PENAIL PETER

Waking after the long deep sleep that often followed a strenuous evenings session pumping glutinous white puddles of fluid across scraps of paper, salvaged from magazines and underwear catalogues- it was not unusual for Peter to find some irregular blemishes, sores and friction burns on his overworked member.

Peter had been masturbating for as long as he could remember. As a child his mother had warned him- “If you fiddle with it it'll drop off” but Peter took little heed.

His sister used to suffer from problems brought on by the continuous sucking of her thumb. At one point she had sucked it so much that the nail had become warped and the flesh of the thumb had turned white and wrinkled. As a solution her mother had bought her a little pot of clear nail varnish with a toxic chemical taste of sulphur and bad eggs, this was applied to the thumbnail and within a matter of days she had been weaned off the unfortunate habit.

Inspired by the success of his sister's aversion technique, Peter's mother set to work making him a pair of gloves. These were hand stitched in soft leather and could be buckled to the arm in such a way as the wearer would not be able to remove them without help. She had kindly let him choose his favourite colour and lovingly attached the rows of outward facing needles that lined the palm.

Sadly the gloves were a failure as Peter quickly devised other methods of achieving stimulation. At first he learned to curve his spine so as he could put the helmet of his penis into his mouth. As a solution to this problem his mother borrowed the left over nail varnish that his sister had used and applied some to the end of her sons ‘winkie' as it was affectionately termed. But Peter quickly devised a way around this as well, by frottaging the arm of the sofa. At times Peter would get carried away and the grinding would become so intense that he would dig into the fabric of the sofa causing his gloved hands to leave scratch marks. As Peter -at this point- was doing more damage than the pet cat and still getting his kicks his mother admitted defeat and abandoned the gloves, accepting that however much she disapproved, Peter enjoyed masturbating.

Peter's Mother had gained nothing but enjoyment from watching him grow into the strong young man he had become. Although his right arm was evidently slightly larger than the left, she chose to turn a blind eye, glad instead that he seemed to be happy and healthy and keeping himself busy and away from drugs.

What Peter had seen on his penis that morning though was quite unlike the regular friction burns blemishes and crusted scabs he was used to. It appeared as a ridge of hard-calloused skin at the base of the helmet. He initially treated it as he did all of his friction sores, with a tube of antiseptic skin cream that he always kept in the bedside cabernet and took with him wherever he went.

Every day Peter would wake expecting the callus to have healed but to his dismay he would find it had increased in size. He did not wish to visit the clinic as his mother had long instilled in him a healthy fear of doctors, besides it simply couldn't be a sexually transmitted infection as Peter had not yet had the opportunity to succumb to the pleasures of intercourse.

What surprised Peter the most was that the callus was growing in spite of the fact that he had not touched his penis (except to urinate) since the morning the blemish had first appeared. Three days without masturbation was a longer period than he could recollect. It was as if the war-like relationship he had long shared with his ‘winkie' was finally put to rest. When once he would wrestle with his member until the poor thing -strangled red and raw- admitted defeat, letting out a desperate mercy-spurt of white, before sinking in a sore deflated heap. -It was now as if the anger and conflict were subdued and the emasculated rage Peter had once known was increasingly becoming replaced by an acceptance of his penis as a benign and decorative appendage.

On the fourth day Peter could clearly see what the callus had become. It was a nail, as wide as that on his big toe and growing like an armadillo's casing over the upper side of his helmet. The initial shock was surprisingly small and was quickly replaced by acceptance. ‘I am transforming' –Peter thought calmly, assessing what might be an appropriate next move. It didn't take much thought; his impulse was to go to the chemist where he purchased a top of the range manicure set.

For many weeks Peter would lovingly file, buff and polish his nail, if it got too long he would trim it, smoothing off the edges. He liked it to have some length though, as he felt it to be imbued with feminine qualities. At times it even seemed as if the penis itself was taking on the qualities that the nail seemed to emit; as if his member was developing a sense of independence that demanded love and respect. He no longer felt the lust and anger that had consumed his hours until now. Peter's adornment and decoration of his ‘penail' was more than a simple hobby, it was his love, a love that Peter felt sure that his penis could feel and reciprocate.

Those first few weeks were as a whirlwind romance. Peter experiencing for the first time a pure emotion, untainted by lust. He enjoyed painting the nail a bright crimson ‘the colour of passion' and when once he would wrestle furiously with his member, now he felt wholly satisfied just holding and caressing it as if it were a woman.

It was only to be expected that this newfound love would not last forever. Increasingly, as time passed Peter would wake in the night with a sense of sexual frustration but an inability to know how to satisfy it. His penis was no longer the masturbatory object it had once been; it had evolved into a dignified being in its own right. Somehow Peter felt it was not right to touch ‘her' like that.

At times peter would lift his penis, stroke her nail and gaze deep into her eye hoping for some spark of the emotion they had shared not long ago. -With a sinking in his heart Peter would reluctantly admit that the spark had died and that all that was looking back at him was an empty slit.

The relationship they had once shared was waning. He wanted to love her and if he couldn't he wished at least to be able to masturbate again as he had done in the old days before things had changed. But somehow neither option felt right, ‘she' had become a useless piece of flesh and skin, a mere appendage that he was forced to drag around with him. Peter's upset and confusion at times was like a great emptiness inside, how he longed again to fill the emptiness with the useless fist-pumping he had once known, or at least to feel some kind of stimulation.

At times the slow building sense of frustration seemed so cloying that Peter yearned for another outlet, something to fill the chasm of emptiness that -in one way or another- his penis had always occupied. ‘I must find a new hobby' -thought Peter in desperation- ‘…stamp collecting? …alcoholism?'

Peter soon discovered that whisky was a good fix. And before long his sense of isolation was gradually replaced by an inebriated oblivion. He had never been a great drinker so experienced a lot of vomiting at first before getting a good tolerance to the poison. His consumption of the liquor progressed over the weeks with a steady regularity. When initially a quarter bottle of whisky was enough to drown his sorrows of an evening: his whisky intake rapidly escalated to a couple of litre bottles a day. In time he stopped caring about the nail, neglecting even to trim it, his flat had become a dump; papers strewn around and his bed unmade and saturated with urine from nights when he couldn't even be bothered to make it to the toilet. His hair was tangled and unkempt, he was growing a beard and his teeth had become coated with a kind of yellow fluff.

For those weeks the days merged into nights, as Peter was drinking from the moment he woke to the point when he would crash-out oblivious of what time or day it was. The unkempt nail had become dirty and warped; it had grown in a curve that eclipsed the eye of his penis with a good centimetre space between. This meant that if Peter could be bothered to make it to the toilet his stream of urine would bounce off the ever-growing nail and saturate the carpet on either side of the bowl.

So oblivious was poor Peter as the ingrown nail began to slowly whittle its way into the flesh of his scrotum, anaesthetising itself as it burrowed. So unconscious he was as it grew day by day, working its way in a crescent toward the base of his shaft. He no longer even regarded his appendage so took little heed as daily the nail gently castrated him, leaving his entire genitalia as blackened hanging pendulums supported by mere flaps of dead skin tissue.

It was not long after the nail had reached the root of its own supporting organ (thus amputating itself completely) that Peter began to experience a strange lucidity. It was as if he felt at one with himself again. Not only did he feel the way that he had when he'd first accepted his genitalia's evolving femininity; he also seemed to be feeling within himself a sense of being an empowered and sexual individual.

By Oliva Spleen

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