The Gorko Gazette

Post-bar sweat, cooled and beginning to turn. Glitter sticking to her pink cheeks. The squeaks of my leather couch cushions in the silence of need. She slides her hand from my knee to my belt buckle and begins to tug at the tail.

I reach out a hand and stop her without really meaning to. She looks up at me.

‘Hey,’ I say softly. ‘Can you just… Promise me you won’t laugh at it first?’

Her dark eyes go round with compassion. ‘Of course not,’ she whispers. ‘I would never.’

I pull back my hand and let her undo my snake belt buckle. She navigates the awkward shuffle of tugging my pants down with relative grace. I squeeze my eyes shut, cold overtaking me as she reaches her prize.

‘I…’

Before I can stop her, before I can remind her of her promise, she bursts into cruel, raucous, grating laughter. She wheezes. Doubles over and clutches at her ankles, birdlike body shaking with it. She goes on for so long that I worry she’ll never stop.

Finally, emerging from where she’s tumbled to my living room floor, she dares look up at me. Her streaming eyes widen as she tries to suppress another bout of laughter. Then, registering the desolation on my face, she ceases, slackjawed.

‘It’s a joke, right?’ she whispers.

‘No.’

‘I mean, there’s no way that you… Like, this isn’t your…’ She flicks the tip of my dick, and a honk sends her onto the floor again.

‘You promised you wouldn’t laugh,’ I say, staring into my lap.

‘Hon, it–’ She looks hard at me, and I can see the tiny muscles in her devastating face fighting to keep still. ‘Why does it have a little bicycle horn?’

I sigh. ‘I thought it would be kind of cool,’ I mutter.

‘And the…’ She gestures at it with her hands. ‘The flames?’ Uttering the word sends her into another body-wracking bout of giggles.

‘To show it goes fast,’ I snap, putting my hands tight over my face.

‘What do you mean, to show it goes fast?’

‘You know, like how you put flames on a… Car, and that makes it look fast.’ I sniffle, refusing to pull my face out of my hands even as she tugs insistently on my wrist.

‘Are you crying?’ she asks softly, resting her delicate hand on my shoulder.

‘No!’

She backs off, prolongs a moment of stunned silence.

‘You said you wouldn’t,’ I pout.

‘Well, I just thought it’d be… A different situation.’ She’s speaking with the patience of a preschool teacher. I want to die.

‘So when you went to pick out a…’ She taps it with a finger. ‘This is what you… This is really what you wanted?’

‘The guy at the store…’ I swallow hard.

‘What’s that?’

‘Guy at the store said it’d look cool. He said he’s never seen anybody pull this one off like me.’

She nods gently. ‘Can I ask a few more questions?’

‘Sure,’ I spit, ‘now that you’ve already ruined me, what’s the harm?’

She pulls at my wrist again, and I take my hands away from my face, hot and slick with tears. She points slowly at it again. ‘I want to know the thought process behind the little fur coat.’

‘In case it’s cold.’

She narrows her eyes.

‘You know,’ I say impatiently, ‘in case it’s cold and a lady is… You know, I just don’t want it to be too cold.’

She doesn’t respond. ‘And the…’ She flicks the tip, and a cartoon boi-oi-oi-oing rings off the hardwood through my empty apartment. When it stops fifteen seconds later, she opens her mouth again. ‘What about that?’

‘Aerodynamics.’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s springloaded, for aerodynamics.’

‘Look,’ she says. ‘I think the guy who sold you this was trying to make a fool out of you.’

‘If you were after a real, fully functional flesh number, why would you come home with me?’ I cry, springing up from the couch and triggering a cataclysmic boi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oing that reverberates for well over sixty seconds.

‘It’s not that!’ she shouts over the sound. ‘I’ve been with other trans guys. It’s just that they usually…’

‘Opt for the basic models? The Fleshmaster Pulse 2?’ I shout back, overly loud now as the church-bell boi-oi-oinging finally fizzles out.

‘Well, yeah.’

I take a deep breath. Sit calmly back down on my couch. ‘Get out.’

‘What?’

‘Get. Out.’ I jab a finger at the door.

Dazed, she stands up, smooths out her dress, and stalks to the door. She jiggles the knob. Tries both locks. Jiggles it again. ‘It’s not–’

‘You’re turning it the wrong way.’

She jiggles it in the other direction. No dice.

‘Push it in while you turn it,’ I say, looking away. I hear her finally get the door to open. It slams shut, and the distant clacking of platform heels down the concrete steps plays her out.

I look down at my dick. ‘We’ll find our moment,’ I say softly. ‘Somebody’s bound to get it one day.’ I give it a reassuring tap, triggering the bicycle horn. It doesn’t fucking stop honking. I’ve somehow bent the razor-thin mechanism that makes it stop.

It never, ever stops.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

V N Garmon (he/him) is an Atlanta-born author and soup enthusiast, with a penchant for the bass guitar. He shares his home with a mysterious beast that is 50% cat, 50% dog, and 50% winged demon (150% animal in total). His work appears in Maudlin House, Prairie Home, Fifth Wheel Press, and others. You can find him on Twitter at @veanimator.

Image generated on Magic Studio

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