"A Powerful and Moving Tale" by Tony Bryer

I don’t know what’s wrong with people who call a meeting for 4:00 on a Friday afternoon, but that’s exactly what Ross Fravell did. Furthermore, he gave us only a few hours notice, sending the meeting notice at 1:00 p.m. The meeting was to launch a new project, the KCX Telemetrix. Sounded like exciting stuff, huh? I mean, how much can one person yawn in the course of an hour? I didn’t know, either, but I was about to find out.

So now it’s four o’clock, right? And I saunter into the meeting room. Everybody’s already there. Great. There’s nowhere left to sit, either, except at the head of the table where everyone can stare at me. Wonderful. I plop my ass down into the chair and settle in for a long, looooong meeting. Long because it’s Friday afternoon and I want to get the hell out of there. It’s bad enough I have to work tomorrow, but having a four o’clock meeting is just rubbing salt into my raw wound.

I glanced around the table to see who all was there. There were test engineers, program managers, sourcing associates, line engineers, and even an agent from Corporate Travel who was probably in the wrong meeting, but she was pretty hot so no one minded at all. I was the sole quality representative so I steeled myself for a barrage of stupid questions and pined for the moment I could flee out the door to make a beeline to the nearest liquor store.

Ross cleared his throat. “Uh…” he said. A meeting that starts off with “uh” is bound to be a real corker, as my dad would say. “I’m sorry for the short notice,” Ross began.

“Yeah!” someone interjected. “You should be sorry for the time!”

Everyone laughed and Ross had the decency to turn red.

“I’m sorry for the short notice, and for the time,” Ross said and everyone laughed again.

I realized I was missing out on a corporate bonding moment and so I laughed, too. “HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!” I guffawed. Everyone looked at me. The hot chick from Corporate Travel looked frightened. I smiled at her. She averted her eyes and fumbled at her Covey planner.

And that’s when I noticed I could see her booby. The second button of her blouse had come undone and so it was gapping open. I could see it all. She wasn’t even wearing a bra. Her breast was long and pointed. The nipple was a dark plum color, as large and long as my thumb, thick and pendulous and dripping with a clear fluid. I licked my lips.

Ross cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “I just wanted to cover a few things before we go home.” I tuned him out. He probably wouldn’t need any input from me for another ten minutes or more. This gave me ample time to admire the travel chick’s booby and to play a few erotic fantasies in my head.

My Dockers were just starting to feel tight in the crotch when I realized everyone was laughing again. Not wanting to appear to have been daydreaming, I laughed too. “HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW!” I screamed. Ross jumped and the travel chick cringed.

One of the program managers was scandalized. “Tony…” he began, and that’s when my face exploded.

I felt these huge chitinous mandibles explode out of my jaw. It felt like a pair of arms depending from my chin. I could actually see them before me, two grasping pinching lobster-like mandibles snapping open and shut in front of me, ready to rend and tear and bite and chew. It felt wonderful. I remember thinking if sex could only be this good, I’d never get out of bed.

Ross fell out of his chair. The travel chick screamed. “Everybody stay calm,” I said. Or rather, that’s what I tried to say. What actually came out of my… my… Well, it wasn’t exactly a mouth. I don’t know what it was. It was a maw, I guess. There’s really no other way to describe it. So what actually came out of my maw was a thick buzzing sound, like a six-foot cicada on a drowsy August day.

Pandemonium erupted. You’ve all heard that phrase before. “Pandemonium erupted.” Until you’ve experienced it for yourself, you have no idea what pandemonium really is. Papers flew into the air. Chairs fell over. Bodies thumped to the carpet. People scrambled to get out of the room. I think someone farted. I stood from my chair. “Stop!” I shouted. Or rather, that’s what I tried to shout. Again, what came from my gaping maw was that thick buzzing sound.

Pandemonium continued to erupt. I’d had enough. I strode to the door and kicked it shut. “No one’s leaving here until I’m satisfied you can all keep a secret,” I said. Or rather, that’s what I tried to say. Fuck ‘em if they can’t understand me.

Ross cowered before me. “What are you going to do to us, Tony?” he asked, his hands clasped to his chest like a penitent begging shriving.

“I’m not going to do anything,” I tried to say and everyone screamed. The test engineer rushed me, a sourcing associate close behind. I stepped aside and a remarkable thing happened. My head snapped forward and my mandibles grabbed the engineer by his head. A quick jerk of my neck and the test engineer’s head crushed between my mandibles like a grape. My maw snapped open and the engineer’s brain disappeared down my throat with barely a gasp. The sensation was stupendous. Waves of pleasure washed over my body. My first orgasm was not even noteworthy compared to the cataclysm rocking the core of my being. I wanted more.

I snatched the sourcing associate by the neck and squeezed. A thick syrup washed down my throat. Goddamn, if ever anything better existed in Creation, a loving God kept it to Himself. The next few moments blended together in a frenzy of blurred color and waves of incredible pleasure wracking me to my toes.

When next I regained my senses, the room was empty. Not even a stray drop of blood had marred the expanse of sensibly colored carpet. My belly strained against my belt. My God, if I’d ever gorged myself more fully, I surely couldn’t remember it. I stifled a burp. The edges of my maw felt rough against the back of my hand. I grasped around my face. My mandibles were gone. Whatever forces had made them appear had subsequently made them disappear.

Ross’s laptop gaped open on the table. I sat at his chair and opened his e-mail account. Opening a new e-mail message, I typed, “Hey, everybody. Ross here. Seeing as how it’s Friday afternoon, I’m knocking off early. The meeting I had scheduled at 4:00 is postponed. Everybody have a great weekend, except Tony who has to work tomorrow! Ha ha, Ross.”

I clicked on “Send” and ran out of the room. I don’t know how this will play out. All I can do is thank God no one saw me running down the hall.


Tony Byrer drives a truck for a living. He lives in southern Indiana with his wife, three cats, and a dog. You can find him on facebook.

Prostrating outside the Jokhang Temple

Prayer Flags in Tibet

On the streets of Lhasa

I WAS YOUNG and NEEDED MONEY and FOR A FEW BUCKS I LET STRANGERS FINGER MY BUTT

"I WAS YOUNG and NEEDED MONEY and
FOR A FEW BUCKS I LET STRANGERS FINGER MY BUTT" by Doc Sigerson

The late eighties fell on me hard. After being fired from a gas station job for assaulting a customer, I scrounged for odd jobs to supplement the unemployment benefits, preferably those jobs in which the compensation would be “unreported”. To get by, I sold books culled from my own library, and I did get a part-time gig working for a retired rare book dealer who needed a dog’s body as he was limited in mobility, but the gig petered out when he started paying me in books instead of cash. I endured a one day affair as a walking chocolate chip cookie which involved a huge foam costume and handing out coupons for a free sample. A direct mail advertising venture failed to pan out. Then I saw an ad in the local alternative weekly newspaper for a medical school that needed nude models. They offered $15 per hour, which hitherto had been more than I had ever been paid. Hoping that they would work with any and all body types, I sent them a letter.

The Bastyr College, later to become Bastyr University, offered a four year course in naturopathic medicine. They hired a half dozen guys, five who worked frequently as artist’s models for life drawing classes at the nearby University of Washington - and me. Our purpose was to teach second year medical students to perform the male pelvic exam, mostly by being the body upon which they could take some practice pokes. We had a three hour orientation class followed by an physical examination where a doctor showed two guys at a time what a proper exam would feel like. He put extra pressure on my prostate gland so that I would be certain, unequivocally certain, mortally certain, through the fucking roof certain, that I would know exactly when the student’s forefinger would be pressing through the rectal wall upon my gland and not taking the spelunker’s tour. On the day of the live labs we sat in on the anatomy class with the students and found out that not every med student is the sharpest knife in the drawer, judging by some of the questions they asked.

I was concerned about the size of the audience I would entertain with my debut. The worst case scenario would have me standing mother naked on the stage of a vast lecture hall, seats filled to capacity with what passed for college students, the professor a white-haired man of advanced years welding a long tallywhacker of a pointer, intoning, “and this (thwack!) is the male genitalia!” Sure, I have had the usual young man’s share of exposure. The years spent in the public school system where communal showers are the norm for both gym classes and after school sports were spent without mishap, except for one hapless classmate who became aroused in the locker room surrounded by naked boys thereby becoming an object lesson for those uncertain of their own orientation. Interestingly, he is now a member of the so-called Tea Party, though I am not asserting a cause-and-effect relationship. In the army I was spared the notorious, and by then obsolete, “short arm inspection” whereby soldiers fell into formation on the parade ground wearing only boots and a raincoat which would be flung open when the medical officer passed by as he sought signs of dreaded venereal disease. The induction center, however, was the scene for a mass examination of fifty-or-so young men foolish enough to enlist. We queued up in two parallel lines facing each other, wearing nothing but skivvies and socks. On command, one line did an about face, while the doctor in center aisle went down the other line. Each recruit dropped his drawers while the doctor checked for hernia. Then that line did an about face, the doctor retracing his steps, checking this time for hemorrhoids as the recruits bent over, cheeks spread. The doctor repeated the procedure for the second line and all along no one’s privy parts were exposed to the gaze of his fellow recruits. What’s crazy, in retrospect, is that at no time did the doctor wear gloves as he examined all those privates of the soon-to-be privates.

In those years between 1977 and 1989 the world learned of A.I.D.S. and its halfwit brother, H.I.V. Gloves, either latex or vinyl, became paramount to the safe conduct of medical procedures and examinations. Gloving, de-gloving, and even double gloving were drummed into the heads of these students, becoming their mantra as they divided up into groups of four or five, each group led by an instructor or a proctor, that is, a savvy senior classman. The live labs were held in the school’s practicing clinic, not a classroom, and each of us models were assigned a real exam room.

There I stood in the unheated room - a thin hospital gown, white guy pale shins and black socks -when a group of four entered. Included in that first group was Native American girl from Eastern Washington, the part of the state which remains extremely rural and agro-centric. An inordinate amount of time she dwelt upon my testicles and sac. She lingered. The room grew quiet. When the instructor hinted that she should move on, the girl said that this was her first time examining male genitals other than her experience growing up on a cattle ranch where she assisted her father and brothers castrating the bulls every year. I happen to be a taurus, I said.

Next up was a doe-eyed laddie who rolled my penis between his thumb and finger as though he were appraising a fat postprandial cigar and assumed such an air of the true connoisseur that I was forced to suppress a shudder, turned my eyes to the clock above the door and I set my mind to digging up a childhood memory of when as a boy scout I had sculpted and slept in an snow cave in one of the several gigantic glaciers on Mount Rainier during the coldest winter night of the year. I repeated to myself the bank robber’s advice to stay calm and no one gets hurt. Also I kept my gaze fixed on the clock as the young man seemed eager to make what I shall charitably call “inappropriate” eye contact.

The second year there was a new mom in the group who was nursing her newborn baby quite openly with her full breast exposed and right in front of me as I was being examined. While this was not exactly an erotic situation, anytime I start getting my buttons pushed there is sure to be a reaction. No noticeable twitching, let alone a full blown raging hard-on, but I did start leaking. Ah, dear me. The instructor told the class that a clear discharge was common but a discolored discharge would be cause for concern. Not just my body, but my bodily functions were now on view and a subject fit for group discussion. Ah, dear me. Then the new-age-in-your-face mommy half-joked that her lab report would be pasted into the child’s baby book as the her first pelvic exam, the very first step on the child’s future medical career. The tike was asleep, blissfully oblivious and made not a sound - not a gurgle, not a burp, not a tiny baby fart. The baby and I were both there, but only one of us had been marked for life.

In the third year I encountered the Wesley Crusher of Alternative Medicine, a young overly earnest baby-faced fellow who couldn’t wait to jump into the captain’s chair and take command. Part of the male pelvic exam is checking the inguinal canal for signs of hernia. This is done by using a finger to trace back the spermatic cord from the testicle and invaginating, that is, turning inside out, the scrotum until the finger reaches a triangular shaped opening in the corner of the groin. This is the inguinal canal whence the testicle descended during puberty. A finger is placed over the opening, the patient is asked to turn his head and cough. The coughing causes the diaphragm to put pressure on the bowel and if there is a hernia, that is, a break or breach in the bowel wall, then quite often the hernia can be detected by the finger as the bowel pushes out through the canal. If the doctor’s finger is small enough, and most female doctors have petite fingers, then the finger can actually intrude up into the inguinal canal which is a more reliable check. Believe me, that is a feeling quite unlike any other. So Ensign Crusher thinks he feels the bowel protruding on my right side and jumps into a spiel as to how I should proceed in naturopothic treatment and how he would be willing to see me in clinic and .... The instructor cut him short, reminding him that I have my own medical plan and that there is no naturopathic treatment for hernia. After the class, the instructor checked me herself and confirmed that I probably had a right inguinal hernia and that I should consult a surgeon.

I did this job every May for three years and I had continued even after I was employed full time and no longer needed the money because I felt that helping to train doctors to detect cancer was a worthwhile and important pursuit. After the third year, the school gave up the program because of the expense and instead the students practiced on each other. For a few years thereafter, I included the job title “Teaching Assistant at a Medical School” on my resume and I even tried to impress young ladies by telling them that I had taught medical students to perform pelvic exams.

The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry - by Frankie Metro

Crisis Chronicles Press is pleased to announce the publication of Frankie Metro's The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry, a 42-page chapbook including several illustrations by the author. Published 6 June 2012, The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry is now available for $7 (includes postage) from Crisis Chronicles Press, 420 Cleveland Street, Elyria, Ohio 44035.

Frankie Metro might fuck goats and transsexual Korean karaoke singers, but he also writes some cool shit. Support this motherfucker and buy (or steal) his book.

A Classic Reading @ the Paraclete Center w/ Pantifesto's Porntastic Phunhouse

Raid a morgue for poetry.

Have an orgy with
the Beats.

Be sure to invite
the little boys
for the ones
who are into that
sort of thing.