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Cabinetry of the Penis

Posted by in Oddventures, Short Stories | 0 comments

In Reykjavik, Iceland, there is a small museum on a corner block of a moderately busy business district. Nestled between a multi-generationally owned tailor and a cliche candlestick maker, the museum housed the worlds finest and most dignifed samples of penis.

In a single room, not much bigger than the cabin of a train car, penises adorned various display cases like morning glory’s on spring clustered knolls. Two-headed whale cocks, and the cocks of champion roosters, glistened when they took on beads of afternoon sunlight upon their gelatinous casings.

Penis Museum

The shaft of a panther was pinned to a ruler alongside the preserved membrane of a saber toothed cat. The girth difference was miraculous.

There were very few passerby’s to the Phallocological museum that would not enter. It was of the most primal curiosity for even sheepish tourists to take in a few eye-stroking erections. Foot traffic was moderate, but always reliable on any given day.

In the corner of the train-car sized room with wall to wall johnsons, was one very innocuous looking specimen. It was floating in a bubbling zero gravity chamber, flaccid only to a meager few inches with engorged and gaping foreskin. It was of a human male, and though modest in size, was the world’s most revered and highly decorated genital arrangement.
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Edwin Von Stoke was known throughout most of Europe as the foremost curator of Russian Colonial art. To the laymen, he was a stoic gentleman that preferred his tipple neat and his appearance groomed to the heel. He married relatively late in life, delayed after circumnavigating the globe several times in nearly a decade. Little motivated Edwin outside of flush personal gains and throbbing public approval. His homestead was kept in order by a bride that he discovered in bartering with a Sudanese war-tribe known as Juhaynapaynis. She was rescued from a life of filth, by Edwin’s recollection, and brought back to the Palatial Von Stoke estate as a refuge-wife-servant. She stood at a towering 196cm, with skin as dark as a Jaguar’s asshole on a jungle night. As strange as it may have seemed, Ujallnonga roamed hundreds of miles across the Sudanese countryside, where in her new home she would never leave the grounds of the Von Stoke manor. She longed for more, yet never expected much more than subservience.
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Charles Von Stoke was born with an abnormal crotch falange to a very wealthy family.
Officially diagnosed as a form of elephantitis, he had such overgrown foreskin as a baby that from a normal viewing angle, it may have been mistaken as a hollowed skin bongo drum auditioning for a yet to be developed 3 piece groin band.

A normal circumcision was scheduled immediately and the Von Stoke family expected none to be the wiser, post surgery. Grotesque deformation, especially excluding their prospect of future heirs would rattle their family heritage and severely injure the reputation that had been erected over centuries.

A fascinating and perplexing occurrence took place at the surgery. Scalpels were sharpened, needles poked, even the bone saws engaged, but NAY would the obtuse foreskin be budged. It took the might of 3 doctors to simply keep the tools in line. Nothing could break the skin of Charles’ unique penis, and eventually the prick triumphed over the Doctors’ collective force.
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Years of exile found Charles a young man far drawn from his posh birthright. He was cast aside to the wolves, for all his township and family had cared. He became a wandering child that spent a handful of years with Irish travelers. With a unique despondent charm he was forced into running as the mule in traveler raids of the local townsfolk, living a life that he believed to be wrong and against the grain of his own moral fiber. When he was old enough to be courageous, he escaped the traveler community to live in a foster home for teens on the outskirts. He grew there like a beanstalk. With his flowing locks and lanky physique, one may have mistaken him for an ugly transgender.
Charles never spoke; he was reduced to primarily communicating with gestures. It was not a matter of his anatomical ability to speak; past trauma forced him to his mutation. Though inside, his mind was always racing. He saw such discrimination and cruelty in his liftime even at such a ripe age. He thought so often that had he been born a different person with a different group of people, that maybe things would be different for him. He wanted a change, but not just for himself, ammending one soul was only the beginning. As time continued to pass he never escaped his sobering thoughts that there was a higher calling for him. It came from deep within. It was a sensation that felt cool and disruptive, and bred itching between his two legs. He wished it for along time, but then his wishes turned into the need for actions.

He took a nude swim on an Autumn morning before any of the other dozen miscreants and harvested souls awoke at the foster home. He swam into what seemed to be the heart of the sun. His face was being warmed by tender rays as his body felt the chill of the ponds depth below. It was a moment in which he felt present unlike any other. The surface of the water danced about before his face pierced through the rippling waves. Nature was speaking to him, and he was listening.
Nude Swim at Dawn

Charles swam into the sun until he heard the morning bell. It was breakfast at the home for the lost. Coincidentally, Charles finally found himself. He knew that though he was forgotten and likely meant for dead, that he must dedicate himself to the benefit of others. Charles wanted above all to prove that the power of altruism resides in even the most despicable and incapable. But how, He wondered? Charles had no skill in any particular trade and had very little knowledge of the hustling business world that generates billions of dollars for charities the world over, every year.

His swimming ended at the third bell, which meant breakfast was then served. Not a child had a dry eye at the long rustic dining table. 30 chairs were filled with 30 children with empty glasses in front of their simple egg and bisquit. Without water, there is no juice, said the nearest seated orphan to Charles. They all sobbed and stared at their meals, clumsily clutching forks. They considered taking heaps into their mouths, but knew that they could not be without the soft delighting wash down of Orange juice from pure concentrate.

The orphanage could not afford to pay their water bill. It was the last in a long line of shutoffs and it left the children wondering if they would have a roof over their already unloved heads much longer, let alone a glass of orange juice.

Though he felt empathic towards the other children and shared their confusion, Charles couldn’t remain still in his seat. He was moist from his swim. Water dripped down both of his legs and pooled around his feet. He felt terribly cursed that one of his favorite activities was forever tarnished by the hinderince between his legs. It was a dangling forsaken meat-sponge that slowed his pace in the 200 meter freestyle swim like a rudder made of shammie. It startled his comfort in nearly every article of clothing that he wore, and took extensive time and effort to clean.
It was at that moment that Charles realized his gift. He instructed one of the foster mother’s to follow him into the kitchen with a pitcher of orange concentrate. History was made as Charles took a firm handle on opposing sides of his member and rang it out like a soggy towel. The water stored within his skin folds poured into the pitcher like a raging waterfall. The pitcher overflowed, and Charles had just begun. Pitcher after pitcher was filled between Charles’ shaking legs. There would be a enough water in the single squeegee session to last every morning that week.
The children drank and swallowed OJ behind fragile smiles.

A humble hero, Charles settled into his role and became the center of activity in the foster household. From his sultry shankbone, the other children bathed and played, crops now grew in the fields of once dirt, ciggarette butts, and the house began hosting a bikini car wash on weekends to raise donations.
The house went from a destitute institution for already downtrodden castaways, to a sparkling gem in a coal mine of otherwise ashy lifeless existences. From the agriculture and car washing, the children now played Xbox 360 when they once had only sticks, paper dolls and the live wires from down telephone poles. More children were adopted from the home than in previous years, to what the mother’s referred to as ‘happy puppy syndrome’ and some children even chose to forgo the adoption market and take their chances in the new optimistic world.

That day came for Charles, as well. Though the fear of losing such an amazing penis was becoming a sudden reality, the house mothers knew that this day was inevitable. It was the most difficult thing Charles had ever done, leaving behind the only family he had truly loved. But the gift he had given them of sustainability and hope was a fair balance.
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5 years had passed since Charles had seen the likes of foster home life. Remaining authentic to his dreams, he immediately joined the peace corps serving the people anyway possible. He was commended for his work in Guatemala, smuggling babies in his foreskin that would have been later farmed into a global sex trade. Lives were saved from whoring. Boutros Boutros Ghali recognized Charles as the hottest up and coming Volunt-hero.

The road to global peace would end for Charles in the Republic of Congo. His heroism and love for humankind brought him to the frontlines of the bloodiest civil war in the countries turbulent history. The brutal gun battles by freshly ripened teens, left behind a trail of injured and dying youth and broken families in need of immediate assistance. Charles operated as a self-sufficient cock-based catering service. Shuttling supplies from air drops to the people in camps that needed it most. He was travelling within opposing forces, operating as a neutral, feeding children and the starving-injured out of his tough corporal unit. A man of the people, on a day of heightened vicious battles, the north and south concentrated forces in a UN stronghold. Von Stoke had in his arms 3 crying children when a rogue hand grenade rolled gingerly just a few feet in front of him. Without a second thought, he grabbed the grenade and shoved it as far as he could manage into his meatus and laid ontop of it. Though the grenade was completely engulfed and absorbed by kevlar skin flute, Charles’ torso was hardly created of the same durability. He was simply a man with a giant heart, after all. The deformation that forced him into exile and saved the lives of thousands was the only significant remains of the explosion. The children, once under his arms, sobbed and cradled the dismembered dong. They saved it for years after the civil war went on hiatus and the village revered it as a source of strength and connection to a deity.

The village became divided as the brutalized penis was passed from mud hut to mud hut, blessed by each that touched and kissed it with an open mouth. The chief of the village foresaw disastrous effects of dick disputes in the future for his people, not to mention immeasurable soiling, mishandling, and blatent aggravate assualt using the shaft as a crutch. As a result his decision was honored to make swift outreach to any empathic whitey who would listen to the story of Charles Von Stoke.

The chiefs press release was answered. One day, a carrier pigeon brought a letter to the Congolese tribesman from a small corner in Reykjavik nestled between a tailor and a cliche candlestick maker.

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