Feedback please - First page of a short story - "A Great and Terrible Penis"

OK, not sure of the best way to do this, but i want to develop this little story onward, so i'm cutting and pasting the first page in here, and just adding on to the end of it ...

"I want you to come to my room."
It was the woman who had argued with him earlier in the 'break-out group discussion'. She had been in the bar for some time, he had noticed her. She had a lot of energy. Very friendly. Engaging. Joe marveled. He had planted himself beside the most unassuming looking of his fellow trainees at the bar, a man who couldn't be far from retiring. He could he see the soccer from where he sat.
"One, two, one” She said slowly, with some added lip-work on the consonants Joe noticed.
He hung his head over his pint and sighed, quietly.
She placed a hand on her hip and shifted backward to take in his reaction. Joe looked at her, and permitted his eyes to roll down her dress, her figure, her brown superior skin tone, her face, lean with wet black eyes and black black hair. Her confidence! He shook his head imperceptibly, only his chin moved. Isn’t this the way of things, he thought.
“Seriously?” she said nodding at herself, shaking her hair back from her face, conducting her figure for effect. “You are going to stay with your drink.”

“It’s a pint. Don’t just call it a drink.” He said.

She smiled. She would have her way, he thought.

“Look …” he said. And thought well of himself, as he forced himself to think of Cathy, but thought of how good it would feel to be on, or under, this woman. That’s a totally stand-up chest. Her clothes were a restraint! She was about 37 or 8. What a woman.

“Look what! What, you’re going to give me a ‘but’ … but what? You got a partner! Who doesn’t? I got a partner.”

"We aint goin to do much …" She added. With a shrug.

"Look" he said. "I’ve got a really small penis."

She continued to hold Joe’s gaze. She blinked, quickly. That was as near to a reaction as she would go. Joe shifted around to face this woman more squarely. This was a fairly unique exchange, he realised, something was shifting here, and he felt obliged to give it his full attention. He tried to sit up more straightly. Considered even standing, as she was. He would get her a seat, he thought, that would be mannerly. Always good to remember your manners in times of … what? Crisis? Might be a crisis, certainly an event of some kind. An event he was sure to make a balls of. He was either going to regret not going where ever this led, with this woman, or he was going to regret his unfaithfulness to Cat. That’s just me, he thought, as he pulled over a stool for … .
“I’m Joe. I’ve lost my name-tag. And you’re … you’ve lost yours too.” He said as he searched her chest for the wee sticky label they had all got that morning. He continued to rummage over her cleavage, with his eyes, after he had established this. It was a proud and self-confident display of natural, and exotic beauty, which stood out more than a little in the lounge of a 3 star hotel, on a motorway, Joe had forgotten already whether it was M8, or M7 or what, it was on the way to Galway or Cork, he was near Athlone or Kilkenny, he had seen all sorts of signs over the last while during this induction thing.
The induction was the sort of palava he might have loved when he had first qualified, but now it was just a lot of politeness that Joe coasted along with. He had his tricks for getting through long sit-down meetings/training sessions/interview panels/strategy days. He could do these things now, he believed, some years now after he had crashed his whole career because he simply couldn’t take another spreadsheet or powerpoint of bollocks, from a bollocks, who couldn’t just be straight and tell you that they’re ****ed, that they are out of their depth, that they don’t know what to do, that they need help, or even that they are a bit confused, or they’ve run out of ideas this month and have absolutely nothing useful to say, so they’re going to say nothing. Just people being ordinary, and not talking ****e all the time, he had begun to long for it so hard that meetings started giving him stomach cramps. And he crashed out. And got a job on a building site. Where people would tell each other to **** off! And one day when he was in the portaloo the lads had pushed it over onto its side. And they had all bought him drinks that night, because that was the tradition. And he had liked that better. But Cathy had got pregnant. He knew there was a better way of putting that - but pregnant she was, and covered in ****e he was every evening, and exhausted, and he had begun to give some thought as to why he couldn’t have stayed on good money, in a big warm building, with a shiny canteen, and toilets that couldn’t be pushed over while you were sitting on them. And unlimited toilet roll.

So here he was back again. A lot less interested than he had been first time round at an 'induction', and less interested than many of those around him. With his tuning out strategies for the meetings, he was managing to keep his stress levels fairly low, and he was coming across as a very amenable, non-threatening, good-to-be-around type of buck that people warmed to. Joe was surprised, and pleased, at some level, about this. But this latest turn of events, this woman, "Giovanna" she said her name was, this was a bit candid camera.
He was good-looking. “Was” as in was when he was at that sort of thing in Cookstown, Armagh, Monaghan, growing up, all that posing about, all that chasing. He had been good-looking, but he was a baldy lookin’ clift now. He hadn’t allowed himself to get too fat but he was under no illusions about the kind of sexual magnetism he was deploying, on his bar stool, in his crotchety jeans. He dispelled the idea that this was real, and smiled at himself for momentarily going along with the idea that “Giovanna” was going to use him to pleasure herself. He sat heavily on his stool, and smiled at the hold one’s instincts to procreate can have on one. The rules of attraction. And smiled some more at Giovanna’s figure, and her amused expression as she reached over him to wave at the barman.
“So tell me, Joe.” She could extend his name into thee syllables. He noticed. That wasn’t easy done.
“Tell me more about this small penis of yours?” She was pouting now. But Donald Trump had taken all the good out of this behaviour now, for Joe. She reminded Joe of Donald Trump with that purse of her lips, and he thought that maybe this would sort itself out rightly. If he could just continue to tune in to the various fault lines underneath Giovanna’s knock out first impression, there was every chance that this situation could be normalised. It would make sense if she turned out to be strapped into some serious kind of girdle contraption. The removal of which would release an audible ‘flumph’, and Giovanna would present as the divorced mother of three, who had never had the time for a personal trainer, and had pulled her marvellous skin tone out of a bottle, and actually really did just want to use Joe for a perfunctory scratch just to prove to herself that bar-stool men are still at her bidding.

In reply to her question, Joe explained that he had once had a considerable penis. A normal penis, normally sized perhaps. Arguably larger than many, when extended, but who knows. No, he would not ever have measured it, in either repose. However, toward the end of his time in among the discos/and more latterly ‘clubs’ of mid-ulster he had had a strange and very unfortunate encounter with a young farmer in the toilets at the end of a Saturday night in a place called the Hill Grove in Monaghan. It was a place, not known for the cleanliness of its young farmers, and that, it transpired, was to be a fact that was to be ever-engrained in Joe’s mind from that night forth.

Joe described to Giovanna how the young farmer had been in a bad way, in the toilets. He had been politely asking everyone who passed through the toilets if they would help him to go to the toilet, by taking out his penis for him. Not as inappropriate as one might think because the young man had lost both his hands in a lambing accident, and was unable to do this himself.

tbc

A Great and Terrible Penis
By Gale Coen
(short story – complete)

"I want you to come to my room."
It was the woman who had argued with him earlier in the 'break-out group discussion'. She had been in the bar for some time, he had noticed her. She had a lot of energy. Very friendly. Engaging. Joe marvelled. He had planted himself beside the most unassuming looking of his fellow trainees at the bar, a man who couldn't be far from retiring. He could he see the soccer from where he sat.
"One, two, one” She said slowly, with some added lip-work on the consonants Joe noticed.
He hung his head over his pint and sighed, quietly.
She placed a hand on her hip and shifted backward to take in his reaction. Joe looked at her, and permitted his eyes to roll down her dress, her figure, her brown superior skin-tone, her face, lean with wet black eyes and black black hair. Confidence! He shook his head imperceptibly, only his chin moved. Isn’t this the way of things, he thought.
“Seriously?” she said, nodding at herself, shaking her hair back from her face, conducting her figure for effect. “You are going to stay with your drink.”

“It’s a pint. Don’t just call it a drink.” He said.

She smiled. She would have her way, he thought.

“Look …” he said. And thought well of himself, as he forced himself to think of Cathy, but thought of how good it would feel to be on, or under, this woman. That’s a totally stand-up chest. Her clothes were a restraint! She was about 37 or 8. A real woman.

“Look what! What, you’re going to give me a ‘but’ … but what? You got a partner! Who doesn’t? I got a partner.”

"We aint goin to do much …" She added. With a shrug.

"Look" he said. "I’ve got a really small penis."
She continued to hold Joe’s gaze. She blinked, quickly. That was as near to a reaction as she would go. Joe shifted around to face this woman more squarely. This was a fairly unique exchange, he realised, something was shifting here, and he felt obliged to give it his full attention. He tried to sit up more straightly. Considered even standing, as she was. He would get her a seat, he thought, that would be mannerly. Always good to remember your manners in times of … what? Crises? Might be a crises, certainly an event of some kind. An event he was sure to make a balls of. He was either going to regret not going where ever this led, with this woman, or he was going to regret his unfaithfulness to Cat. That’s just me, he thought, as he pulled over a stool for … .

“I’m Joe. I’ve lost my name-tag. And you’re … you’ve lost yours too.” He said as he searched her chest for the wee sticky label they had all got that morning. He continued to rummage over her cleavage, with his eyes, after he had established this. It was a proud and self-confident display of natural, and exotic beauty, which stood out more than a little in the lounge of a 3 star hotel, on a motorway, Joe had forgotten already whether it was M8, or M7 or what, it was on the way to Galway or Cork, he was near Athlone or Kilkenny, he had seen all sorts of signs over the last while during this induction thing. It was the sort of palava he might have loved when he had first qualified, but now it was just a lot of politeness that Joe coasted along with. He had his tricks for getting through long sit-down meetings/training sessions/interview panels/strategy days. He could do these things now, he believed, some years now after he had crashed his whole career because he simply couldn’t take another spreadsheet or powerpoint of bollocks, from a bollocks, who couldn’t just be straight and tell you that they’re ****ed, that they are out of their depth, that they don’t know what to do, that they need help, or even that they are a bit confused, or they’ve run out of ideas this month and have absolutely nothing useful to say, so they’re going to say nothing. Just people being ordinary, and not talking ****e all the time, he had begun to long for it so hard that meetings gave him stomach cramps. And he crashed out. And got a job on a building site. And people would tell each other to **** off! And one day when he was in the portaloo the lads had pushed it over onto its side. And they had all bought him drinks that night, because that was the tradition. And he had liked that better. But Cathy had got pregnant. He knew there was a better way of putting that - but pregnant she was, and covered in ****e he was every evening, and exhausted, and he had begun to give some thought as to why he couldn’t have stayed on good money, in a big warm building, with a shiny canteen, and toilets that couldn’t be pushed over while you were sitting on them. And unlimited toilet roll.

So here he was back again. A lot less interested than he had been first time round, and less interested than many of those around him. With his tuning out strategies for the meetings, he was managing to keep his stress levels fairly low, and he was coming across as a very amenable, non-threatening, good-to-be-around type of buck that people warmed to. Joe was surprised, and pleased, at some level, about this. But this latest turn of events, this woman, Giovanna she said her name was, this was a bit candid camera. He was good-looking. “Was” as in was when he was at that sort of thing in Cookstown, Armagh, Monaghan, growing up, all that posing about, all that chasing. He had been good-looking, but he was a baldy lookin’ clift now. He hadn’t allowed himself to get too fat but he was under no illusions about the kind of sexual magnetism he was deploying, on his bar stool, in his crotchety jeans. He dispelled the idea that this was real, and smiled at himself for momentarily going along with the idea that “Giovanna” was going to use him to pleasure herself. He sat heavily on his stool, and smiled at the hold one’s instincts to procreate can have on one. The rules of attraction. And smiled some more at Giovanna’s figure, and her amused expression as she reached over him to wave at the barman.
“So tell me, Joe.” She could extend his name into thee syllables. He noticed. That wasn’t easy done.
“Tell me more about this small penis of yours?” She was pouting now. But Donald Trump had taken all the good out of pouting for Joe. She reminded Joe of Donald Trump with that purse of her lips, and he thought that maybe this would sort itself out rightly. If he could just continue to tune in to the various fault lines underneath Giovanna’s knock out first impression, there was every chance that this situation could be normalised. It would make sense if she turned out to be strapped into some serious kind of girdle contraption. The removal of which would release an audible ‘flumph’, and Giovanna would present as the divorced mother of three, who had never had the time for a personal trainer, and had pulled her marvellous skin tone out of a bottle, and she just wanted Joe for a perfunctory scratch, just to prove to herself that bar-stool men are still at her bidding.

In reply to her question, Joe explained that he had once had a considerable penis. A normal penis, normally sized perhaps. Arguably larger than many, when extended, but who knows. No. He would not ever have measured it. In either repose. However, toward the end of his time in among the discos/and more latterly ‘clubs’ of mid-ulster he had had a strange and very unfortunate encounter with a young farmer in the toilets at the end of a Saturday night in a place called the Hill Grove in Monaghan. It was a place, not known for the cleanliness of its young farmers, and that, it transpired, was to be a fact that was to be ever-engrained in Joe’s mind from that night forth.

Joe described to Giovanna how the young farmer had been in a bad way, in the toilets. He had been politely asking everyone who passed through the toilets if they would help him to go to the toilet, by taking his penis out for him. Not as inappropriate as one might think because the young man had lost both his hands in a lambing accident, and was unable to do this himself.

“And I have a great penis!” said the young farmer, with an earnest smile. Joe had grimaced at him, went into a cubicle, went to the toilet, came out, washed his hands and witnessed, in the mirror, over his shoulder, the young farmer’s proposition being turned down once again, this time by a nervous teenager who backed himself over to the urinals, and began peeing without ever taking one eye off the young farmer. Joe heard himself say “**** it” to himself. This wouldn’t do. Joe had lambed a lot of sheep, he had grown up on a farm, he wasn’t sure how you might have your hands severed doing it, but Joe had no doubt that he and the young farmer had some quantity of shared background. Joe could tell the young man wasn’t lying about being a farmer, with his ruddy cheeks, hunched shoulders and hopeful expression. And there was definitely a hint of low quality, low ground, too-wet, hard-won, single-chop silage about the young man. Visions of single axle trailers struggling to dump soaking loads riddled with rushes and thistles crept from Joe’s sub-conscious. Joe felt he should help and agreed to pull the young farmer’s penis out for him.

The young farmed jiggled a bit as he stood up by the urinal, his bladder was getting excited at the prospect of relief. Joe was aware that it was no time for ceremony and quickly unzipped the young farmer, plunged his hand in, and pulled out everything that he had closed his hand upon. Joe had had no inclination to look at the young farmer’s penis but he couldn’t ignore the surprising texture of it. It was warm, hot even, and it was sticky. Joe would have rathered that it had felt more like his own penis when he went to the toilet; ‘lacking in note-worthiness’ would have been a much preferred texture. He was prompted to glance down at the young farmer’s member. His chest tightened as he processed what he saw.

A single glance, and the sticky texture of the young farmer’s penis was easily accounted for. So too was the raised temperature of the organ. The young farmer’s penis was in a sorry state. Or an angry state, it may have argued, should it have spoken. Had it spoken, Joe would not have been surprised for it was agash with craters and phosphorus crusted holes, anyone of which, Joe thought, might have bared teeth and snarled. It was, in short, a very badly infected, plainly septic, puss covered penis, the like of which Joe had never imagined possible.

“What the ****!” Joe said, and raised his head to enquire of the young farmer. “Why is it like that?” The young farmer shrugged. He was plainly relieved, by way of his bladder relief, but also in acknowledgment of the problems his penis was suffering. “What the **** is wrong with it man?” Joe demanded.
“I don’t know, man.” Shrugged the young farmer.
“It’s been like that for ages now. Its still great, you know, its just a bit ... you know?” He shook his head with irritation, and to Joe’s horror, at this point, two perfectly-OK-hands dropped out of the young farmers sleeves. Joe realised that the zipped-upped puff jacket had been secreting the young farmers elbows, and his floppy sleeves were but a ploy!
“What the ****!” Said Joe, horrified.
“Look, I don’t know what the ****’s wrong with it, but damn-sure I’m not touching it.”
Unapologetically, the young farmer proceeded to manoeuvre his penis back into his trousers, hands-free, with some practiced pelvic rotations, zipped himself up, and was gone before Joe could respond.

Having reached the end of his story, Joe drained the remainder of his pint, and nodded to himself, in assurance, it had happened, but it was over, he was safe now.
“I asked about your penis.” Implored Giovanna, with some impatience. “I don’t want a story about some random penis form your past.” She said.
“I know, I know.” Said Joe. His eyes fixed to the descending foam in his pint glass.
“I know.” Said Joe. “I guess its like this. That lad had … a bad penis … you might say.”
He looked up hopefully at Giovanna, and continued.
“But he wasn’t letting it get him down. No. He was getting on with things, and he actually thought he had a ‘Great Penis!’ didn’t he?”
Giovanna pouted doubtfully, and suddenly Joe knew with certainty that he would not cheat on Cathy with this woman, for there was an authenticity about her Trump-like pout, at that point, which Joe knew he wouldn’t get past.
“Yes.” Said Giovanna, indulgently. “He thought he had a great penis! So what?”
"Well, I guess, what I’m trying to say is that … its all relative, isn’t it. One man’s terrible penis is another’s great penis, and the other way about. Isn’t that the way of life? You think one things going to be great, and then its not. Its just how you think of things. Isn’t it?”

Thanks Spore (cool name by the way!)
I think thats the end of that story. Really enjoyed writing it. I think i'll send it off to a short story competition - RTE love penis stories! i heard.
Any other feedback is very welcome Boards people. Or any competition recommendations ...

thank you Livvie. I'm not entirely sure about how to do the syntax around dialogue. That helps.

diaper dude wrote: »

Really enjoying this. Reminds me of Ballard. If you commit to weekly updates I will keep reading.
I'm sure many here would love to know a bit more of the backstory of the main character.

That's very kind of you diaper Dude. Maybe there is something in it. I wonder could I keep it going for a long. If I get time this week I might see if there is another chapter in me somewhere. Thanks for the reference to Ballard – not sure who that is but I would imagine it's someone who can do this kind of writing properly, I will look him up. Or her.