Fiction: Papa's Got a Brand Old Bag of Dicks
By Reza Jabrani
The dickless man pulled up to the MacDonald’s Drive-Thru to order his manhood but the cashier said they only had bags of dicks. Dick combos, dick meals. No single dicks—whole bags and whole bags only. Everything else was sold out. Game day. Lots of fat Americanos itching for burgers and single penises and other greasy sundries. You understand.
He nodded, mild-mannered, courteous, and asked what the dicks came with. Any sides or novelty sauces?
The cashier said, just the dicks.
One order then, the man said, for he was hungry, a fat Americano, and it was game day and he felt a dick was just what the doctor ordered. He drove up to the next window where another service worker dumped the hot bag of dicks in his lap. He drove over to an empty parking spot at the end of the lot and turned off his car and opened the bag and this wasn’t a case of false advertising. The bag was full of dicks alright. Some he even recognized upon closer scrutiny. His grandfather’s hairy and flaccid cock. His cousin’s honker of a hose revealed when the man, still a boy, had pantsed the cousin beside the city pool. Chlorine, embarrassment, an elephant’s truck waggling in the wind. Saddam Hussein’s cock which smelled of tahini and gold and fear. His dead brother’s cock, rotten and forlorn. Various engorged porn star chodes.
The man was no longer hungry. Hungry isn’t the right word. Nor was he revolted or afraid. Curious, you might say. Or compelled by a foreign yet irresistible will. For a man missing something needs to search for that thing. These are the parameters laid out for us.
He rifled through the dicks. His Imam’s dick glowed with God’sword. He found Oscar Isaac’s cinematic prick. Robert Plant’s tiny penis freed from all that notorious padding. A whole littlelove. He found his second-grade gym teacher’s dick, average, sweaty from all those years trapped in nylon track suits. Countless marble dicks from the grand sculptures of antiquity.
How could this be? All these dicks but nothing for me, he thought. He dug deeper and deeper, past flesh and stone, but the one dick he was after, his own, was missing.
Thus, the dickless man drove home with his order. When his vaginaless wife opened the door, she said, any luck?
He said, no. Home is the hunter but without his prey. You?
No, she said, I picked up a sack from Black Alcazar but they gave me random vaginas again. My own is still AWOL, I’mafraid.
The man sighed. The woman sighed. They walked together to the dining room and extricated the dicks and vaginas from their respective bag, inserted the dicks into the vaginas and said a prayer.
Till tomorrow, then, the dickless man said.
Yes, tomorrow, the vaginaless woman said. Till then.
They held anxious and clammy but determined hands in their temple of ceaseless yearning.
So their search, our search, the Search, continues.
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