You would think that well into the twenty-first century, with all its contraception:

  • pills for men

  • pills for women

  • diaphragms

  • condoms

  • patches

  • dams

  • morning-after capsules

  • temporary tube-ties

  • plugs for vasa deferentia

that a co-ed’s impregnation would take place 'accidentally' next to never.

 You would also think that sex for recreation, as opposed to procreation, enjoyed foolproof prophylaxis:

  • vaccines

  • germ-line therapies

  • stem cell intervention

having all but eradicated STDs.

Lastly you would think, despite:

  • designer drugstore hormones

  • narco-cocktails

  • morph-inhalers

  • mucus-dusters

  • orifice foams

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:

  1. made his ladylove enceinte

  2. contracted who-knows-what in the process
  3. and "broken" or more aptly "sprained" his acrobatic dick.

How, you might well ask, could someone manage such a hat trick?

Starting with 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."

What he contracted while doing this—though diagnosed generically:

appeared 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 his accomplice).

 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..."

"Don’t ask, Pa."

"Don’t call me..."

"Rem. Sorry. Did Grandpa insist on your calling him by his first name, too?"

"My father—your grandfather—was considerably older. I called him ‘Sir,' if you must know. You and I, by comparison, could almost be brothers."

"Oh, so that’s it."

"What’s it?"

"I make you feel old."

"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?"

"Far enough to know for sure, not far enough to prevent her pulling the plug."

"Were she so inclined."


"Which she is not, I take it."


"Meaning she’s superstitious."

"Some people still use the term 'religious,' you know."

"Retards, Luddites, and imbeciles; is she any of those?"

"She's Catholic."

"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 regardless, life considered inviolable before it ventures from the womb, Remington's views therefore in keeping with what his pragmatist son calls "pipedreams"—Mankind's penchant for violence being 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..."

"Get married? It’s not of marriage I disapprove; it’s of..."

"My choice? My choice? Joanna is good enough for me. When you get to know her..."

"I’m sure I do already."

Once 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?"

"She’s your 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... "

  Overlooking a parking lot,
("...yet another California eyesore...")  
  Joanna Meerschaum crosses her freshly waxed legs,
("...her vehicle a fuel-efficient hybrid, of course; politically correct; gift at graduation...")  
  pursing collagenous lips as she reads her Day Planner Palm,
("...fond of skimming e-Zines; her waking hours are mostly spent online; wirelessly connected; seldom out of touch...’)  
  piqued at 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, while avoiding troublesome topics...")
  anxious lest permission from his father be withheld or denied,
("...like latency with respect to suspect genes...")  
  bemused by 'daddy’s little girl' syndrome transposed into 'daddy’s little boy,'
("...that is to say, your genes...")  
  her fiancé’s relations with his relation both singular and neurotic
("...our genes—which I also have “surmised' are the reason behind your visit...")  
  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,"
("...eager as 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.



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