From atop the stage, Martha Stewart clears her throat.  “A-heh-heh-HEM!  The audition will commence in thirty seconds!”

Everyone quiets down.

I don’t have a chance—I know that.  The Man Whores in this room are the finest in the world, comprised of good-looking studs that would blow Ryan Gosling and Michael B Jordan out of the water.  I’m a handsome fuck-machine, but not the kind of handsome that makes women stop what they’re doing and ask for my number; more like the handsome that earns smiles and hair-flips, nagging at ladies’ brains and making surreptitious entries into their spank-banks (probably should call ’em flick-banks, but whatever). 

Nevertheless, I’ve got an exclusive invite, so here I am.  The hors d oeuvres alone make this worth it.  I’m fine with not being picked (when Martha prompts me to showcase my talents with a raised eyebrow, I casually pass with a shake of my head) but that’s all right, because being invited is an honor in and of itself.

“Well, now that you’ve shown me your stuff, it’s time to decide!” Martha declares.  “And I choose—”

Suddenly, my wiener bursts from my pants, snaking through the air like the smoke monster from Lost.  “ONE SIDE!” it yells.  “OUTTA MY WAY!”  It stops before Martha, who covers her mouth and beams in delight. 

“Uh…my face is over here.”  I point at my mug.

She completely ignores me.  “We have a winner!” she breathes excitedly.

SIX MONTHS LATER…

If this were a movie, you’d have to endure a nauseating montage of cutesy couples activities like eating the same strand of spaghetti, wearing nifty matching clothes such as beanies and overalls, as well as the time honored tradition of zany photo booth antics, all while “Build Me Up Buttercup” is playing in the background.  Martha and my Wiener have become a single-name duo, like Bennifer or Kimye.  The worst part is they don’t even fuck.  While Martha’s sleeping, Wiener irritably explains they’re both virgins, and they’ve decided to save themselves until after the wedding.

“You’re a PENIS!” I rage.  “You don’t get married—HUMANS get married!!!” 

Wiener sniffs haughtily.  “Jealous, much?”

I cover my eyes with a thumb and a forefinger.  “Could you at least have sex?  You can hear my semen sloshing around—listen!”  I juggle my nuts.  They sound like a half-drunk two-liter being shaken by a strongman.

Wiener slaps me twice—wh’pap-PAP—in a forestroke/backstroke.  “Don’t overstep,” he hisses. 

I try and grab him by the head, but he crunches down and sprains my wrist.  As I clutch my hand and stifle a yelp, he rears back, looks me in the eye, and says, “Look at me.”  I bite my lip and hold back tears—this evil fuck MANGLED MY WRIST.  Once again, he demands, “Look at me, Kent.”

I raise my chin and meet his gaze.  He scans my watery eyes, making good and damn sure he has my attention. 

“I’m the captain now.” 

Then he curls into a spiral and goes back to sleep.

Fuck.  THIS.  I’m fine with Wiener taking the lead, but not if he’s refusing the chance to get laid!  Church-going virgin, my hairy fucking ass!  I know where he’s been—vajeens and asshole from all the world over have had the pleasure of accommodating his girth!  Where the FUCK does he get off pretending he’s an innocent sheltered preppie from the nineteen goddamn eighties???

So I open my eReader to a Kent Wayne novel, activating its reality distortion powers.  Magic flash.

Stephen Seagal materializes in the bedroom, wearing nothing but an animal print speedo.  His extra hairy belly makes it look like his torso has been enveloped by a giant mutant spider.

“Someone call for me?”  He looks at Wiener, who stirs in his coil.  “Oh—runaway phallus.  I’ve got just the thing.”  He reaches in his neckbeard, produces a glob of Awful McNasties, then digs in his pubes for a putrid handful of old-balls smegma.  He smears the disgusting mixture across Wiener’s glans, scores the air with a series of ninja gestures, then dives out the window and runs off into the night.

Wiener bolts up in bed, expelling a series of hyena-like screeches.  As smoke pours off his melting skin, Martha looks on in horror.

“What the—what did you DO???”

“Steven Seagal smegma.”  I twiddle my fingers and give her a Please-Don’t-Hurt-Me smile.  “Sorry, but he was getting out of line and—”

“MONSTER!”  She starts throwing stuff at me.  “Get out, you hear me???  GET OUT!  I HATE YOU!!!”

I cover my face as Wiener retracts into my torso.  “He’s gonna come back!” I protest.  “Just not right away!  Ow!”  A book hits me in the face.

Martha considers, then grudgingly says, “Give me a call once he recovers.  I don’t give a flying fuck about your face or your body—gimme some a’ that grade A MEAT!”

I open my mouth to protest, then shut it just as quick.  I can’t blame her—he’s pretty glorious.  Nevertheless, he needs to know his goddamn place. 

As I leave Martha’s compound, I stare down at my crotch and mutter, “I’m the captain now.  Bitch.”

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