But then came a problem with the blood supply – I don’t mean the tubes and pump, but rather my finances. Bodies’r’Us strongly recommended renewing the blood each month to prevent degeneration of the penis. As part of the initial cost, I’d received five vouchers for replacement blood. Now I’d used those vouchers, and I discovered that in the meantime the cost of blood had risen by 25 per cent.
Bodies’r’Us was a significant user and retailer of blood, needing to buy blood, good blood, too, from healthy sellers. Nobody would donate blood charitably so that some rich woman could maintain a clone of her dead poodle, or me a cloned penis. Andorra had complained to me that the Donor Service, which supplied hospitals, was suffering a bit of a blood drain because former donors were choosing to sell rather than donate, but luckily altruism and generosity still prevailed in society, not to mention donations by way of the vampire churches as part of their safe sex campaign.
At this point I consulted Andorra and she made me an offer…
… to smuggle blood from the Donor Service – providing that I let her use the penis of my Beloved privately one evening each week, say every Friday.
I was astonished and disconcerted.
“I’m your best friend,” she pointed out.
“It won’t respond to you,” I said.
She pouted at me, full-lipped. “I’ll find a way.”
I should have refused. Yet if I refused, I might embitter Andorra. It must have cost her dear to make this request, this admission of craving for the real thing – or at least for the cloned and partial thing. Refusal might seem like a slap in the face. But also, of a sudden, I was curious as to whether my Beloved would respond to the touch of a stranger!
According to Andorra, the penis did react to her, and very satisfyingly too. She might be fibbing so as to salve her pride, and I could hardly ask to be present while Andorra writhed on her bed. Besides, I wouldn’t have wished to behold this personally. Consequently, every Friday evening Andorra would carefully carry the pump and the penis along to her apartment and bring them back to me a couple of hours later. During this interval I would watch TV and try not to think about what might be happening. Once the penis was mine again, I would wash it, irrespective of whether Andorra had already done so. Washing excited the penis as much as caresses, since the actions were very similar. The penis seemed to be wishing to make up to me for what had occurred, even though it was I who owed the penis an apology.
I would kiss it. “Forgive me, my Beloved. You earned your blood, that’s the main thing.”
After some weeks I made a terrible discovery. When Andorra brought the penis back, Coochie was with her, pawing at her thigh and sniffing.
“Stay!” ordered Andorra, but Coochie pushed his way into my apartment. The dog’s gaze was fixed on the now floppy penis. He seemed to want it – not for a snack, which was my first fear, soon dispelled by a much worse realization: Coochie wanted the penis as a penis.
When I stared accusingly at Andorra, she broke down in tears of remorse.
“He’s become addicted,” she confessed.
“Do you mean… do you mean… you’ve been giving your dog bestiality treats with the penis of my Beloved?”
“He’s an unusual dog! I love Coochie, and Coochie loves me, but I knew he was gay!”
“Gay? How did you know that?”
Andorra remained silent.
“Did Coochie bugger some other male dog while out walkies with you?”
More silence. My best friend couldn’t tell me an outright lie. Suddenly I realized that if Andorra’s discovery had not occurred during walkies then only one possibility remained…
“You used to try to get Coochie to fuck you! But no matter how you went about it, Coochie couldn’t get it up because—”
“—because Coochie’s gay. It’s the only explanation.”
I felt sorry for Andorra. Yet I also had a persistent image in my mind… of Coochie, who was gallumphing around, his anus frequently visible. How degrading for the penis of my Beloved!
While performing that canine service, Oliver’s penis must have been stiff! Was the penis utterly undiscriminating?
“Look,” I told Andorra, “you must promise me, don’t do it with Coochie again. That’s unhygienic.”
“I always did me after I did Coochie.”
That would have cleaned the penis?
Resulting in Andorra’s vagina smelling of male dog? In due course Coochie might learn to associate… Andorra had not given up hope.
“I’d be well within my rights to refuse you the penis ever again.”
“And I to refuse you blood,” she murmured.
She had a point. Consequently we didn’t quarrel.
With some difficulty she hauled Coochie away. Alone once again, I eyed the wilted penis. “Beloved, how could you do it with a dog?”
I tried to come to terms with what had happened by being objective and logical. The episode with Coochie was not my Beloved’s fault.
The next week Andorra remarked, “Maybe the penis has erections in a Pavlovian way regardless of with whom or with what. Poor Oliver loves you, but he can’t resist. You really ought to have more of him cloned.”
How would I pay for that?
Oh but she had the answer!
At the hospital where Andorra worked previously, she knew a junior anaesthetist who moonlighted as a stud in porn movies. Mark’s rugged good looks and intelligence made him a desirable actor. As for his prowess, before each performance Mark would sniff a stimulant gas to keep himself stiff irrespective of ejaculation. Unfortunately, Mark had recently been sacked for stealing gas from the hospital. Now he needed to rely full-time on porn to earn his living just at the time when he’d lost access to what boosted him.
What, suggested Andorra, if I were to offer the penis of my Beloved as a stand-in for Mark’s penis while limp? With clever editing, viewers mightn’t notice the temporary substitution, the tubes, the little plant pot clutched by Mark, or by whichever woman.
My Beloved’s penis would be earning some money with which to recover more of himself for me.
“How is Coochie coping?” I asked.
“I lock him in the bathroom with a lot of cold turkey. He loves that. It takes his mind off the penis.”
Andorra made arrangements. A couple of weeks later I watched a copy of the video in order to see with what sort of woman the penis was unfaithful.
The poor editing hid little. It was obvious that part of the time a detached, hand-held penis was in use. Not a dildo, oh no, but a living penis which happened to lack a man attached to it.
What a dream for a woman, you may well say! And you would be right. Thanks to chat on the internet, word spread rapidly. The video became a wow among women. Few men bought it, maybe because of castration fears, but the producer was jubilant. Here at last was a porn video uniquely suited to females. Therefore, we must make another video quickly – starring the detached living penis itself. Mark would play the role of a sex counsellor administering the penis as therapy to a patient.
Not long after this second video was released, requests began arriving from dozens of sophisticated high-society women requesting “private performances”, and offering to pay well.
Thus it was that at a private orgy, held in a woodland clearing on the outskirts of the city, the penis of my Beloved was mounted on the bonnet of a Jaguar car in place of the usual little model of a leaping jaguar. Several naked women wearing Venetian carnival masks took turns ascending the front of the car while friends cheered. This gave a new meaning to auto-eroticism.