Excerpt: The Transformations, first chapter

April 6, 2005 § Leave a comment

Chapter 1
Do Not Over Apply

I’m the guy girls never looked twice at. Why should they? One strand of hair for every year I’ve been alive, shaped like a giant toe. “I’ll pass!” they must say to themselves. Even when I was younger and cooler, say, when I had a bulbous pompadour and biceps to match, when a guy pulling up in a flatbed truck might pick me out of a lineup to help him run a fence around his property or stack boxes on pallets, even then I couldn’t get laid. I just couldn’t figure out why women spent so much time getting made up and then so much time ignoring me. Was God telling me I should be gay or what? Even then what difference would it make? An ugly guy is an ugly guy. Mostly it made me feel bad that the strongest force in the universe – LIFE WANTING TO PERPETUATE ITSELF – would exclude me from the program. I was sure that ugly birds and frogs got laid aplenty – but not me.

Then you always hear guys talking to each other like this: “Girls! Shit, they’re raunchier than guys. Ever been in women’s bathrooms?” Or “Hey! My uncle’s a garbage man in the University District. He’s always finding dildos, and porn videos and skin magazines in the sorority house trash bins.” This is the usual guy bullshit and I’ve dished out plenty of it in my day. Near as I could tell no girl ever thought about me much less being raunchy to me.

Besides, I live in the University District, in the basement of the Greensward Rooming House. I’ve dived a few dumpsters in my time and I can tell you that I’ve never run across any dildos. Food, yes. Food…basic Frat Row staples: you got steaks and fries, you got fish and mashed potatoes and pizza by the dump truck load. I think the sorority sisters pass up all this great food and then snack on soda and chips late at night in their rooms. Anyway, point is, if only some girl had taken an interest in me I wouldn’t have gotten into this mess. Why couldn’t I have been like the guy who placed this ad in the personal column of the Sunbreak City Weekly?

Winslow Ferry.
Outer deck, 3/17/81.
You: Long blond hair,
leather jacket, black
Me: The tall guy wearing the
green leprechaun hat,
holding the orange
helium balloon that
read: Smiles are Forever.
You smiled at me.
Could we meet for coffee?

I mean, the guy ran the ad for years. No reply. Who knows what happened to the girl? No reply. Maybe she died or got married or moved away or just wasn’t interested, who knows. But the ad – for the first few years – the ad was the laughing stock of the town. Channel 10 sportscaster guys made jokes associating losing teams with “the guy in the Weekly ad.” Everyone knew what they were referring to and everyone laughed. At one point, even the mayor stepped in and pleaded for the woman to respond. So the whole town is thinking: what a fucking loser to have to post this ad year after year. But after year five or so, Sunbreak City women started thinking: “man, this guy is really in love. He’s a true Galahad searching for his Guinevere. What a gesture. What dedication! What love! Five years down the road and he’s still yearning for his true love.” In the mind of local women the guy evolves from Jerk Supreme to Knight-Errant pining for his Lady Love. Before long every lonely blond in town is writing the paper with a response. Yes! I remember! He plays dumb and cleans up in the sack.

Meantime, I’m not getting laid like anything. And I’m horny. All the time. Revved as hell. So for me the thing is porn videos. With videos you can pretty much mentally erase the dork in the flick and transfer yourself into the thing. Cocks are the real stars of these things, anyway. You get to see them filling out the frame and obeying the script, just doing what they’re supposed to do. They dance, they spritz. Some bend to the right and some hang and bounce menacingly like broken exhaust pipes. But some of the guys are genuinely startling, I mean like seeing a Siamese twin or a six-fingered hand. So tell me O Great and Crazed Distributor of DNA, tell me why the bestowal upon the infantine weenies of porn star dorks – such SIZE?
I get to thinking: if I had a big one I could be a porn star and maybe get laid for once. This train of thought got me into a mess.
To supplement my porn videos I always had piles of skin magazines – rags with names like Juggs, Big and Flowing, Golden and Globular, Chomp and Romp – you get the idea – the back pages of which are crammed with genital paraphernalia. I sent away for:

Increase Your Penis Size!
Onan’s Enlarging Ointment:
Increase Your Penis Size!
*Apply twice a day

It came wrapped like a pipe bomb, no external markings except for a New Jersey postmark. The morning it arrived I ran to the bathroom rubbed it on and damn if my cock didn’t instantly start to fill out and enlarge, to feed out like a trombone. I was so happy I grinned into the mirror and my smile pulled right off my face. In fact it pulled and pulled back and back until it grew into a snout and my ears widened and shaped into long goofy triangles. At the same time the little bit of hair I had on the back of my head sprouted and ran, coating my entire body. My belly bulged and seemed to grow as big as a cement mixer. I was winded and dropped to the floor. But somehow I was still standing. I was on all fours. All fours? So far off the floor. Hind legs? All fours! Huh?

I was still clutching the tube of Onan’s and the writing on the back label jumped out at me:

In case of over application –

But Christ! My feet and now my hands were bunching into hooves and I dropped the tube into the toilet. What the fuck! I looked into the mirror. I shouted and heard myself: braaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyii ….

I had turned into a fucking donkey!
For three days I stayed in my basement apartment and cried, braying, neighing, whinnying, praying I would turn back to normal, praying I would change back when the ointment wore off. I threatened God: change me back or I’ll starve myself to death! Frantic to retrieve it, I drank up all the toilet water nosing for the tube of Onan’s. I wanted desperately to read the rest of:

In case of over application –

No dice. Onan’s was long gone. In my panic I had pushed the tube down the toilet . (Even through my tears and hysteria I noticed that I did indeed have a gold ribbon schlong, a prizewinning monster; I mean a murderous looking goeduck.)

After three hysterical days I had to get out. I was starving. I let myself out turning the basement doorknob with my flabby lips and a twist of my head. I climbed up the four steps nimbly and stood four-legged in the backyard of my rooming house.
It was a clear, sunny spring morning and how good – and weird – it felt to stretch. Thank God my apartment manager, Rahjbir, a Jainist from Rajasthan, didn’t believe in killing anything and that included the mangy grass in our lot adjoining the alley. I took a bite of grass figuring this is what donkeys probably eat and, though my big teeth and tongue seemed to welcome it, I knew right off my taste buds were still human: crab grass tasted like hell. Like I said I’m an old dumpster diver from way back and the U District is ideal for these meals on wheels. The fraternities and sororities, proving grounds for the future consumers of America, throw out starving-continent’s rescue amounts of food every day. I trotted over to the Phig Sty Epsilon Sorority dumpster and tried to nose up the lid but couldn’t get it to stay all the way up. Finally I got my head in and under and plunged my snout into a mess of mashed potatoes and gravy. About my fifth bite I felt something ping my hindquarters. I pulled my head out and saw a group of frat guys facing me down. They wore letter jackets and sported blond crew cuts on heads that seemed planed just above the eyebrow.
“Jesus! A fucking donkey!” they screamed. Then they got real quiet. We stared at each other. One of them said: “Careful. It might be rabid.”
They started chucking rocks at me. My first reaction was to respond like my usual wimpy self and go running for my basement apartment but instead I lunged towards them – just a bit. To my surprise they jumped back. The rocks didn’t hurt but I got mad. I brayed and made right for the assholes. To my surprise they ran. They were afraid! They scattered but I got a few well-placed nips and kicks in.
I stood in the alley. What am I doing? What is this shit? Why am I a fucking donkey? All I wanted was a big cock so I could have a crack at being a porn star and get laid for once. I cried to myself but only braying and scratchy sounds came out. Then, all the predictable things happened. Cops. Chase. TV crew arrives. Firemen, too, I think. Chase. A bushy-bearded veterinarian with a needle full of dope. Fade to black.

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