Where oh where has my penis gone

He knew, the instant he opened his eyes, that his penis was gone again.

He closed his eyes again, pressing his fingers to them as if he could push the memory in through his eyeballs.

She danced on the inside of the lids, the mysterious girl from the bar. Her pierced lips were darkly painted and laughter shook the trinkets in her heavily braided hair. Tattoos inked their way up her ruffled purple skirt. He remembered her mouth tasted like cigarettes and she'd nipped at him with sharp, even little teeth.

He trod into his jeans, and then his boots and stumped out of the house. The bar was barely open. He slipped inside and ducked his head under the low flying beam.

"Back again already?" the barman said with a grin. He was a grim looking chap, with less hair than teeth, and that was already setting the bar quite low.

"I'm looking for that girl," the penisless man said and the barman snorted.

"I'll bet you are," the barman sniggered, but he was helpful, as it turned out. "Heard her saying she got a new job at that tattoo place on St Mary's Place."

Off he went to the tattoo place, and sure enough, there she was, a scarf around her head and her nose in a magazine about death metal, or crystal healing, or something.

"I didnt want it," she said carelessly. "So I gave it to a friend." She wrote down the address, and he shuffled out of the shop. It's hard to stride away, when the person looking at your back knows your willy is missing.

He rode a bus to Heathgates Bank, and got off after the roundabout. Squinting at the address and scribbled directions, he wandered vaguely up the road and turned on to the estate. The lady in question lived at No. 5. She had bottle blonde hair and looked like she lived in gym clothes, but not in the gym. Several small children monkeyed around behind her.

"You better come on through," she said, and he squeezed through the cramped mid-terrace little house, its shoebox kitchen and the sliding doors into the garden.

"There," she said, pointing to a cluster of bushes beyond the tiny patch of grass.

He went out and looked, but there was only a hole in the ground. Not a very big hole either.

"Oh," said the blonde at his elbow. "Looks like next door's dog has been digging again. He must of took off with it."

Our dong-less hero followed the muddy paw prints to the crooked charity shop just the other side of the supermarket, where the dusty little old lady informed him she'd sold it already, to a man who ran the local fish and chip establishment.

"He seemed to need it," she said with a shrug.

When he arrived at the chippy, hot vinegar assaulting his nostrils, the owner was very apologetic and said he'd given it to another man who seemed to need it more.

Despair began to bloom, the fear that he might never get it back.

"Which way did he go?"

"That way," the owner pointed towards the town. "For the market, see. First Friday of the month."

He walked into town, gloom pinching his footsteps worse than bad shoes, and meandered around the market stalls, hardly daring to look-

There it was!

It was displayed proudly on a bright coloured cloth with various smoking paraphernalia. He had to pay the stall owner to get it back.

He nearly dropped his trousers and reattached it right there in the middle of the street, but instead he tucked it into an inside pocket, and jogged away.

Tears of relief glistened in his eyes. All things considered, he liked having a detachable one. It meant he could remove certain distractions when it wasn't convenient to be burdened with them. But he resolved to be much more careful, from now on, where he put it, and who he entrusted it to.

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Thank you for reading!

I thought this image was better, but I thought I should use the one that had tattoos on the legs.