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As I maneuvered it gently about, my forefinger strayed and struck the side of something thick
and smooth, rooted in wiry hair. He shuddered, but continued to suffer at my hands. I slipped
the right testicle into its ancient place and held it there until I sensed he was about to gag.
Then I let it drop and removed my hand.
He gave a deep sigh. "I guess that's it."
"Yes, I think so." I pretended to examine the chart.
With a sigh, he sat down on the chair opposite me and clumsily pulled on one sock,
tearing the flimsy material; the toes went through the tip.
"You're very clumsy." I observed.
"Yes, ma'am." He agreed, quickly pulling on the other sock, not wanting in any way to
cross me, so eager was he to escape.
"Oh, here's a question we forgot." I was incredibly sunny. "Have you been
circumcised?"
The foot he was holding on his knee slid to the floor. Quickly he pressed his thighs
together, wadded up his shirt, and covered the beleaguered lap. "Why, no, ma'am. I never
was."
"So few Polish boys are, I'm told." I made a check on the chart. "Does the skin pull
back easily?"
"Oh, sure!" He was beet-red. "Sure. I'm O.K. MaryAnn's waiting."
"Not so fast." I was cold. "I didn't give you permission to dress, you know."
"But I thought you were finished......" The deep voice was now a whine.
"I was. But your jumping the gun like that makes me very suspicious."
"Suspicious?" He was bewildered.
"Yes. First, I let you talk me out of giving you the venereal disease examination, and
now you're suddenly getting dressed, without permission, just when the subject once more has
to do with your penis. Rusty, I am very, very suspicious."
The blue eyes filled with tears as he sensed what was approaching. "Don't be, Miss
Myra. Believe me, I'm absolutely O.K...."
"We have to think of Mary-Ann, too, you know. You could make her very sick just
through your carelessness."
"Honest to God, I'm O.K. They even gave me the Wassermann test in the jail......" He
jabbered nervously.
"I'm sure they did. But what was the result?"
"Mr. Martinson will tell you. I was a hundred per cent O.K."
"But Mr. Martinson isn't here while you are, and frankly I don't see how I can omit this
part of the examination. Stand up please and put down that shirt."
"Oh, come on, please don't..." His voice broke again, close to a sob.
"Do as I say."
On that note of icy command, he stood up slowly and like a man going to his
execution--or a schoolboy to his spanking--he put down the shirt and stood dumbly facing me.
"Come over here." He came to within a few inches of where I was sitting; he was so close that
my knees touched the warm fur of his shins.
"Now let's see what kind of stud you really are."
"Please..." He whispered. "I don't want to. It isn't right."
Deliberately I took the Jockey shorts by the elastic waistband and pulled them slowly,
slowly down, enjoying each station of his shame. The first glimpse was encouraging. The
base of the penis sprouted from the bronze bush at an angle of almost forty-five degrees, an
earnest of vitality. It was well over an inch wide, always a good sign, with one large blue vein
down the center, again promising. But another three inches of slow unveiling revealed Rusty's
manhood in its entirety, I slid the shorts to the floor.
When I looked up at his face, I saw that once again the eyes were shut, the lips
trembling. Then I carefully examined the object of my long and arduous hunt, at last captive.
A phrase of Myron's occurred to me: "all potatoes and no meat." Rusty's balls were unusually
large and impressive; one lower than the other, as they hung bulllike in the rather loose scrotal
sac. They were all that I could desire. The penis, on the other hand, was not a success, and I
could see now why he was so reluctant to let me see just how short it is. On the other hand
both base and head are uncommonly thick and, as Myron always said, thickness not length is
how you gauge the size of the ultimate erection. The skin was dead white with several not
undecorative veins, while the foreskin covered the entire head, meeting at the tip in an
irregular rosy pucker, plainly cousin to the sphincter I had so recently probed.
"I'm afraid, Rusty, that you've been somewhat oversold on the campus. Poor Mary-
Ann. That's a boy's equipment."
This had the desired effect of stinging him into a manly response. "Ain't been no
complaints," he growled. But as he did, both testicles rose in their sac as though seeking an
escape hatch in case of battle, while the penis betrayed him by visibly shrinking into the
safety of the brush.
"Next you'll tell me that it's not the size that counts but what you do." I followed
verbal insult with physical: I took the penis firmly in my hand.
He dared not move, or speak, or even cry out. The shock had reduced him exactly as
planned. I had also confirmed an old theory that although the "normal" male delights in
exposing himself to females who attract him he is, conversely, terrified to do so in front of
those he dislikes or fears, as though any knowledge they might obtain of the center of his
being will create bad magic and hence unman him. In any case, the grail was in my hand at
last, smooth, warm, soft.
My joy was complete as I slid back the skin, exposing the shiny deep rose of the head
which was impressively large and beautifully shaped, giving some credence to the legend that,
in action, its owner (already Rusty had become a mere appendage to this reality) was a
formidable lover. He was sweaty but clean (I was so close to him that I could smell the strong
but not disagreeable fernlike odor of genitals). Delicately but firmly, I pressed the glans,
making the phallic eye open. Not one tear was shed. "Apparently, you are all right," I
observed as he looked down with horror at my hand which held him firmly in its grasp, the
glans penis exposed like a summer rose.
"You're also clean but beyond that I'm afraid you're something of a disappointment."
The penis again shrank in my hand. "But of course you're probably still growing." The
humiliation was complete. There was nothing that he could say. In actual fact, the largeness of
the head had already convinced me that what I said was untrue, but policy dictated that I be
scornful.
"Now then, let's see how free the foreskin is." I slid the skin forward, then back. He
shuddered. "Now, you do it a few times."
To his relief, I let him go. Clumsily he took himself in one hand as though never
before had he touched this strange object, so beloved of Mary-Ann. He gave a few halfhearted
tugs to the skin, looking for all the world like a child frightened in the act of masturbating.
"Come on," I said, "you can do better than that."
He changed his grip to the one he obviously used when alone. His hand worked
rapidly as he pumped himself like one of those machines that extract oil from the earth, milk
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