The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement Read online

  The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement

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  More Science Fiction E-books by Robert T. Jeschonek

  Battlenaut Crucible, A Novel

  Beware the Black Battlenaut

  Day 9, A Novel

  Give The Hippo What He Wants

  Lenin of the Stars

  Messiah 2.0

  My Cannibal Lover

  Off The Face Of The Earth

  One Awake In All The World

  Playing Doctor

  Scifi Motherlode

  Serial Killer vs. E-Merica

  Something Borrowed, Something Doomed

  Star Sex

  Teacher of the Century

  The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe

  The Love Quest of Smidgen the Snack Cake

  The Shrooms of Benares

  Tijuana, Massachusetts

  Universal Language, A Novella

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  The Secret of the Ultimate Male Enhancement

  So The Idiot--I call him The Idiot--strips down for the big debut, the moment he's been waiting for since I came into his life...and sure enough, his newfound ladyfriend, Bye Bye, can't stop staring at me. Her eyes are big as snowballs, and she won't look away, which makes me feel pretty good...and makes The Idiot feel like the manliest man who ever lived, which of course is exactly what he wanted.

  And then, can you believe it, Bye Bye actually sits there on the bed, naked as Lady Godiva, and applauds.

  Because I'm the biggest she's ever seen.

  Now, at first, like I said, I enjoy the attention. I get a little excited, which makes her clap even harder.

  That sends The Idiot into high gear. His heart races, pumping blood and testosterone through his body...and into me, since we're connected. He steps forward, pushing me toward Bye Bye, expecting big fun to ensue.

  But guess what? I've got a little talent he didn't count on, something he didn't read about in the spam-mail advertisement that changed our relationship forever.

  I've got a mind of my own.

  And I don't care for Bye Bye, who after all has seen a lot of action in her life and could be carrying who knows how many diseases...so I refuse to rise to the occasion, which if I did would be somewhere in the vicinity of his chin.

  He tries everything to make me respond, and so does she, but I don't have to participate if I don't want to...not anymore. So I don't.

  It's pretty funny, really, the lengths they go to to get me to cooperate, but I stay loose. Not just because Bye Bye's hardly my kind of girl...but because I've got a secret.

  You heard me. A secret.

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  The next thing The Idiot does, naturally, is try to contact the fly-by-night so-called company that sold him the kit that made me what I am...but SURPRISE, he can't find a trace of Horse Dreams, Inc. He e-mails HDI, but nobody's home, and when he gets a hacker buddy of his to track them over the web, the maze of false e-mail addresses, offshore computers, and infinitely regressing IP addresses leads absolutely nowhere.

  So we go to see a shrink, which I think is ironic.

  Three weeks, six sessions, and eight hundred dollars later, he's still out of luck. The shrink, Dr. Java Gibbons, works him through one childhood or adolescent trauma after another, and I still won't jump when The Idiot drags me out for Bye Bye or any of the other treats he picks up at the Bait and Tackle.

  He just doesn't understand me. It's so frustrating.

  If I could talk, I'd spell it out for him, but that's the one thing I can't do. I'm the product of the most advanced male enhancement science known to mankind, you better believe it, but when it comes to speech, I might as well be a cucumber.

  Which is a shame, because there are a lot of questions I'd like to ask The Idiot. Like, how does it feel to be dumber than your enhanced member?

  Enquiring minds want to know.

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  I think what really sends him around the bend is when I won't participate in his solo performances at home. He actually starts hollering at me and cursing me out as if I can hear and understand him. (Which I can, but he doesn't know that...so I think it's pretty pathetic.)

  But the videos he watches and the photos he looks at do nothing for me. They were fine before my transformation, when I had no control over myself, but now the cheesy sets and ludicrous dialogue leave me cold.

  I won't work up a sweat for that crap, no matter how much he knocks me around. Forget it, Idiot.

  Unfortunately, the more I hold back, the more obsessed he becomes with me. The harder he works at ending my slump.

  Oh, how I wish I could tell him to LEAVE ME ALONE.

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  Somehow, The Idiot talks two women into meeting me at the same time, but that doesn't work. He pays a woman who claims she can work miracles in the bedroom, and guess how that turns out?

  It's a waste, because thanks to my enhancement, I'm no slouch in the miracle department myself. Even The Idiot doesn't know everything I can do.

  Lengthening is the least of my abilities. I can also change shape in any number of ways, altering my girth and texture to suit my surroundings, if you know what I mean. I can twist and flex and vibrate, heat up or cool down, change colors and glow in the dark, emit flavors and fragrances ranging from chocolate to newly minted money.

  And when it comes to control, look out.

  All thanks to the wonders of nanotechnology. Five million microscopic robots converting a shortcoming into a showstopper, building what must have seemed like the Great Pyramid of Giza from their point of view. They gave me power and mind and memory and dreams, though I'm never sure if the end result is what they intended.

  The only thing they screwed up, other than not giving me a voice, was leaving me attached to The Idiot. I feel like a rose growing from a roadkill. My shape-changing, unfortunately, does not extend to separation and making myself ambulatory.

  I know because I've tried. Over and over and over again.

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  Stuck in place as I am, I'm forced to endure his moronic attempts to exploit me. The handling never ends; the application of lubricants is excessive and sickening.

  He tries a variety of preposterous toys and devices, but they all let him down. He dines on a grab-bag of pills and potions, but nothing gets a rise out of me.

  Then there's the incident with the noose. Let's just say it leaves him at the end of his rope.

  Finally, though, The Idiot has a breakthrough...and immediately wishes he hadn't. After all the inane attempts to coax me to life, he finally chances upon something that will make me sit up and take notice.

  Just when things are looking more hopeless than ever, he discovers my secret. And it's a doozy.

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  He's walking down the street one afternoon on his way to a doctor's office (where he's going to look into

  de-enhancement options) when he catches sight of a billboard featuring one of those underwear models. Thirty feet high, wearing nothing but underpants and a pout.

  And for the first time since the New Me entered the picture, The Idiot feels something happening. All of a sudden, the bear market turns bullish. Winter turns to Spring. Somebody rings the doorbell.

  Ding dong.

  But is he happy? You'd think so, wouldn't you? After all that effort and disappointment, he gets more than a blip at the polls, he gets a landslide, he gets a result so overwhelming he has trouble walking and draws attention from passers-by.

  There's just one little problem, one glitch that keeps him from crying out with joy and rushing off down an alley to exercise his restored virility.

  The model on the billboa
rd is a man.

  And ever since my transformation, I have been gay. So the secret is out, and so am I.

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  At first, surprise surprise, he refuses to believe it, but a few simple experiments confirm the truth.

  Look at a picture of a sexy woman: no response.

  Look at a picture of a sexy man: hello, sailor.

  This leaves us with a quandary. By no stretch of the imagination can The Idiot be considered even a fringe associate of gaydom. His brain, as one-track as it is, will not expand its preoccupation with physical intimacy to include the male of the species. The very thought of it gives him a high grade case of the heebie jeebies.

  I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with women. I don't know if I was designed this way, if my creator planned my orientation (and if he or she did, was it with an eye toward conversion or pranksterism?) or if it was simply a happy accident...but I won't change my stripes (figuratively speaking, though I am quite capable of displaying stripes as well as polka dots or any number of patterns).

  So what are we to do?

  The idea of de-enhancement surgery's looking better than ever to him, but he's a big baby who can't even stand to get a shot. Maybe he'll beat the fear factor, though, if his only other options are switching teams or staying on the bench for the rest of his life.

  I've already made my opinion clear, but my future is in The Idiot's hands. I don't know what he's going to do next, and it's making me crazy. I think he could go either way.

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  Desperate to resolve our dilemma, The Idiot explores what for him is some pretty wild territory. If he pulls the wool over my eyes, he figures, or pulls the wool over his own eyes, maybe he can come up with a compromise we can both live with.

  He tries a woman who looks like a man, but my downturn continues. He tries a man who looks like a woman, and that really perks me up...but The Idiot can't switch off his squeamishness and cut me some slack.

  Then there's this orgy we go to, where maybe he figures there'll be something for both of us...but we're like two drunk guys in a donkey costume, the head and the ass always moving in different directions, never getting anywhere.

  So we never make it past square one. It starts to look as if we never will.

  Out of ideas, he frets and agonizes for days, complaining about how he's caught between a rock and a hard place. (What about MY feelings, huh?) He stops manhandling me, which is great, and just sits around naked and stares at me for hours, which creeps me out.

  Finally, he announces that he has made up his mind. He has decided that surgical de-enhancement is the lesser evil (as if giving me what I want would be a fate worse than surgery on his member).

  He makes an appointment for a week from Friday, which means my clock is ticking like Big Ben. If I don't do something fast, it'll be snippity-doo-da for the ultimate male enhancement, back to being mindless and powerless...or worse, with just enough mind left over to remember what I used to be and can never be again.

  I don't care what it takes, I just won't swing that way. I REFUSE to take this lying down.

  I come up with a plan.

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  The day of the surgery, I kill someone.

  I know, I know, it's wrong...but the way I see it, it's either her or me. Kill or be killed.

  So we're all in the hospital elevator, going up, and I gather all my strength and just BURST myself free, and I stretch and I wrap and I TIGHTEN and down she goes. Then, DING, the doors pop open and I won't let go and you should see the LOOKS on the faces of the people who are waiting to get on board.

  I think it's safe to say they'll never forget me.

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  One Trial of the Century later, The Idiot and I go to prison, where believe me we're welcomed with open arms.

  And from that moment on, I'm in paradise. If I could pinch myself to see if I'm dreaming, I would do so on an hourly basis.

  The Idiot's pretty miserable, going against his grain like this, and he tries to play keepaway with yours truly...but the guys in here won't take "no" for an answer. Given my size and abilities, we're in constant demand.

  As much as I despise The Idiot, sometimes I wish I could get him to relax and enjoy our new life. Stop and smell the convicts. He's a cellblock celebrity, after all, thanks to me.

  "Lighten up," I'd tell him if I could talk. "Things could be worse.

  "At least, for once in your loser lifetime, you're always guaranteed to come out on top."

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  About the Author

  Robert T. Jeschonek is an award-winning writer whose fiction, comics, essays, articles, and podcasts have been published around the world. His young adult urban fantasy novel, My Favorite Band Does Not Exist, won the Forward National Literature Award and was named one of Booklist’s Top Ten First Novels for Youth. Simon & Schuster, DAW/Penguin Books, and DC Comics have published his work. He won the grand prize in Pocket Books' nationwide Strange New Worlds contest and was nominated for the British Fantasy Award. Visit him online at www.thefictioneer.com. You can also find him on Facebook and follow him as @TheFictioneer on Twitter.

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  Special Preview: Dick by Law

  Another Twisted Comedy

  From Robert T. Jeschonek

  Now On Sale

  Tucker County Courthouse

  Melville, Pennsylvania, 9:31 a.m.

  "You guys have made my day!" Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's rich, resonant voice boomed from the judge's bench in the vast main courtroom of the Tucker County courthouse. "Thank you for this!"

  Simon Bellerophon, who was sitting at the plaintiff's table near the front of the courtroom, smiled. The happier the judge, the better, right?

  Then why wasn't Simon's lawyer smiling, too?

  Simon frowned as he looked up at Quinn Keegan, his attorney. Quinn was standing beside him, eyes fixed on the judge, face unreadable. He was doing a great job of keeping his feelings under wraps, hiding them even from Simon, who knew him better than anyone.

  Because Quinn, after all, was his foster brother. Who better to help launch his mad quest for revenge?

  "Your Honor?" Quinn's flinty brown features were silhouetted in the sunlight streaming in from the big arched windows ringing the courtroom walls. Swirling dust formed a halo in the multicolored shaft from the stained glass dome in the cupola overhead.

  Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled and flapped a sheet of paper in the air. The crackling flap echoed through the giant, ornate courtroom, which was a remnant of the county's long-gone glory days. Tucker County had been a booming place twenty years ago, before the steel companies had pulled out of Melville, the big-money heart of the region, and shut down all the mills. "You do know this is a first-of-its-kind lawsuit, don't you?"

  "Yes, your honor." Quinn spoke gracefully, as he always did in court...or anywhere else, for that matter.

  "Well, thank you for cutting through the boredom!" Judge Bartlebaugh ran a hand up over his smooth, bare scalp and down the back of his silver fringe of hair. "So what's the gist of your argument?"

  "We see this as a case of truth in advertising," said Quinn. "Dangers to society should be labeled as such."

  Simon straightened in his chair, heart pounding as his brother made the case. There they were, going into battle side by side, kicking ass and taking names.

  And the enemy himself sat thirty feet away.

  Leaning back in his chair, Simon looked across the courtroom at the defense table. The enemy's enormous, beer-bellied attorney, Delroy Swope, blocked the view...all three hundred ice-cream-suited pounds of him.

  As Simon watched, the enemy himself leaned back and met his gaze. With his curly black hair, ruddy, pockmarked face, and wild eyes, he l
ooked like a crazed pirate or a member of the Manson family. His glare caught Simon like hot metal catching skin, radiating waves of pure cherry-red fury. He silently mouthed two unmistakable words in Simon's direction: Fuck you.

  Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Horne Shaw, so-called claims adjustor for the 5G5 delivery company.

  Just then, Judge Jonah Bartlebaugh's voice snapped Simon's attention back to the front of the courtroom. "Oh, this is good." He chuckled as he stroked his impeccably trimmed silver mustache and beard with his thumb and forefinger. "How can you not love this case?"

  Swope waved his thick arms and shook his head. "First of all, it's pure defamation, Your Honor..."

  "The question was rhetorical." Judge Bartlebaugh chuckled. "But hey, great reaction time!"

  Without another word, Swope dropped into his chair.

  "Mr. Fluff-and-Fold!" Suddenly, Judge Bartlebaugh swung his gaze back to Simon. "This started over a washing machine, right?"

  "Yes, Your Honor," said Simon.

  "So what if Strayer-Roland gives you a new washing machine?" said Judge Bartlebaugh. "Could we make this case go away?"