Daniel Hand 日 29/04/2019 · admin No comments


There are exactly the same amount of penises as vaginas. Penises and vaginas connect with other penises and vaginas on Match.com. Match.com couples penises and vaginas using self-declared attributes and characteristics.

Sex education is important. For this reason penises and vaginas are required to attend a P&V awareness seminar each year for the seven formative years of adolescence. There are social pressures to attend more than the required minimum.

One issue is that penises and vaginas have butts of different shapes. It would not be a stretch to say each butt is different. This is a problem that until now has been ignored due to social niceties, embarrassment, and lack of butt consciousness. In forward-thinking circles, penis and vagina chatter regarding butts is palpable.

“Well,” said one entrepreneurial and high-scoring penis to his high-scoring vagina partner, “I see an opportunity.”

Together they set out to solve the butt problem. They called it Butt.com.

Match.com purchased Butt.com for $100,000,000,000.

The penis and vagina were very happy. Everything seemed to be going their way.

The wealth multiplied the penis’s desires. Suddenly he could have anything he wanted: boats, jets, penthouses, islands, diamonds, tigers, Aston Martins, cocaine. He purchased eight sports coats that together cost more than the average middle-income home.

The vagina warned the penis not to get swollen, to remember their humble beginnings.

The penis basked in his celebrity. He held big parties. Agents emailed agents to get on lists. One time, after a night of partying, the penises and vaginas woke to find a boat marooned on the beach. Nobody knew how it had gotten there or to whom it belonged. The penis had the butler rig it with explosives, then sat back and watched it get blown to pieces.

Eventually the novelty wore off. His new friends never had anything interesting to say. All they wanted was to do lines of cocaine and listen to themselves talk.

The penis told the vagina to stop the parties. He threw out his cell phone, sold off islands, and retreated to his Miami compound. He started placing cryptic notes under pillows and in the vagina’s shirt pockets. He spoke in aphorisms and winked when there was nothing to wink about.

One day the vagina came home to find the penis standing in front of the bathroom mirror. He was combing his bushy pubic hair back and forth, staring blankly, expressionless. “Are you okay?” she asked. His eyes moved slowly to meet hers in the mirror. Then he began to cry.

“Blessed,” he said, his eyes damp and twinkling like jewels.

That was it. She asked around for a referral.

A high-scoring, graying penis diagnosed him with OCD, ADHD, generalized anxiety disorder, mania, and cocaine addiction.

Medication improved the situation. The penis began practicing yoga and vipassana. He kept a gratitude journal. His posture improved and he was able to stay erect. Even his testicles seemed firmer.

Still, something was not right. The penis had everything, but the well was poisoned, something felt wrong. The penis needed to plunge deeper into the darkness, not stray from it. He needed to know, not to heal. He needed the courage to face what he feared, his most awful self.

The penis turned inward. Instead of a gratitude journal, he kept a spite journal. Instead of vipassana, he drank.

He counted his failures. There was the time he let his friend drown because he didn’t want to get wet. The time he told his mother to fuck off, to fucking die. There was all the gambling. The time when he bet on whether his servant would cut off a finger for twenty grand.

It seemed to be working. Soon the penis began to feel that he was approaching the destructive force at the root of his anguish. It was out there in the spaceless distance, beyond signs and boundaries, beyond words.

Then something happened. His mother had been gardening and slipped, a thick cactus spine pierced her temple. In this fragile state, the penis broke.

At first there was nothing. Then came a tightness in his chest, then nonstop tears. He had been separated from the already delicate thread connecting him to reality.

All the while the vagina watched and worried. Every intervention had resulted in more distance. There was nothing more she could do.

One night the vagina came home from her weekly gin rummy match. She could not find the penis anywhere. She called what few friends he had left and asked if they’d seen him. They had not, so she filed a missing penis report. The next morning the penis was found at the bottom of the Fallopian River, wearing all eight of his penis sports coats.

The vagina remarried, connecting with a suitable penis on Butt.com. They have satisfying sex, exciting sex, and feelingless sex. They have two children, one penis and one vagina, both promising high-scorers. The vagina has hinted to the penis, after appropriately intimate moments, a course that satisfies part of their continuing education’s required yearly credits, The Kama Sutra: For Aging Penises and Vaginas, and how it “seems interesting, could be fun.” The vagina crochets on Wednesdays. The penis golfs on Sundays, when he can.

Sometimes the vagina thinks back to her ex-penis, his wild ambition, unbound vision, vascularity. It was as if the world were made for them. What a match, she thinks. What a match.

Daniel’s work has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Faded Out, Maudlin House, and Alien Mouth. @danielnhand