Leech Phallus

“How’s it hangin’, Bry?” says the actor whom I hired to help me begin this essay. 

“Neither to the right nor left,” I answer, according to the script, “but rather black, slimy, and sucking your neck. For I have a leech phallus, which happens to be the title and subject of this closet drama that you and I are performing.” 

Now my co-star feigns surprise and asks: “A leech phallus? What’s that — some sort of strap-on device?” 

“No,” I say, and, to prove this, I whisper: “see for yourself: go ahead and pull it.” Then, when the actor playing the supporting role accepts my invitation, I wince and shout: “Ow!” (This moment is comical and prompts the audience to laugh.) To explain my predicament, I then confess as follows in the essay’s most famous soliloquy: 

“I’m embarrassed to undress at the gymnasium when I shower after my workout, because, in lieu of a male organ below the belt of my otherwise normal human anatomy, I have this wiggly black appendage. And it’s an awful responsibility, since I must keep the leech phallus moist or it will expire; indeed, it would shrivel and dry up, and I would have one less body part.”

Now, the business located across the street from where my co-actor and I have been pretending to converse is called The Geek Palace. It’s a place where they sell computer chips that look like nachos. At this point, one of the Palace’s courtiers exits the building and begins to walk in our direction: When this courtier passes before me, my leech phallus attaches itself to the person’s left buttock. This happens against my wishes and without my permission — the appendage possesses a will of its own. The thing keeps sucking until it grows obscenely bloated. Now look: while still connected, my leech phallus engages in the ceremony of egg-spawning. The courtier cries out: “Ew, nasty, gross, yuck: make it stop!” And I desperately try to yank the leech phallus away, but its grip is tenacious. — However, during the struggle, the basket of computer chips that the courtier is holding gets overturned, and its contents spill out: Thus, nacho-salt douses the exterior of my leech phallus, causing it to writhe in pain and shrink and choke and die. Then it falls off and scatters into the wind like ash from a cigarette.

“Thank you so much,” I shake the courtier’s hand; “now the day is saved.” And the final shot reveals that I now have a flat smooth blank between my legs, just like a real doll.