Masterpiece

Francis had a very close and intimate relationship with his manhood. Although he would never publicly attest to the irrefutable truth, he would state in the comfort of his own home, with no hint of irony, that his penis was his best friend.

It never let him down. Not like other people. Not like all those so-called friends that were there one day, gone the next. He always seemed to quickly outstay his welcome and outgrow his usefulness.

His penis didn’t complain much. Like Francis, it had no interest in trying to impress the greater masses of humanity. It was happy to sit there, enjoying the fondling and admiration that Francis bestowed upon it.

He even had a picture commissioned of his manhood in full bloom. An eccentric artist came to his house and had him posed with his penis fully erect and central to the piece. Francis was enraptured as he watched a true artist at work, bringing to life what Francis imagined would be the most beautiful thing they had ever painted.

It had pride of place on his mantel, beside his carriage clock and a cactus.

He spent a long time admiring the watercolour tribute to his penis, as if he were trying to decode its majesty and mystery. He often wondered if he should invite neighbours or the mailman in to show appreciation for such a unique piece. That would mean interacting with fellow humans and sharing the magnificence of his manhood.

In time, he found himself gazing more longingly at the mushroom tip in the painting than at what was between his legs.

He was drawn to the brushstrokes that captured the strained flesh and the veins as they popped to the surface. He became obsessed.

Obsessed to the point of delirium.

Longing, he tried to recreate the magnificent appearance of the canvas adorning his mantelpiece with the real thing.

Much like the diamond obsessive who cuts and refines in an effort to increase clarity, he could never meet those expectations.

Resentment grew as he no longer felt connected to his member, entranced and enraged in equal measure by the artistic rendering.

Oh, how he longed, day in, day out, to recreate the perfect erected form. From dawn to dusk, he tried various methods: straps and metal hinges, complicated pulley systems with a fine line of cotton thread through his urethral meatus.

Nothing worked.

He was ashamed of his best friend and started to feel growing distrust and disregard for him. Why did his penis not want to look its very best for him?

The illusion of the photographed or painted image was gnawing at his self-respect and penile respect. No longer did he have phallus hubris.

Then he found himself sleeping for long periods with no clue what had happened, only that he was clutching the painting.

It was day two or three after the same missing time occurred that he noticed something. His penis seemed to have lost the ability to maintain erections. Arousal and brute force did not help.

Then there were the lesions on the painting, and the moisture.

It also began to transcend mere art as a painting. It felt, when Francis took to his constitutional meditations with the painting, that it was living. At first, he dismissed it all as delusions manifest due to his troubled sleeping patterns.

But as the days passed and the one part of his body he took most pride in became a flaccid, formless shadow of its former self, he knew something was wrong.

He tried contacting the artist, but she was unreachable, the number he had for her redirecting him to a voicemail inbox that was full.

The image was taking on more realistic tones and shades and looked as if it pulsed.

Tired and emotionally drained, he sank into his chair, looking at the skin between his legs with disdain, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. His own. And then drifted off to sleep.

When he woke, he was in bed but couldn’t move. He could wiggle his toes and fingers but had no agency over his limbs. The painting was breaching the canvas in his hands with a quiet aggression.

Francis no longer had a close and intimate relationship with his manhood.