Vegan dicks

are shaped like bananas

Me right after I ruined things with the Vegan. Portland 2018ish.

I should have known our east coast west coast fling was over when he mentioned it. We were playing roulette—me with my Paper Plane and him with his Titos and soda—two limes. And he goes just so you know, my dick’s not curved like a banana. Blue 32! Blue 32!  God damn it. Wait what now?

I just wanted to let you know that. It’s more of a straight line. Remember? The ball spins and bounces. Yeah ok—sure. I really really want the ball to ping and pong on one of my numbers. Out of work. Shit out of luck. All we need is love. Do-do-dooo-do-do. 

I don’t win but Sheila does. Eyes pooched with that Vegas burn. Mary Kay makeup (her daughter sells it on the weekends). Sensible sandals. Woo she says. Woo-wooo-woooo! It’s Sheila’s lucky day and she knows it. I gotta go tell my husband. She swipes her chips into a bee-jeweled handbag. My granddaughter made this (she says for the third time). Those Chardonnays are starting to get to her (she doesn’t usually drink like this). We hug like we’ve known each other for years. It’s one of the things I love about Vegas. You make lifelong friends you never have to see again. 

Another one of my friends, a furry Canadian, says he’s in it for the weekend. Just got happily divorced. He brought his dad down to sin city for the first time because Mom just passed. His dad is probably early 80s. Sweet as hell. Flannel shirt. Feathery gray hair. Moccasins. Bemused and slightly confused. He’s lost without her, says the Canuck with a wink and a tear. We meander to the sidebar to play video poker and take a load off. Deuces are wild right? It always takes me a minute to get into the Vegas swing.

I’m just slightly tipsy which makes me lovey dovey. All my life—alls I’ve ever wanted is to be loved like that.  Loved so hard and good that when I’m gone my man will be bemused and slightly confused. And for three months all bets had been on Jack. It was a long shot but I’ve always been a hopeless romantic. I go in for a kiss and canoodle. He turns the other cheek. 

Because when you wrote that story you said my dick was shaped like a banana and I just wanted you to know that it isn’t. He’s peeved. Pouting. JFC.

I—what story? Even though I know very well—what story. It’s the one about the best dick on the west coast and that dick does in fact not belong to (lets call him Jack). That dick swings from the hips of (lets call him The Vegan). And because it’s to this date still one of my all time favorite dicks, it shows up as a prop when I write erotica. I haven’t seen The Vegan for years—but his dick. God damn. It was memorable. 

The thing I loved about The Vegan was that he was always down for a romp in the hay. Already in his 60s he was fit as a fiddle. We had a three month fling until I ruined it. But that’s another story. He loved women. Like. Really loved women. And he was/is gorgeous. If you don’t believe me check out the first season of the Golden Bachelorette. He didn’t make it past the first episode (I bet he talked non stop about the Beatles and impossible burgers). But believe you me— had they had sex. Boy howdy. He’d be gettin’ that rose from Joan. She’ll live to regret that decision. 

I loved sex with the Vegan because it was fun. You know like. You’d have this wham bam orgasm. And then another. And another. And he was literally (not fictionally) always up for it. We’d have sex and then laugh and laugh when one or the other of us tripped and fell on the way to the bathroom. Those gumby legs. Haha. It was like sex is sometimes meant to be. No meaning no nothing just banging away for the fun of it. You know. Like pickleball. Fun! 

But sex with Jack was turning out to be work. And I don’t love having to work at it. And plus it was Vegas. I still have big tits. I probably could get fucked easily enough. How hard can it be? But I wanted to love Jack and I wanted him to love me.  So I worked at it. 

Oh that was fiction. Remember? You know, like fake news. I’m a writer. Remember? You can’t believe everything I say. I make shit up. 

Yeah. Ok. He slips another twenty in the slot. I can tell he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. I curse myself for ever EVER EVERRRRR showing men I fuck—the things I write. It never works out. 

But there’s two more days at the MGM and it’s 112 outside so we’re stuck with each other. For fucks sake. All pretense. Is gone. I tug on my sensible shorts. Green Umbros that make my ass look wide enough to need that backing the truck up beep-beep-beep warning. A loose Yungblud tee shirt. Sensible Adidas with tube socks. A fanny pack. 

He death snores by the way. Maybe now’s a good time to mention that. Gasps and grunts like he’s dying. And maybe he is. He mentions high blood pressure and how viagra doesn’t really go hand in hand with that diagnosis. He goes on a little tooo long about it. But now that we’re on the topic of dicks that may or may not be his he can’t seem to get off of it. You might have to help out, he says. JFC. Here we go. 

Dude I have dry pussy and you don’t hear me whinging on and on about it because I handle my shit like a boss bitch. First I googled it. Then I listened to a podcast where they recommended Revaree by Bonafide. It's Time To Fight Vaginal Atrophy Symptoms With Revaree. You Deserve Comfort During Sex. Painful Intimacy Ends Here. From google’s mouth to god’s ear. And that shit was $63 plus tax. Did I mention I don’t have a job? 

All of the above and figure it out. Is what I wanted to say. Instead I mention Cafe Gelato. It is after all 112 outside. The line for gelato snakes around the whole food court at the Bellagio. The long wait gives my heart time to sink. It’s over and we both know it. The romance has gone. I go with a double dip of butter pecan with peanut sprinkles—extra caramel. He raises an eyebrow—gets one dip in a cup. My shit starts to melt right away. I lap at it furiously. I’m making a spectacle. 

Right away we’re noticing the things that annoy us about each other. And we both start to kinda flaunt our bad habits. Like fuck it. I don’t like drunk you, he announces as if he’s discovering a new America. No shit Sherlock. No one does. Just ask The Vegan. I order a double Woodfords neat and back it up with another Paper Plane. You’re no walk in the park either, I say. I’m not even trying to be original. Just hand jobbing any old cliche. A bird in the hand is worth one in the bush. Six one half dozen the other. 

He looks at me like he’s just figuring out that I’m bat shit crazy. He starts talking about golf and how he once played against Tiger Woods in high school. The good old days. Yep. Yup. That’s a fun story. Three sheets to the wind and next thing you know it’s a double bogey. And Tiger fucking Woods. Now his dick. I bet he has an antibiotic drip for that shit. 

We get sushi and Gordan Ramsey burgers. I look at other couples loving each other to death. I swab at the truffle aioli like it’s my job. You’re always hungry, he says. He’s not wrong. 

Are you going to eat those fries? I finish mine and start on his. And we start to argue about calories in—calories out. It’s simple math. He always says that. Like he’s had babies and menopause and hasn’t always been built like a string bean. You don’t tip enough. I always say that. He tips decent but not great. And not as much as I do. Which is excessive. And on and on. And round and round we go. 

That was in July. And after that we just kind of ghosted each other after a couple of sober perfunctory calls and texts that were so unbearably full of the weather (it’s hot) and work (it’s been busy). You can only talk about that kind of thing for so long until it wears you out. But I gotta tell you. Back in June. I really thought we were onto something. It’s sad. When I think about it.

And listen. Don’t get me wrong. Jack is a good guy. He’s kind and sweet and good. But he deserves a woman who at the very least remembers what his dick looks like. It’s the least a man can ask of a woman. If you like golf and BBQs on the weekends—Jack’s your man. He’s also a rocket scientist. In short. He’s a catch. 

And listen. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a good gal (based on a loose set of morals—but still).  But you’d really have to love me to put up with my POS forgetfulness. I forgot to buy toilet paper three times this week. I can never find my glasses. I may or may not write about a dick that doesn’t belong to you. But if you’re a hopeless romantic who can handle a lil’ bit of bat shit crazy. Well. We could be peas and carrots. 

Sometimes I think about love. How (despite myself) I do want to fall for it. How I want a love like my grandparents had. Nevin and Ethyl. Lordy, they got on each other's nerves. Fifty years of marriage will do that to you. He death snored which she mentioned over breakfast every morning. She got loud with the pots and pans when he pissed her off. Which he did on the regular. But when she was sick. When she was terrified of the MRI tube. Like would rather die than be stuck in there. He made the nurse drag a table over so he could climb up there and hold her head in his lap. 

You know how a man puts his hands on the side of your face when he kisses you? Like he can’t live without you. Like he can’t get enough?  Confused. Slightly bemused. 

So yeah. I’m holding out for that kinda love. And maybe I’ll luck out and maybe I won’t. You never know—you just never know. All we need is love. Do-do-do-doooo.