Let’s just imagine for a moment that this isn’t the result of pumping. That it’s real.
Daddy has to have both underwear and trousers specially made for him. In the street people stare, then hastily look away. Jesus, Kathy, did you see that? That man should go to the hospital.
But to me that thing between Daddy’s legs, the same thing I though was a monster when I was little, is my sanctuary, my sustenance. When Dad drags his monster testicles over my face I inhale with a deep and profound sigh. And when he feeds me his half-litre of sperm it truly is a complete meal, not just an appetiser. When I come up for air, dizzy and out of breath, he takes my chin in his hand and says, “Ok, go and clean yourself up, son, and we’ll watch a movie together.”