Andrew Marzoni

A Late Night, Half-Drunken Short Story

Added on by Andrew Marzoni.

“How might one deal with the slight curve to the left of one’s cock?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” asks Elmyra.

“No. No, not necessarily,” responds Anton.

“Regardless, it is a metaphysical question,” Sam says.

“How so?” inquires Enrique.

“I’ve always considered the direction of a man’s curve to be an accurate indication of his political beliefs,” adds Elmyra.

Enrique: “Hey, now: I indicate a clear East by Northeast most hours of the day, Elmyra, but I’m no Nazi.”

“I didn’t mean you, honey,” Elmyra concedes, turning for a moment to address her husband.

“Back to the metaphysics: whatever in the fuck are you talking about, Sam?” This is Anton.

“Excellent question.”

“I should hope so,” (Anton interrupts).

“As I was saying…” A long pause ensues, in which Sam exaggerates each step of the process of walking to the wet bar to make another drink (his fourteenth), much to the annoyance of his hosts. “As I was saying,” he repeats, “what one would need to rectify in such an occurrence of penile curvature, would be—theoretically, of course—to alternate the general direction, methodology, and in fact, even, instrument of one’s onanistic inclination.”

“So, you’re saying that I should use my left hand for a change?” asks Anton.

“Well…I don’t mean to simplify the problem, but in fact…”

“Left hand?”

“Yes, I suppose, if you are not to let me finish, I should say…”

“But how is that at all metaphysical?” Elmyra’s turn, now.

“If you were to allow me a quick exegesis of…”

“No, no—I think I understand exactly what Sam is trying to get at,” Enrique chimes in.

“Oh? Do you?” eye-rolls Elmyra.

“Yes, but of course.”

“Go on, Enrique,” encourages Sam.

“You see: the libidinal energy leading up to the practice of masturbation is ultimately channeled towards an object either unattainable or purely narcissistic…”

“Are they not one and the same?” interjects Elmyra, somewhat provocatively.

“Point taken. I have always found myself aroused by the weather of California, even though it sunk to the bottom of the seas some twenty years hence,” admits Enrique.

“But, say my apartment is South-facing?” objects Anton.

“Perhaps this is a sublimated longing for an expatriate experience?” Sam anticipates.

“Ah, yes. I’ve always regretted not taking that semester abroad,” Anton realizes.

“It’s settled then!” exclaims Enrique. “We shall all take a weekend in Barcelona! My great uncle has a horse farm, just West of the city.”

“Bravo!” All, in unison.

“Anyone for another slice of pie?” Elmyra, always eager to change the subject.