What are you looking at me like?

I woke up and started touching my erect and neglected penis.

It had been almost three weeks since I last had sex with Marla, which was certainly not due to a lack of effort on my part. I had not yet pulled out all the stops, but she definitely knew I was willing and available for a romp at anytime. And after six months, willingness and availability trumps romance in any relationship.

Frustration was seeping into my life from every angle and it was surely her fault.

I had become constipated. This I blame on Marla, along with my chafed penis.

Yes, she was working twelve-hour days at a hospital. And yes, I worked twenty hours a week at a bar, mostly wiping glasses, but I had my art to think about.

I’m an artist, woman, and your microwave dinners are killing me.
My bunged buttocks is your fault and my sore, dry penis is multiplying my sexual frustration.

Sure, I could use hand lotion, but it just makes it too god-damn easy to cum!
I like my masturbation to take a little longer, to be a little more satisfying.
I like to get the heart rate up for more than thirty seconds. And since Marla dropped off our sexual schedule, the rate at which I get my heart rate up has increased considerably.

Now, I have a chafed front and a packed back.

Thanks Marla.

I heard her get home and pulled myself out of bed.
She was returning from a double shift at a shelter, while I shook the cobwebs from my early evening nap, my second nap of the day.

She went to the bathroom to wash her face. I followed her and pulled my neglected, chafed, now-flaccid penis through my boxer shorts to take a piss. I was curious how the lack of sex in our relationship was affecting her. I figured it was probably something she didn’t think about, considering she had not tried to jump my available bones, or boner.

“When was last time you masturbated?” I asked, while a steady stream of cloudy alcohol-and-caffeine-induced urine flowed from me.

“This morning.” she said.

Those two words darted around my head like a mouse caught in the wall: scratching and clawing for a way out.

“This morning!?” I said, turning towards her, forgetting about my cloudy piss.

“Harvey!” she screamed as the tumultuous liquid hit the floor beside the toilet.

Her shriek at my incompetence during the simplest of activities did not faze me. I had an orgasm to get to the bottom of.

“You masturbated this morning?” I asked.

“Yeah. In the shower,” she said nonchalantly.

Like it was no big deal.

This is the sign of a developed relationship: The accuracy of tone and wording one uses to poke, prod and climb under the skin.

Marla was a pro.

Of course, she was sharper than me. She wasn’t carrying an atom bomb in her midsection.

This was going to get ugly,
Well, I was going to get ugly.
Now, with my dick tucked in my boxers I was ready.

“You’d rather fuck yourself than me?!”

She played it cool.

“It’s just quicker … and easier.”

Now, with my blood on the brink of boiling and Marla damn near checkmate, I was stuck.

I was hurt my partner had chosen her fingers over my dick. Yet, I was horny at the thought of her turning one out in the shower.

Seasoned in the skill of jerking off, I was confused. I was sure there were very few men out there who would choose their own hand over a woman. Show me one, and I will show you a grown man living in his parent’s basement

Alas, here is my gal stating plainly she made that choice and defended it with ease.

I started ranting about giving her multiple orgasms, how I was an expert at cunniligus, how I thought she loved me.

I was sinking fast. I needed to come up with something quick to maintain my dignity.

So, with the thought of Marla burying that showerhead between her legs, I started spanking.

I panted how I could make myself come quicker than she could. Thinking she would take the bait at any moment and start touching herself, I obliterated my now-aching penis. I was sure this was going to end up in an animal-fuck on the floor of the bathroom. By the time I dropped my load on the linoleum, I don’t even think she was watching.

“Make sure you clean up all of it before leaving this room,” Marla said.

She patted her face dry and left.

I got on my hands and knees and started wiping up my sperm, a child in a grown up’s world.


About Brett Butler

if my dick were a gun is a collection of short stories by Brett Butler. He is also an award-winning filmmaker/screenwriter and co-creator of the Toronto based entertainment production company SubProd. View all posts by Brett Butler

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