He sat on the couch watching a movie, somewhat disdainfully, not really caring or even paying attention to what was happening onscreen. It was some bullshit sci-fi thriller that was weak on plot and heavy on the special effects and bustline of the leading actress. He had wanted to watch a highly-acclaimed courtroom drama which he had been meaning to see for a while now, but she had convinced him it would be too complicated, too boring, too…adult. He had conceded, as he always did, to give her the feeling of having a small semblance of power in the exchange. Truth be told, he knew he could have watched whatever the fuck he wanted to, short of full-on pornography. "I'll show you an adult movie," he thought to himself, smiling wryly.

The cock didn't have to speak. It knew that a show of physical strength would speak louder than anything it could say. He quickly wiped the grin off his face. None of that really mattered now though because all he could think about was making his move on her. He knew she would be responsive to his advances; years of sleeping around had honed his senses in this regard and there wasn't a doubt in his mind. Even so, the anticipation was palpable, souring the air around him with a heavy feeling of anticipatory fidgetiness. He put his elbow on the couch's armrest and leaned his head against it in an attempt to relax.

But he couldn't relax; his stomach churned with the kind of pseudo-nausea that only comes from being nervous. He let his mind wander to what might occur once he got her back in the bedroom. The nausea faded and his penis stiffened slightly from the fantasy. It was then it began to chide him.

 "What are you waiting for?" it asked him, emphasizing the "what" pointedly, and at the same time eschewing the daunting confidence of someone who needs only to query in the rhetorical to be understood. He decided to ignore it, knowing full well that its mere presence was enough to elicit a sense of ominous foreboding that could not be ignored. He grew harder.

 "It's time for me to have what's rightly owed to me, James," the cock reiterated. He deftly tucked the tip under the brim of his underwear in one swift motion, hoping she wouldn't notice. She didn't. He knew that this would only subside the phallus temporarily, and that in the end he would have no choice but to give in. The truth was they both wanted the same thing.  

He didn't even know why he fought his cock really.  

      *  *  *

His mind began to wander. He began tracing, backwards, the route that had led him to this point. Archetypical images representative of entire epochs in his young life flashed through his head, mostly compromised of past sexual encounters. He was aroused even further as a result, but the influence of the mystical phallus was temporarily subsided at the behest of his extreme concentration. For a full three minutes James Libby wasn't even on the couch. His consciousness–in fact his very existence–was traversing backwards through the space-time continuum, reliving past conquests and debauchery the likes of which could never be fully explicated.  

He tried to round it all out, to put it in perspective, to understand the vast, wide-ranging, and diverse implications of what he had been through and how they had affected the person he was today. This seamlessly led him into a completely different stream of consciousness.

Who am I? He suddenly thought to himself.

The query boomed across the barren landscape of his mind like a cannon shot. Who the fuck is James Libby? How could such a profound series of experiences possibly be encapsulated in such a petty and puerile existence?

You are a piece of shit, he continued. You are an immature and manipulative failure. Your very existence is completely predicated on manipulating everyone and everything around you into providing you with the most hedonistic enjoyment possible at any given moment. You are–

He snapped back to reality as a large explosion boomed out of the television's speakers.  

He glanced–or rather allowed himself to contemplate finally–the scene he had been staring at but not really seeing for the past few minutes. On screen, the film's heroine avoided catastrophe with Matrix-like adroitness. The deep contemplative state he had just a second ago been completely immersed in was a thousand miles away now. The feeling of pseudo-enlightenment, of being on the brink of some massive epiphany washed away from his being like a tide going out to shore. He briefly attempted to immerse himself into that same mindset again. Wandering aimlessly for a few seconds he tried to reconstruct the mindset that the movie's special effects had robbed him off, but before he could get a hold of this previous state of mind, the cock interrupted. 

 "The time is now James. I need to feel her. I need to be in her. Take her now," the phallus enumerated.

The "now" was pointedly exaggerated, as it typically was in all of the penis' correspondences. It had a curious way of exclamating the end of a statement with only the silence that came after its utterance. It didn't need to raise its voice (or widen its urethra) to dramatize the term; it knew intrinsically how to leave the most lasting impact on his psyche simply through cadence and syntax.  

"Good gawd," he thought to himself, drawing out the aw in gawd mentally.

It was then that she put her hand on his, shifting ever so slightly in her seat so as to predispose herself to the ensuing make-out session she no doubt expected to start at any moment. He could tell she was watching him out of the corner of her eye, attempting to act like she was still focused on the movie, but in reality wondering only if and when he would kiss her. It was his ability to interpret these subtle nuances of body language that made him so lethal in close proximity with the opposite sex.

His penis stiffened coarsely, pulling against the belt buckled around his waist. The cock didn't have to speak. It knew the situation and its implications, and it knew that a show of physical strength would speak louder than anything it could say.  

It also knew that eventually James would have no choice but to yield.  

*  *  *

He used his drink as an excuse to move his hand away from hers. Maker's Mark. On the rocks. He had forgotten he even poured it until he started thinking about a reason to get out of her embrace. He usually didn't drink alcohol in front of girls; it gave the wrong impression. Tonight though he felt like needed it. He needed it to deal with her bullshit-fuck, he needed it to deal with her very presence. He felt a twang of regret instantly. That was probably unfair of him. More aptly, he needed the alcohol to deal with his own bullshit. The bullshit. The bullshit that was reality: responsibility, family, mortality, etc. He took a slow draught trying not to gulp. The ice cubes clinked loudly against the glass as he set it back down on the table.

The warmth spread over him like a blanket. A soft fog, softer than Teddy Ruxpin's tummy, began to fill his head. Leaning back into the couch he closed his eyes and enjoyed the miraculous gift of actually being able to think about nothing for a few seconds. He began to rub his eyes in a ritual he had engaged in since kindergarten. Vibrant seams of light filled his vision, streaks of color etched across his cornea like a thousand bolts of lightning criss-crossing at once. It looked like a psychedelic spider web spun for him and him alone. He smiled like a pubescent boy might upon seeing his first teat. Giddy from his own silliness he put his hand back on hers without even realizing. With his eyes still closed he didn't even realize as she leaned over and began to kiss him. He didn't fight it.  

The cock didn't say anything further. He knew the battle was won. He had known from the second it had begun that it could lead to no other conclusion than this. If a cock could smile it would have. Meanwhile, as James continued to kiss her he swore that for the briefest of moments he heard the insidious laughter of his fey cock echo throughout the room.

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