Flash Fiction 06: You're-A-Pig-Pat!

Pat offered to have a wank in front of us, and we were all stunned by his porno size meat. Tom said, “You have a big dick too, John.”

“Not THAT big!” John, with lit face and astonished eyebrows, replied.

I don't have any idea how Tom knew the size of John's cock. John even had a name for his reportedly sizable piss-unit—“The Hawk.”

The spank event started with a weird, improvised strip spin-the-bottle game between Tom and Pat. Well, Pat “lost” every spin. When it got to pulling down his cut-off jean shorts—and he wasn't wearing underwear—of course!—his large, diamond-hard prick twanged past the denim and bounced up and down a few times, as if it were a chest-bursting, alien cyclops checking out its environs. Those wacky teenage chemical reactions, am I right? Okay, so, Pat started rubbing one out in front of us for some “reason.” I think we may have talked him into it, even—I dunno. Anyhows, in mere seconds, Pat began to warm up in earnest. That's when John started snickering and said, “look at that serious face.” Chortles from all. Pat's mug was beet red with that spazzy, instinctual vacant sex-activity rigor.

What ultimately inspired this, “happening?” This piece of exotic “performance art?” I have no memory about the particulars, but I can pretty much boil it down for ye—two-bar town BOREDOM. Solitary confines. Cabin fever, if you will. We had to construct an IED (Improvised Entertainment Diversion) each and every day. Some sort of timer fuse ignited and before we knew it, we're in Pat's basement room; a dark, greasy gris concrete floor, tacky yellow walls, with webby corners. Apply the ol', “If walls could speak,” cliché here, eh?

Then it got weird. Pat had yet another bottle in his room; a six foot, blow-up liquor store sales prop. Yep, he started rolling around on his bare floor mattress with it. Vigorously humping it whilst tenderly spooning the tacky, squeaky brown plastic. We chuckled.

Well, that was enough with the “foreplay.” Pat stood back up again and continued on his original quest—transfixed on some imaginary quim mantra in space. “Where am I gonna shoot this shit, guys?” Pat timidly pleaded. Did he expect an answer? Perhaps he reasoned that he wouldn't want to be wiping up puddles of cock snot after this unusually shameful, testicular expulsion. No, he didn't want to be sponging up gooey genetic evidence while the guys were mocking him—which was an unpleasant inevitability. So, frustrated, that he was unable to stop this primeval launch sequence, he decided to sprinkle a rueful specimen on his gas station uniform work pants. And those pants happened to be lying on the floor right close to where John was sitting, who, disgusted, finally put down the potato chips he'd been munching on.

“Yuck!,” John basso profounded. But, hey, we all watched—from beginning—to unhappy ending.

I've always looked upon that yanking IED incident as homoerotic. But, the rest of the guys insisted, as always, that they weren't “fags.” Whenever I brought the homo aspect up over the years, they seemed almost as embarrassed as poor public-pud-pumping Pat did. I mean, they always talked about it and constantly mocked it something fierce, but they were never introspective about it. Well, not openly, anyways.

Now, some of you might scoff at me defining this as entertainment or performance art. Well, I went to some performance art stuff when I lived in LA, and some of those pieces, which I loved, by the way, were pretty out-there. One Latina woman—beautiful—got naked and did some very odd things—all the time reciting her poetry. Another time, I was sitting there waiting for a show to start when the lights went out. Total darkness. A nude man—not beautiful—appeared. He was entirely covered in green fluorescent paint and wearing some sort of helicopter backpack deal. And when he turned it on, the copter blades spewed glowing orange confetti, as the performance space totally vibrated with obnoxious, electric lawnmower engine mega-buzz. He proceeded to walk slowly up and down every single row. Walking right in front of you made it an up-close-and-personal performance. I've always hated those “let's get personal” spots on sports shows. So fucking phony. The glowing green man reminded me how much I loathe that maudlin garbage. Also, when it was my turn to confront the performing penis—his illuminated, spray-painted pubes mere inches away, my mind drifted back for a moment to Pat's Tally Wac adventure, from a distant summer.

Pat put on his work pants, pecker tracks and all, and, again, no skivvies—then went to cover his shift at Philip's Fill-Up. Before we all went our separate ways, Pat uttered a fragile, useless request: “Don't tell anybody, okay, guys?”

Over the years Pat had several different jobs. First, being a strict Catholic, who graduated from, ahem, St. Pat's High School—NO, I'm not shitting you—he decided to make a go of it at seminary studies. I don't know the title of that particular institution, but he wasn't there long—luckily? After that, Tom told me that Pat managed a restaurant—a famous pizza chain. Tom said that every time he went in to pick up an order, Pat had an “oh-shit” look on his face. I never went in there—ever. I didn't want any pay-back protein sauce on me pie!

Payback? Well, we had to tell the two hot neighbor girls about Pat's schlong slapping—while Pat was standing right there, of course. One of the ladies, Lynn (no not the Lynn with kudzu curls—he was a he), and she said she should talk him in to doing it in front of her and then kick him in the balls when he's “done.” We all laughed and applauded. But thinking about it now... Hmm? Later that summer, Pat bought her an expensive halter top—just because she asked him to. Oy. Tom told us that he saw Lynn's pussy once, and that it was “mega-hairy”—a jungle of black curlies running from right below the navel all the way around between the legs to the top of her ass-crack. (Hmm. Maybe both Lynns had a kudzu curls problem.) This pissed off Pat to no end. He bought her a goddamned halter top, for fucks sake!

So, how does the “pig” thing fit into this story? Wellll, ha-ha! Tom and I used to make what we called, “Torture Tapes.” We wrote, performed, and recorded skits about various asshole bullies in our junior high school spending their last moments of life in a torture chamber. The stories took place in the dreaded “Castle of Oblivion”—run by one E. J. Orloff with his side kick, O. T. Ugly. In this setting, various classmates would get their nipples cut off with scissors; their balls crushed slowly in a vice; injected with various diseases; acid drenched cotton swabs up their urethra; and flaming vampire stakes up their ass. See what face puss and smelly, overflowing vats of boiling hormones cause! I don't think we ever tortured females. That's amazing, now that I think about it, 'cause we hated us some girls too. Later, when we “grew up,” we switched over to recording insane dark comedy. We called it, “Real-to-Reel” art. Also, we added a member, Bob, to our group; a group which fought an ongoing battle with lethargy. Well, I wrote one called, “The Golden Spud Awards,” (Spud = Everything from Spacy Dork to Boozer Loser) with all the contestants selected from the population of our own hick mesopotamia. One of the categories was, “The Most Disgusting Physical Act Performed by a Citizen of Two-Bar”—yeah, Two-Bar is the name of my home town. The name has to do with some forgotten cowboy that owned a ranch called “Two-Bar,” with a two-bar cattle brand. Something like that. Anyway, ol' St. Patty Wack, “won.” Bob, who was a professional local radio guy, ran the sound effects—and as Pat was walking up to the podium to accept his award, the audio of pigs squealing and snorting accompanied him on his way. I quickly improvised the line—“You're-a-pig-Pat!—in the standard MC voice. Hence…and yeah, everyone did slam the town by calling it FUBAR. Hicks think that kinna stuff is really “cleaver,” man.

We stopped making our tapes several decades ago. During that time, I heard Pat's pizza career was going nowhere, so he tried his luck at becoming a cop. He failed, of course. Poor guy couldn't even get hired AS a pig, of sorts. But, he somehow became a paramedic, and an outstanding one at that! He even got seriously injured in the line of duty! And hey, at least now he's always wearin' latex gloves, eh?

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