Monster in the Room

Severe paranoia hit me at age 31.

I chalked it up to insecurity, but it was probably the mass quantities of pot I smoked over the last 16 years.

Either way, I was battling a pretty good mind fuck.

My artistic career was floundering.

I declared five years ago, to Marla, my new girlfriend at the time, that I didn’t care if I made a dime painting. I was going to do it until I die. She loved my passion for art.

Now, it’s just a habit to justify my shitty low-paying job. Marla probably takes more pride in my paintings than I do.

Once in a while a piece would sell, but making 35 bucks every four months does not cut the mustard. I have friends with $35,000 cars. That’s 334-years of living off my art.

What am I doing?
What am I doing on this couch?
What am I doing on this this second-hand couch?

Harvey, it’s a futon.

When did I convince myself I had a couch?

Was I that inferior to everybody else?

People live all around me in houses they can somehow afford and fill them with kids they manage to feed.

Clearly, I need to get high.


I reached for my pot kit under the coffee table and remembered how my friends used to beam with envy over it.

That was 12 years ago.

I smoked.

Marla walked into the living room.

She was dressed in her sexy-Santa cheerleader’s outfit. It didn’t matter that it was the dead of summer. This was her No. 1 slut get-up and I knew what needed doing.

I am a monster stallion and I must prove it.

I decided on a new technique to make her cum: A new challenge, proof of my prowess as a man. Usually I would make her climax with my tongue before inserting my dick. But, to increase my male value, I wanted to give her the ultimate orgasm. I may not be able to afford a latte, or a jacket for every season, or even a beer at a bar, but I can pleasure the shit out of a woman.

My heart started pounding.

God, please help me make her cum this time. I can’t handle another panic attack.

Now I’m panicking.

Ladyboy Harvey is on the scene. The Monster Stallion’s confidence is waning. This threesome isn’t working out already.

Is it because I don’t jerk off as much anymore?

Should I?

What if I run out of orgasms?

I should save them for important occasions.

Shit, how many squirts does this ol’ boy have left in him?

Am I just past my prime like an old athlete, or an aging actress?

Has she been faking it all this time?


The ricochet of swollen horse nuts echoed in the hallway. The monster stallion was on the move.

Ladyboy had been bitch slapped by the Monster Stallion’s bursting balls and was placed firmly in the closet.

I chased Marla into the bed and attacked her like an animal. (Well, probably a mildly playful dog, but I still felt rabidly sexual.) I tore off her skimpy outfit and started eating her out.

Man, if my hands could work as fast as my tongue, or my tongue could hold a paint brush, I might be able to buy my swanky car in less than 334 years.

I was hitting that clit like a flyweight boxer on a speedbag.
I could tell Marla was ready to cum.

I stopped.

I repeat the process thinking of what font to use on my nameplate as the master of the female gender.

Harvey, you truly are the man.

I thrust into Marla and realized I was having one hell of a time. Marla was moaning like crazy, moans I recognized. She was either cumming, came, or was just about to.

I gambled and let myself go, because let’s face it, this was hot.

I rolled over feeling satisfied, pretty sure I was victorious at proving my greatness.

Ladyboy was but a distant memory now.

“So, did you finish?” I ask.
“No,” she answers.

I still felt confident Marla had a satisfying experience because various television programs and films have told me it is pretty difficult for a female to have an orgasm during sex, and Marla must have already come to terms with this. By no means would a lack of orgasm be the fault of the man, certainly not one as manly as I.

“Sigh,” breathed Marla.
“What’s wrong baby?” I asked, in a post-coital arrogance I didn’t recognize.
“I feel like I want to cry.”

Cry? Not exactly the desired effect. Maybe this was an attempt at humour.

“I was so close. I just feel I need to cry. Do you know what I mean?”

Fuck no! This whole attempt at securing myself as a man is blowing up in my face.

I felt my testosterone leaking into the room.

I threw my head at her crotch in desperation.

“Don’t. It’s OK,” she said in what I’m sure was a kind and lovely tone.

I heard disdain.

I tried to inch forward with my head, but Marla used two hands to push me away.
My tongue errantly swung at her vagina getting nothing but air.

Harvey, you are such a loser.

I felt like a child: My brother holding me away from his body, calling me names like squirt and wimp as my short arms flung punches hitting nothing but the space in front of his body.

The Monster Stallion had been castrated.

“What”s wrong?” Marla asked.
“Nothing. I love you.” I whimpered


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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