexual and racist screeds that called for reinforcing and perpetuating the dominant paradigm.
"We've got to do something about this," I said one day with my feet up on my desk, reviewing a manuscript in my swivel chair. The faculty advisor was too busy sucking my dick to offer anything but a muffled response.
I went back to my dorm and talked it over with my roommate. He was pretty kick back, not at all gay—the shorts were just a hold over from the seventies when everyone wore them and headbands too—but hearing me, he sprang up out of his usual lean back and drink position and said, "You're fucking right! This has to stop!"
It was then that he came up with the idea of revising our submission guidelines to proscribe all the anti-gay, anti-black, anti-lesbian, pro-gun, pro-flag, anti-Virginia Woolf, pro-skeet shooting, anti-Tofu, and pro-Reagan stories and poems I was reading through every week.
I said that might be a big mouthful all at once and said I'd uncoil it all gradually, over time. The next issue (it was all print back then) simply stated that we were a journal seeking writing both steeped in, yet also deviating from, canonic American and otherwise traditions, and that while we would not necessarily exclude work consisting mostly of racial epithets, they would have to be clearly works of lasting literary merit to find a place in our pages.
From that humble beginning, we went on to proscribe more aggressively all kinds of words and writing and attitudes and tones. Bit by bit, the Klansmen sending me their stories got the picture and stopped.
Sometime in my junior year, I orchestrated a kind of Chinese Anti-Rightist denunciation of the faculty advisor for being a latent centrist—an intolerable attitude of vacillation in the era of Bush, who had not only overthrown Noriega (a non-white with Zits) but was just then threatening also Saddam Hussein (an Arab with a mustache). I had long ago freed myself from my agreement to submit to her blowjobs in exchange for editing the journal and consolidated my power over the staff, who I kept at each other's throats parsing their words in meetings for signs of revisionism—a word none of them knew and didn't understand even after looking it up.
Then the journal was mine and I put in a desk drawer, sealed in an envelope with instruction "DO NOT OPEN ‘TIL 2012" my instructions on what to proscribe in the writer's guidelines.
I then waited patiently for the manuscripts to come pouring in for our special Juan Ponce De Leon Memorial issue. Someone in Mexico had put a hatchet into his head. Not a single dipshit on campus understood what that meant, that it was an allusion to the murder of the good pig in Animal Farm.
As the days went by and nothing came in, I realized I hadn't popped a rod for more than a year. I tried beating myself to hardness to no avail. If I was to ever fulfill my dream of one day having kids, then they wouldn't come flying out of my dong head in a squirting stew of piping hot sperm and semen. Instead, someone would have to extract that sperm from my balls with a finely calibrated surgical instrument, probably under a local anesthetic.
I told my roommate my dick wasn't going up. He told me to have a beer and said he'd extract the sperm from my balls with a precision surgical instrument for free once he was a surgeon. He was graduating early, a cum laude double major in biology and chemistry, and was already fielding scholarship offers from medical schools all over.
"Gimme six years," he said, "And we'll get ‘er done."
The way he talked reminded me of a character in one of those stories I'd banned myself from reading.