And there it was in my junk mail box. An email with no discernible subject line. Sure, my computer had labeled it spam, but at that instant, I could not care less. I wanted to open it; I needed to open it. The ‘from’ line held one simple word only: ‘luna’. Who was this ‘luna’? Why had she chosen me as a vehicle through which to spread her messages of intrigue?
I could hesitate no longer. Grasping my optical mouse with my right hand, I steadied my wrist and clicked the message bar. The single line of text that lay within could not have been clearer.
throw away your parasol, your massive member will cast shadow
The statement was bold, but beautiful in its scope: Do away with my parasol, because I will have an engorged penis which would be capable of shielding me and, ideally, those around me, from the sun. I instinctively pushed my cursor toward the link included in the message. After all, anyone this succinct must necessarily be so wise as to not require the encumbrance of additional words.
Then my hand stopped. A curious prickling sensation in my mind was causing me to question my own impending action. Was this really the right thing to do? Did I really wish to have a phallus so large, so chokingly oppressive, that not even light could escape it? A literal black hole of anatomy hanging from my forequarters?
As I began to think about it further, it became clearer and clearer that the right thing to do was to retain my birth genital, however incapable it was of functioning as a beach accessory. It also began to stand out that, even in such few words, ‘luna”s logic was not impenetrable. It began to seem clear to me, once the initial seduction of the proposition had waned, that several reasons stood against my making use of the enigmatic message’s advice:
1. Parasols don’t grow on trees.
Yes, a penis of such glorious girth that it would preclude my use of a parasol would save space in my beach bag, but was it really necessary to impertinently toss my parasol away? After all, my father gave me that parasol. When you buy a new car, you don’t just throw your old car away. There is nothing wrong with my current parasol. In fact, I always sort of liked it; would I really be willing to give up on it after all it’s done for me? I mean, I lost my virginity under that parasol. Yes, it was a little awkward doing my already awkward business with one hand occupied holding it above us, but I thought it made the situation a lot more romantic. And while parasols don’t grow on trees, I’m pretty sure shade literally does.
2. I sort of like my genitals.
And, goddammit, we’ve been through a lot together. In fact, if we’re talking about penises, I mean, really talking about them, mine is sort of the only one I really want to discuss. It would appear I’m biased in its favour. Sure, maybe my penis is only able to cast a shadow onto my thigh, but maybe that’s all the shade I need.
So, sorry Luna. Really. You dreamed of a world where men could relax, have their hands unencumbered, and still shield themselves (minus their penises) from the dangers of prolonged sun exposure. If my lack of interest in living in a world of men with healthy, milky white skin (but burnt and blistered male members that could smother a polecat) is spoiling your dream, then I apologize.
But I’m still not gonna get the surgery.