Me and My Motherfucking Dick: A Love Story by Jimmy Broccoli

So I’m standing at the urinal 

with my dick…

while the skinny boys cut the cocaine on top of the restroom sink

I piss - then zip up my pants (after I securely put my dick away)

and return to the area furthest from the dance floor (I don’t dance)

I’m at the after-hours club in the shady part of town…

the lights are colorful and neon…

and even the less attractive look like movie stars in the dimness…

I’m feeling the buzz of my fourth vodka cranberry

“Bartender, another”, I shout over the thumping music –

he knows I tip well and he gets my drinks quickly

As I stand at a solo table in the corner – 

“I’m too old for this shit”, I think to myself

A young guy in a shirt two sizes too small walks up to me

“Yo, I’m Damien”, “Yo (a word I never use) Damien, I’m Jimmy”, I respond…

He takes a nervous sip of his drink through a cocktail straw (a red one)

“I saw your dick while I was doin’ coke and I’m high as fuck. Nice dick, by the way”.

“Thanks”, I respond. 

There are drugged-out, drunk, and shirtless boys in all directions – 

among the celebration of pulsing, multi-colored, and fast-moving lights 

– it’s all a bit much, to tell you the truth…

The young guy has lost interest and has disappeared into the dimness and into the lingering cigarette smoke…

“This one is on the house”, the handsome bartender yells

as he approaches me with a fresh beverage –

“Thanks”, I tell him – and he grabs my dick (through my pants) 

for a few seconds longer than most do –

then he smiles broadly at me – and returns to the bar…

I think his name might be Scott - my alcoholic memory failing me again

I stay another hour and I’m fairly drunk at this point –

I return to the restroom and take my dick out at the urinal –

The skinny boys (different from the ones earlier) are at the sink cutting lines of cocaine –

The best-looking and (obviously) most fucked up of the group looks at me – and then stares at my dick –

I’ve finished, but keep it out several seconds longer because he continues to stare

“Hey Bro, I’m Zebulon”. With my dick still in my hand I say, “Hey Bro (I word I never use), I’m Jimmy – is your name really Zebulon?”, I ask

“It is tonight, handsome” he replies with a smirk only the conceited young guys can pull off convincingly

“Why don’t I get you a drink” Zeb states –

So I (carefully) put my dick away and zip up my pants –

Zeb and I exit the restroom together…

My generation still writes phone numbers on cocktail napkins…

so that is what I do

“Tomorrow night – my place?”, he asks

“Yeah, I’ll be there” I respond

“Bro, I’ll call you tomorrow to give you the address”.

“Alright Bro (that’s twice now), I’ll talk to you then”.

His smirk (as he looks at me kind of sideways) becomes a genuine smile and I suspect I’ll hear from him tomorrow…

“Nice fucking dick, by the way” he says before walking towards the exit sign

“Thanks”, I reply

It’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m a good deal messed up and sloppy –

My generation still hails a cab when one is available – 

and tonight one is…

“1612 Havenhurst Drive”, I slur – as stale incense fills the small space…

My pants are too tight and uncomfortable and it’s been a long night

I overtip the driver and stumble up the walkway to my apartment door –

“I’m too old for this shit” I repeat to myself as I remove my pants and lay drunkenly across my bed

And – at least at this moment – my dick agrees.

Jimmy Broccoli lives in Atlanta, Georgia, where he enjoys hiking, playing the washboard, and playing with puppies.