“I understand you have impregnated about 1000 women so far.” They were being interviewed on Canadian TV. The unseen interviewer had a resonant voice.
The boy blushingly nodded. “One thousand, one hundred eighteen,” his mother said by way of correction. His parents, carefully and formally dressed, sat on either side of him on the big couch.
“And how do you fit these activities in with your day?”
The boy cleared his throat. In a little, high-pitched voice he said, “It’s — not a problem.”
His father said, in rehearsed tones, “The first woman arrives at around sunrise and goes up to his room. He ejaculates into her on waking up. The second arrives for breakfast and afterwards they have intercourse on that special table in the living room before he goes to his first class.”
“And afterwards? I understand it’s eight per day?” Another sign that this interview was some time ago. In those days there were eight daily impregs.
His parents looked to the boy, expecting him to answer for himself this time. “Um . . . It’s only seven on Tuesdays.”
“What happens on Tuesdays?”
“Before lunch I get inspected.”
“What does that mean?”
“I go to the lab, and they test my prostate, and my other glands, they use a speculum to look into my rectum, they stimulate me until I’m almost about to come, to see if my secretions are healthy. Though I’m not allowed to ejaculate. My sperm is saved for the ladies.” For all his shyness the boy was not at all embarrassed when talking about the minutiae of his reproductive apparatus. He lived in a world where his glands, his erections, his ejaculations were a topic of everyday conversation around him. It was just part of his life.
“I see . . . Well, on the other days, what about the third woman?”
“That’s — after my freshman composition class.”
“Where do you, uh, ‘do it’?”
Another clearing of the throat. “Down the hall there’s a lounge.”
“Does anyone watch?”
“If it’s ok with the lady. They let me know.”
“And the fourth?”
“Right after lunch. We met — meet in the sn - snack bar.” The shy boy was fumbling over his words.
“Well I suppose we don’t have to go through the whole day. . . You inseminate eight women every day. Even for a teenager that seems like a lot to ask for. Do you ever find you can’t, uh, ejaculate on cue?”
The boy hesitated. He seemed to think this was an odd question. “Uh, no.”
“Your penis is extremely large. When did you first notice that?”
His mother seemed about to object, but the boy said, “It’s . . . always been like that. Even when I was little.”
“Aren’t women scared of it?”
“No . . . they, um, get prepared.”
“Let’s move on,” the mother said impatiently. Angela thought: they probably cut that little exchange from the broadcast. What I’m watching is the uncut version.
“Hasn’t this, uh, the Sire’s daily impregnations of women, had any disruptive effect on the college?”
“Absolutely not,” Dr. Fujiyama said in her no-nonsense way. “He’s a popular boy. He grew up in in this town, you know.”
“Yes I do. . . “ The interviewer paused, possibly looking at his notes. “He graduated a few months ago from Semillas High School. . . Tell me, did you wear a gown for graduation?”
His mother answered for him. “No, of course not. They did give him a cap, which he carried in his hand.”
The interview cut to a film of the boy running in the snow and helping his heavily bundled friends build a snowman. A voice-over talked about being naked since birth made him resistant to cold and in general resulted in excellent health; in his 18 years he had never gotten sick. Now, short clips from high school teachers talking about what a model student he had been. A clip of him running the 50-yard dash at a track meet, alongside his teammates in their sneakers and track suits, his penis swinging wildly side to side, his tough bare feet kicking up the pebbles behind him. Another clip of him diving into the water with the swim team, the only one without a swimsuit. Finally the naked boy laughing with friends on a fall day, walking among falling leaves.
Now back to the couch. “Tell me, Mr. Guthry, He’s a dance major. With athletic endeavors isn’t there the danger that, uh, exposed areas might be injured?”
“No,” Mr. Guthry said. “He is very graceful.” Stereotypically, Mr. Guthry lisped.
“The lack of clothing must hinder his abilities to do certain kinds of dance, though.”
“He is excused from ballet because he can’t wear the pointe shoes. He prefers modern dance anyway. He is very good at it. His lack of clothing, I think, spurs his creativity.”
A slight pause. “What do you mean by that?”
Mr. Guthry looked over at the naked boy and smiled. “I don’t mind saying this. He uses his . . . considerable genitals in his dance moves. He has quite developed his own style. In fact, two styles of dance, one with a flaccid penis, and one with an erect penis.”
The interviewer apparently didn’t know what to say to this.
Mr. Guthry continued, “He keeps his penis erect by keeping a butt plug inside his rectum for the duration of the dance. You really should see what he does. It’s another world of dance entirely. If anything it’s feminine. He twirls his erect penis like a cheerleader with a baton, is the only way I can put it.”
“Uh . . . I’m not sure we’re ready for that.” Angela was pretty sure they cut this part.
Mr. Guthry, who could not restrain his enthusiasm, looked over at the boy, expectantly raising his eyebrows.
In a small voice the boy said, “I — don’t know if we have the plug with us.” He looked up at his mother, as if he expected she always carried it around in her pocketbook. She gave a barely perceptible shake of the head.
The interviewer cleared his throat and said, “Well, why don’t you show us some of your, uh, regular dance.”
Everyone looked at the naked boy, who blushed. Then with a little nervous smile he got up from the couch. It was not easy; he had to reach up to Ms. Fujiyama’s thigh and his mother’s and pull himself up and out. “Let’s pan back a bit here,” the interviewer said to the unseen camera operator. It turned out the couch was in the main lounge of the Humanities Building. Also there were friends and teachers standing to the sides. Chairs were pulled away and soon it was the boy in a ballet “first position” (toes pointing out, hands at the waist), with the four adults on the couch in the background. Someone off-camera turned up the lights until you could see the boy’s shadow falling sharply on the thin carpet.
Angela’s mouth fell open at what she saw next. With little jerks of his hips the boy got his long, flaccid penis swinging in a circle, the testicles below undulating side to side, then as his penis swung to the left he followed it, prancing to the left, then following it to the right. As he jumped and ran side to side his penis was always in front of him. Now, a cartwheel, which turned into a five-limbed affair, the way he timed it. Nervousness had departed him. He was relaxed, happy, free, energetic. Now, a handstand, and legs parted to an extent only women can usually do, such that his spread-out toes pointed downward, the bones sticking up in his thin little butt. His pink anus winked unabashedly in the overhead light. His penis hung down past his navel, halfway to his nipples, and then he bounced up and down on his hands, making it leap toward the camera and back. Now he rotated on his hands and gave the same show to the adults on the couch, while the TV viewers got to see his thinly muscled, evenly tanned back, thighs and shoulders.
Now he cartwheeled again and flipped back onto his feet, and pranced a little to the right, a little to the left, swinging his penis to the side and catching it with one hand, as if it were a dance partner he was about to “dip”.
Angela didn’t know much about such things but it wasn’t exactly gymnastics, or exactly ballet, or modern dance. What to make of this? He wasn’t showing off; such a concept would have been incomprehensible to him. A lifetime of being naked meant he exposed to the world every inch of his body without even thinking about it. This was a kid who loved to dance, and denied clothing, made use of his natural endowments in compensation. Inventing something totally new. And unique — it was unlikely that anyone else in the world would be able to do this. Even those (very rare) males who were as massively endowed in the genital department would show signs of body shame due to having worn clothes.
The boy tumbled across onto the carpet, then did hands-free flips to one side and then the next. His penis loudly slapped against his tummy and his thighs. Finally he rolled toward the camera and ended up on separated knees, arms up, his hips jutting forward beneath the concave tummy. His genitals dangled down, the glans of his penis almost touching the carpet.
The performance of his modest yet talented five-limbed dancer was cheered by the adults on the couch and the friends and professors on the sides. The interviewer clapped. Then concluded with, “This is Simon McQuage, CWAA news, in northern California!”
Angela felt out of breath as she catalogued the video.
Commenti