The Phantom Shaft

I was a very innocent teenager... Shocking, I know, considering what a worldly and sophisticated lady I am now (you can stop laughing anytime) but it's ever so true. The only information I had about "adult activities," I had gotten from my Gramma's filthy romance novels and I, of course, had (thankfully) never seen a (to borrow a phrase from the novels) manhood.

Until one fateful day when I was a Freshman in high school...

I opened my locker and immediately sensed that something was wrong. I can't remember exactly what time of day it was or what I was after, but I do remember the cold fear that gripped my heart. At first, I couldn't believe what I was seeing... As comprehension dawned I thought, no... NO!!! It couldn't possibly be... I stared at it, dumbfounded. It stared back with one eye.

There, perched atop the orange shelf of my locker, sat a tiny penis.

Bone white (no pun intended) and misshapen, but unmistakable. A tiny ceramic penis.

Confusion, horror, and indescribable mortification gripped my chubby teenage body. My face turned a shade of red few humans can match and hysterical giggles bubbled up inside of me.

I slammed my locker shut, the image of that one eye burning a hole in my fragile psyche. I must have looked rather stricken, because my friend Megan asked what was wrong. "Um... There's a... Um..." Of course I couldn't bring myself to say the word, so I opened my locker and pointed. "What the...? Is that a...?" "Yeah, I think it is... What do we do? I don't wanna touch it!!!" But I had no other choice. If that offending little soldier was to be removed from my locker, I was going to have to touch it.

"Ew!!!" I screamed, in that special way only a high school girl can. "Eeeeeeeewwwwww!!!" I flapped my arms for a moment and did a little manic dancing in place to steel myself for the task ahead. Then I reached up, trying to handle it as little as possible, and pinched it between my fingers. I held it as far away from my body as I could and put it on the floor.

One can't help but marvel at the ingenuity required to not only make a sculpture of a mangled little dong in an art class taught by the ever watchful Mrs. Vliem, but to sneak it into the kiln somehow and fire it. It takes a specific kind of perverted determination to fire a tallywhacker under those types of conditions.

The identity of this artist, or I should say, artists, could have forever remained a mystery. But the type of people who carefully craft a secret wiener in art class are also the type of people who are dumb enough to put their initials on the bottom of it. Was I surprised when I found out the identities of these Michelangelos of wang? Well, if you can believe it, the very same hands that were capable of creating such gentle beauty were also capable of slamming my head in my locker on occasion. Visual assault with pottery was a natural progression.

As Megan and I stood looking down at it, I realized it was the saddest penis there has ever been. I felt a little sorry for it. It leaned dejectedly to one side, it's lumpy "base" looking like the bottom of a Pacman ghost. The florescent lights of the hallway reflected off its grotesque lumps, giving it a slightly forlorn expression. If this was what one looked like, Gramma's novels had greatly exaggerated.

We attempted to plot revenge for awhile, but really, what recourse have you against an inanimate gentleman's sausage? In the end, I simply picked up the little guy, and screamed "Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!" as I high stepped my way to one of the sculptor's lockers and tossed it in. It was returned to its father's arms, where it was never seen or heard from again.

It may seem as if there is no moral to this story. And there probably isn't. Except this: When you make a sculpture of a schlong, it is best to remain anonymous. Because the person who received it will forever believe that is what yours looks like.

I suppose another moral to the story could be that I now know a lot of euphemisms for earthenware male parts... See, I told you I'm sophisticated now!