Free Headless by Benjamin Weissman Page A

purpose of these thoughts: You and your thick pylon have thrown the company into chaos. The planet earth, the ground we’re accustomed to treading on, is no longer there. Instability reigns, and you know what that means. We’ll have to say goodbye to you. You’re overqualified. I know this is sudden and not an easy thing to accept; it’s hard on all of us, but let me tell you plain and simple, it’s been a lot harder on me than it has on you. And please don’t take yourself to a surgeon and get a shaft reduction. All that will do is make us look at you in disbelief. What was once a man with Guinness Book—type numbers is now half a man, a fool, someone who’ll diminish his Johnson in order to get his cool corporate job back. That won’t solve the problem. Take your personal monument that I assume never gets completely hard, that droops and flops like a groggy amphibian—I’m sorry, that was uncalled for—and go. Some of us are running out of gas on the interstate, afraid to visit a service station to refuel, because the 10-foot hoses wrapped around the pumps remind us of you. It’s costing us time and money. We’re pulling up to the full service bay, rolling down the window with our eyes closed, and shouting, fill it, to the attendant. No more 10-foot hoses. This is madness. Leave our building and never return. Your cock is not like a baby’s arm or a third leg; it’s like some other type of entity or peninsula, and we just can’t have that here. I’m terribly sorry. Don’t even think of shaking my hand, just go, and please, stop crying.

TWINS
    People, not just guys, have sex fantasies about my sister and I because we’re twins and we model lingerie. That would make a certain amount of sense. Since we were created in the same package and we’re always photographed together, guys believe they’re entitled to the double set. They start out with one, and then they beg for two. We say, Uh uh, sorry, no good, not moral, bad, because we believe in you know who above our apartment, clouds, planet, and, we think, the entire solar system basically; and somewhere in the Bible, we’re not really sure what page, it says two girls, especially two sexually active twin sisters, should never lay down with the same guy no matter how much we love each other and no matter how many treats the guy promises us and that includes trips to Bali. We never use God’s name in vain, and we’re not going to do it now. It can get pretty confusing. We sometimes call him HIM—the inspiration for everything that’s ever been done, from the reading of a hymnal on Sunday morning to a climb on the Himalayas.
    Guy-swaggering is a cover-up for the yawning need for giant spoonfuls of reassurance, Mommy stuff, and little rubby-rubs on the head. We strip and the boy-bull stops scraping the ground with his hooves, he stops breathing. They get all intimidated because we’re professionals, we do special things with our eyes, and sometimes we don’t smile because that’s sexier, but it’s also scary. For sure it’s complicated, like science. What is inside us exactly beside cells, organs, and gunk? Since we were born with perfect exteriors and we’re professional models, guys want to get inside us and rummage around, explore our little caves (mouth, vagina, and anus, ouch ), not very echoey. Our Jeeps each have a bumper sticker that says, I (heart) MY VAGINA, because it’s true, we do love them. We shave them into the most petite little stingers so our laby lips are bare like a newborn’s cherina (that’s one of our nicknames for it).
    Just because we model bustiers and teddies, everyone thinks we are sex experts, like porn stars. Shatter that myth. We’re sexual fumblers. A guy will say harder or faster and we do it too hard or too fast or not hard or fast enough, and when he says suck or jerk we always lick too softly or hold it wrong or stab the urethra with our nails. When referring to more than one urethra you say ure thrae. When