A Twist Of Noir 228 - Keith Rawson

PENIS ENVY - KEITH RAWSON

An Entry In Eric Beetner's FIST Contest

Cal knew this black guy from the gym had to be the one sending pictures of his cock to Sandy. He knew because he’d been keeping tabs on cocks when he headed into the shower room after finishing up his daily work out for weeks now. At first it felt a little weird standing in the shower stall and staring at other dudes’ dicks. Cal was subtle about it at first, peeking little glimpses out of the corner of his eye; the occasional longer glance when he would bend over to wash his feet and legs. But over the last week, he’d become obsessed and blatantly glowered at other guys’ junk. He could tell he was making some of them more than a little nervous. Not that he blamed them; if he had some dude staring at his junk in the shower, he’d walk up to him and twist his pin fucking head right off their goddamn shoulders and shove it right up their ass.

But nobody in the shower was going to do that to Cal, no matter how creepy he was making them feel. Everybody at the gym knew who Cal was; everybody knew he was the dude who benched 700 lbs 3 times; he was the dude who could squat thrust close to half a ton; he was the dude with a neck like a bull and shoulders like a rhino and he just happens to be screwing the hottest chick at the gym.

Ain’t nobody fucks with Cal Matlin!

Except the motherfucker who sent pictures of his cock to Sandy.

Sandy got the picture message while they were at dinner and she—as usual—had her face buried in the screen of her little fucking Blackberry, texting away to all her little whore friends instead of paying attention to what he was saying. Cal remembered he was talking about helping this little guy pull 250 lbs of weight off his chest when suddenly Sandy stopped breathing and her perfect, sunbed-tanned face went pale green. Cal thought she was choking on a piece of her chicken breast. He shrugged out of his chair, nearly upending the table, rushed behind her to get a good grip on her for a Heimlich, and got a great big eye full of a giant cock.

“What the hell? Who the fuck sent that to you?” he asked, his tiny hands balling into fists.

“I...I don’t know...I don’t know...” she stammered, nearly in tears.

Cal snatched the crackberry out of her hands and scanned the number the picture text had come from. Their waiter had rushed over to their table, pad and pen on hand. Cal yanked both out of his trembling hands and scribbled the number down, closed the picture and started scrolling through Sandy’s contact list. Nothing but girls from the gym and a couple of fags she knew from the salon she worked at. He slammed the phone down on the table, pulled Sandy out of her chair and flipped three twenties out of his wallet to cover their bill. Sandy slipped the phone into her purse even though Cal had nearly broken the goddamn thing in half.

Sandy picked up a new phone the next day (god forbid she go even a day without one) and the jack-off at the AT&T store was able to transfer all her info onto the new phone, including the photo.

Fucking bitch.

He wouldn’t have even known about it, but Cal started scrolling through her photos when she was taking a shower. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t gotten rid of it and when she got out, pink and glistening with a towel wrapped around her hair, he showed her how pissed he was about the snapshot by bruising a couple of her ribs.

Yeah, she could swear up and down she didn’t know who sent it, but Cal knew she was getting snaked out by this big motherfucker!

He made up for dishing out the beating with a pair of diamond studded earrings he gripped from some little treadmill-loving cocksucker’s locker, and of course he made her swear up and down that she wouldn’t fuck around on him anymore.

And then he started his hunt for the giant cock.

He spotted the guy a week ago. He was a squatty dude and he was soaping up his chest, goofing with his boys about their workout and he was swinging his log of timber around like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. It was as if he was hypnotized. Cal couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Cal started coordinating his routine with the Giant Johnson dude so they’d hit the shower at the same time. By the third day, he was sure it was the same cock from the picture text.

He was waiting for him now out in the parking lot. Cal would’ve taken him in the showers, but he wanted to stay in good standing with the gym, and fighting was strictly forbidden, so he’d fuck up old Long Dong Silver out on the blacktop. He came strolling along with his gym bag and two of his boys. He recognized both of them from around the floor. They were strong dudes but he figured he could take them in a pinch. Cal stormed up to them and shoved the fireplug hard in the chest.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you, man?” the big cock dude asked, dropping his bag.

“You know what’s up, dude!” Cal made a grab for the guy’s pants; he wanted a closer look at it before he kicked the guy’s ass.

He didn’t get the chance.

The first punch was to his left ear.

The world went white and hazy.

The next three dropped him to the blacktop. He felt his front teeth hit the back of his throat; the cartilage of his nose splintered, blood squirting across his cheeks, down his chin.

Yet he still tried reaching for the guy’s waistband.

Even when the three of them started stomping his ribs, his stomach, and bile rose up his throat, he still...tried making the grab...

He just had to see it for himself.

BIO: Keith Rawson is a little known pulp writer who lives in the alkaline desert wastelands of southern Arizona with his wife and very energetic three-year-old daughter. His stories have appeared in such publications as Plots with Guns, Pulp Pusher, CrimeWav.com, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp and many others. You can find him most nights dicking around on either Twitter or Facebook, or stroking his already over-inflated ego at his blog Bloody Knuckles, Callused Fingertips.