would think that well into the twenty-first century, with all its contraception:
that a co-ed’s impregnation
would take place 'accidentally' next to never.
would also think that sex for recreation, as opposed to procreation,
enjoyed foolproof prophylaxis:
having all but eradicated STDs.
Lastly you would think,
that males and females, one on one or in
unbridled combination, could refrain from doing harm to one another’s parts. You
would—you might—were you not young Rockefeller Falk, who has done all three:
made his ladylove enceinte
who-knows-what in the process
and "broken" or more aptly "sprained"
his acrobatic dick.
How, you might
well ask, could someone manage such a hat trick?
the rarest feat, namely "fracturing" one’s erection:
when a phallus,
energetically thrust, either hits or slips its target and encounters something
stalwart (like a bone or hardwood floor), an audible ‘CRACK’ occurs (or can occur
on occasions far from frequent), whereby tissue ardently stiff
excruciatingly tears. The penis has a pair of spongy chambers along its shaft (corpora
cavernosa) which fill with blood when cued by sexual
stimulation. Surrounding them to ensure the blood stays trapped, (sustaining
rigidity) is a 'usually resilient' membrane (tunica albuginea).
Rockefeller’s (recently) suffered a mishap, rendering him a candidate for
emergency surgery to repair "severe angulation and damage to his urethra"—or, in
cruder terms, to "straighten his crooked pecker and the trajectory of its piss."
while doing this—though diagnosed generically:
in the form of a red-raw irritating rash, which overtook his blue-black cock
and balls, his post-op lap, then spread to nearby parts like a swarm of pesky
locusts... mean locusts... hungry mean locusts... the itch like being
nipped by a thousand compound mouth-parts. Cortisone cream prescribed and
liberally smeared relieved the symptom, while the underlying disease
surrendered to antibiotics (a ten day course administered, jointly, to him and
Now to the
matter’s upshot (or offshoot), the problematic fetus:
which may, or
may not harbor a dubious gene, a gene carried by one of the two contributors, on
roughly half of his chromosomes (those labeled Y), the issue, therefore, moot
should the 'issue' present as female, and of even less concern should its mother abort (though Roman Catholics persist in abhorring the
'murderous' practice). Rockefeller, hooked on the horns of a self-imposed dilemma, is taxed
to trace the source of his spermatozoon’s payload. Short of DNA testing (an
option not ruled out), the resource best to tap is dear old...
"You did what, to whom, engaged in..."
Sorry. Did Grandpa insist on your calling him by his first name, too?"
father—your grandfather—was considerably older. I called him ‘Sir,' if you must
know. You and I, by comparison, could almost be brothers."
"I make you
"Not as old
as I’ll feel if I soon have to hear 'Grandpa.' Could we stick to the subject at
hand? How far gone is she?"
to know for sure, not far enough to prevent her pulling the plug."
"Were she so
"Which she is
not, I take it."
still use the term 'religious,' you know."
Luddites, and imbeciles; is she any of those?"
"Christ; the trinity;
I guess all three apply."
Rockefeller casts a withering look at his father—for whom Christianity tops the list of
established-faith hypocrisies, worshipping a pacifist while waging war
life considered inviolable before it ventures from the womb, Remington's views
keeping with what his pragmatist son calls "pipedreams"—Mankind's penchant for violence
impossible to eradicate, utopian research (to which his father has devoted himself
since setting up shop in New Zealand) a ludicrous waste of time.
"I know you disapprove, Rem, but we thought we’d..."
It’s not of marriage I disapprove; it’s of..."
choice? Joanna is good enough for me. When you get to know her..."
"I’m sure I
again 'father' bears the brunt of 'son's' scornful scrutiny; Remington's alleged 'extrasensory
perception' is typically symptomatic of unadorned subterfuge, pretending to divine information
collected by mortal means—underhanded means, if the present mirrors the past:
prying, peeping, spying on intimate exploits and private affairs. For as long as
memory serves, Rockefeller has felt his life subjected to pseudo-psychic trespasses
by his domineering patriarch.
"Okay, go ahead. What have you surmised?"
age, give or take. Older, by a few months, but finished with her education.
Talks a lot, says little, depth of thought approximately that of a pockmark. Pretty, in a dressed-up dishtowel
housewife sort of way; destined to domesticity,
she, nonetheless, has style—albeit residual; Mom and Dad are the
fashion plates. Both rich. Their daughter a duller, poorer proof. Working girl, by
conviction. Earns her keep. Recipient, nonetheless, of rather upscale gifts, lavished
never-endingly by her distantly doting parents. How am I doing?"
As Rockefeller feared, his father must have snooped. Without ever having met the
girl, his description is too exact. How much more 'intelligence' has been
gathered is about to be divulged—"Rem" proceeding to
oblige his scowling offshoot (who abstains from further comment).
"Loves lattés. Sips them by the hour at shopping-mall cafés. I believe your
campus segues onto one such monstrosity... "
another California eyesore...")
Meerschaum crosses her freshly waxed legs,
vehicle a fuel-efficient hybrid, of course; politically correct; gift at graduation...")
collagenous lips as she reads her Day Planner Palm,
skimming e-Zines; her waking
hours are mostly spent online; wirelessly
connected; seldom out of touch...’)
Rockefeller for squandering Spring Break at home in Wellington, when what he
should be doing is helping her plan their Palo Alto nuptial,
("...accessing Wedding Gowns
and Maternity Clothes,
anxious lest permission from his father be withheld or
latency with respect to suspect genes...")
'daddy’s little girl' syndrome transposed into 'daddy’s little boy,'
("...that is to
say, your genes...")
relations with his relation both singular and neurotic
genes—which I also have “surmised' are the reason behind
envy playing patty cake with jealousy; wishing she were closer to her own beloved father,
while hoping to drive a wedge between "Fell" and "Rem,"
you are, if I’m not mistaken, to inquire about heredity?")
confident that her oven’s bun will do the job once baked—not
that Fell would use such a
vulgar, outmoded idiom. Unless under the influence—not of liquor but of his
misogynistic sire, of whom Joanna has heard enough, enough to make her hope that the
adage "like father, like
son," does not apply.