(Part 2: “Dad’s Fleshlight” – By Scott Savino)
Not knowing what to say, I just looked at them. My brothers and I stood in confused silence.
Our father was dead it seemed as though he’d bequeathed to us the sexual detritus of his strange, sordid life.
Finally, my brother Kyle broke the silence: “What the–?” He mumbled.
He’d thrown the lid of the shoebox, plain and brown and marked ‘KYLE,’ onto the floor before him. Kyle’s face was ambiguous.
I know my brother, and I know when he is telling lies. He said that he did not know what the key, his inheritance, the simple thing inside the box was for. I could tell he did by the look in his eyes.
“What did he get?” I asked Kyle about Adam’s inheritance.
“It’s a video camera” Kyle said.
“No” Adam corrected him “it’s the video camera.”
“Holy shit you’re right” I said then recognizing the custom handle, resembling a pistol, that I had seen before; we may have been kids, but I remembered its ostentatious carvings.
Looking into my box, they both began to snicker. Adam asked me, with a huge smile: “Scott, is that what I think it is?”
I was so shocked, the inability to speak had overtaken me. The lid of my package, scrawled with “SCOTT,” was tucked underneath the base of the box and delicately wrapped inside, amongst an inlay of tissue…
A rubber tugger.
A pocket pussy.
Our dad’s fleshlight.
Yes, you are reading that correctly: my dad left me his fucking fleshlight in his will.
I turned angrily to his lawyer, Mr. Bernstein, asking: “I have to keep this? Legally?”
“The trust is close to two million dollars for each of you, paid in sums over time. I’m instructed to request you produce the item at random intervals and not to give you any further payouts if you are unable to produce what’s in your box.”
This whole thing was ridiculous, but in the end, we agreed to it. Before we parted ways, Adam insisted we pose for Dad’s camera and recreate something from the site.
A catchphrase. I don’t remember how it goes.
They knew it. The two of them had probably clicked through the backlog of ███████████████.com more times than they could count.
I of course had managed to refrain, preferring my porn to be free of vagina.
It was cringey, but I went along with it–really just wanting to collect my first payout and get out of there.
I returned home to Bradenville, thankful that my partner would be away for another two weeks on business. In shame and hope that he wouldn’t find this thing on his return, I buried the box beneath the dirty clothes at the back of my closet. I was determined to forget it existed until I was asked by the man with the checkbook to produce it. This whole business breathed ominous vibes, and I’d have loved to distance myself from it…but how do you distance yourself from two million? The payout was justification enough.
That night I dreamt in panoramic fever dreams:
I was walking through the forest in the dark under the light of a starlit sky. Something in the midnight, in the voids between the trees was calling out to me. Following that voice, through the whipping branches of the trees, through hoots of owls, and rustlings of leaves, I went. From off to my left, a gray wolf approached, padding up to me. He raised his head in a nod as if in cue to follow and so, I followed. To a cave. Here the call grew louder and he would lead me no further, so departing from my guide; the wolf I left there behind amongst the oaks and pines. I approached the cave, the mouth of which was guarded by the placid gaze of a massive raccoon. He stepped aside allowing me to pass from beneath the light of the moon and into the cavern’s opening. Abundant spiders skittered aimlessly avoiding the mold and algae where it growed, preferring the cold, and the smooth of the gray stone walls. I wiped a cluster of web from the entrance of the second chamber and entered. This innermost cavern where I now stood was illuminated by some hidden light source. At the center of the room, sat an altar, awash in luminance. There, on the dais, singing a siren song, bathed in a pool of light was…
…Dad’s goddamned fleshlight.
The fucking bastard.
I couldn’t escape it in my sleep and the next day found that it had been picking at the edges of my thoughts in every moment.
If you had told me I would be using it…If you’d told me it would be that very day…I wouldn’t have believed you.
But you have to understand: it was like popping a pimple; a hair in your eye; an itch that need be scratched. I just…had to. Once I thought it, it wouldn’t go away.
I’d never known the man as well as my brothers and as strange as the idea is, I thought that maybe this would peel the layers of mystery away. I may find some secret buried. He must have left this to me for some purpose? Maybe there was something magic hidden inside? Maybe it was lucky? I knew I should have paid better attention. Did I recall mention of the inheritance meaning to fit our specific needs? I needed luck.
Maybe this thing was lucky?
Maybe that was silly.
It couldn’t hurt just to look. Could it?
At first I’d only resolved to pull the box down. To inspect.
But inspection was not quite enough.
It looked well-used and clean, but the silicon was parched and dried and cracking on places around the outside. It didn’t seem in need of disinfectant. I pressed my nose to the end and inhaled some sort of lingering antiseptic. I think that’s why I decided to do it.
I hesitate to continue at risk of you thinking I’ve gone mental, living out an imagined reversal of Oedipus, but this was not about sexual attraction. It was closer to hypnosis if I’m being honest. The pocket pussy had me bewitched. My state of mind did not attempt to reconcile the act of what I was doing with the compulsion.
I did it in the dark.
It was cold and dry. A switch on the side spun the mechanisms that laid inside to life and the vibration throbbed and rolled slowly morphing into a strange tingling; like a thousand tiny tickles moving up and down. Unexpectedly–suddenly–a crack where the lining was parched and coming apart pinched me. Pinched me hard on my scrotum.
Pinched me in the most vulnerable and of sensitive places.
I let out a yelp.
In that moment, I had also come to my senses a bit…
Why was I doing this? Disgusting. Disgusting was not nearly strong enough a word. I removed it mid stroke and as the ghost of it’s massaging mechanics at the base of my scrotum lingered, I stumbled to the closet in the darkness. Fumbling in the shadows, I found the box, tucked the thing away like my shame and buried it beneath the washing pile and shoes.
I hoped to forget this regrettable decision by morning.
The next time I slept, I was plagued once again by dark dreams:
Shadows and fog swirled before me. Pulsing, the air quivered visibly. I saw him, the man from the screen, Developing…a hallucination forming… Edges hazy, he slowly solidified.“Resist!” he shouted, “Stupid boy, you were supposed to resist Her call.” He laid his head in his hands. “Now you’ll be caught in Her thrall.”
“What kind of freak uses something like that that belonged to another man? That belonged to their dad?”
’I didn’t finish’ I thought.
“You didn’t finish?” The ghost of my father heard my thinking and shouted, “that makes no difference at all. You’re Hers now. She’ll crawl to you and pull you down into her waiting maw…hand over hand…”
He began to fade away and I woke with a start but I could still hear the fading echo of his warning:
‘waiting maw…hand over hand, over hand, over hand, over hand, over hand…’
I sprung up in bed, drenched in sweat and yet I was cold, clammy to the touch–and slowly growing wasa burn. My skin was burning. Burning with tiny pricks of pain. Every spot of me itched. I went into the bathroom, emptied the contents of my stomach in a projectile spew and started a cold shower. By the end of it my entire body was jagged red with the trenches of compulsive scratches.
I went back to bed where I didn’t sleep. I didn’t sleep the rest of that night or the next night or the night after.
I walked through life in a haze, sure that I was hearing the mysterious voice of the woman my father described. I never did see her, she always hovered just outside of my field of vision, but I knew she was there. I could hear her words of seduction, though I made a point not to understand them. The intonation and cadence invoked a vision in my mind that glistened and shined. These thoughts I rebuked along with her words. All were an attempt to weave a web like a net around me so that she could pull me in.
Allen pulled me aside at work. “You need to go home,” he said. “You don’t look well and you’ve been rambling all morning.” It was true, I didn’t and I had been. There were bags under my eyes and my skin was a pallid white. I needed rest.
I got into my car and turned the ignition, but before backing out, I stopped. There, in the windshield mirror, reflected in the back seat was my father and a young girl. She was brunette with doe-eyes and a willowy figure. I couldn’t place her.
Did I know her?
She didn’t speak. She cast her gaze downward, blinking robotically. He looked different: hair was thinning and patches were missing throughout. His skin was gray. Neither spoke; Dad staring coldly at me from the back seat. The strange girl was shaking her head. I spun in my seat but both were gone. I did not see or hear either of them on the ride home.
Upon my return, I laid in bed and closed my eyes. Sleep embraced me before my head hit the pillow.
I awoke not an hour later, itching again but in only one place now. Something was wrong. Stumbling into the bathroom, the light popped to life with a flick of the switch. I felt my stomach tighten in knots because of this itch. Inside the mirror my reflection stared back emaciated and something was wrong. Terribly wrong. It–my cock–was horrid and shriveled and purple and black with bruises. How long had it looked like this? I gasped back tears. Lifting the shaft of it before the glass, I saw the wart at the base that was causing it all.
This was it. The siren, this harpy, this witch from my father’s warning had cast a horrible wart upon me. A curse upon my dick.
But warts do not writhe and quiver, nor pulse until they split. Split down the center, bursting their contents forth like a volcanic pimple. Split open at the pressure of something inside. At the pressure of something eating its way out. Split open at the pressure of a thousand baby spiders just underneath the surface of the skin: rotting it from within.
I called an ambulance.
My husband had decided to leave me when he’d learned of what I’d done. He couldn’t build an explanation to suit justification. He claimed he didn’t know who I was. That his husband wouldn’t have done something so depraved.
In the hospital, they found me in need of a major surgery. When I returned home, I was alone. It must have been days, perhaps even weeks later when I was released.
It was necrotic. They took it. But they tell me advances in restorative surgery can put it back. I don’t think my insurance would cover that, so knowing that a substantial portion of my inheritance would be gone and spent, I had to know the root of the cause.
I carefully retrieved the fleshlight, with gloves this time. I peeled back its cracked and crumbling lining. Inside was a massive spider. It’s mandibles flexing as it pulled some poor fly, wrapped and bound, head to foot. She pulled it down into her waiting maw. Here now, she bit it in half. An odd amusement seemed to gleam in her compound eyes as the rest of the fly struggled to find meaning for life; agonizing the missing parts it lacked. I could swear I heard that spider laugh: her voice grating like the sound of metal grinding against itself. As her humor filled the air, a dozen eggsacks hidden in the darkness of the closet cracked open and en masse tens of thousands of arachnids, newly hatched, came for me at last.
I ran. I had to hide.
In the depths of my mind,
I could hear a voice inside:
A grating, scratching metal grind,
As amongst the chaos
Her voice had whispered:
“Soon you will be mine.”