Yeah, that’s right—I’m a dick, a rod, a cock, a dorkle, a prick, a pecker, a pole, a sword, a trouser-snake, a joystick—the old one-eyed, purple-headed monster. And I’m telling it like it is, here at the center of the universe, right in the middle of the BVD’s. Hell, they got the Vagina Monologues; I figured it was only fair to me to have a say. Nobody thinks I’ve got much on my mind except a good fuck. But nobody would be wrong. Contrary to popular opinion, I got a lot to talk about; I’d like to see you try to stop me.
First, you got to understand a few things. Me and him—you know, the dude I’m attached to—sometimes we’re connected and sometimes, well, we ain’t. I see the same stuff he sees, but I go my own way and he goes his. It’s weird, I know. But hey, not my design.
Name’s Old Faithful. His woman gave me that title years ago, at least that’s what she told him the other night while she was trying to make him feel better about Their Problem. Said she could always count on me, depended on me really. He never called me much of nothing except Big Buddy. Every once in a while, he’d shout my full name, though—Great God Almighty! I don’t blame him for not addressing me with the whole shebang all the time—that’s a big name to spew out every time he talked to me. And he does yak. He’s like a super cheerleader or something. “Come on, Big Buddy! Get going, Big Buddy!” All that talking and thinking hard can get on a pecker’s nerves.
She’s been talk, talk, talking to him all the damn time—no wonder I’m having a problem. Told him having me around gave her a sense of power; she knew she could bring me to life whenever she wanted—at least, that was the way I used to work. Poor thing. She told him she still needed that power, especially now that her internal clock had changed and she could no longer count the gray in her hair—just too much of it. Then she started tearing up, her eyes filling and overrunning down her face. How the hell can I do what I’m supposed to when she’s all smeary with crying? I mean, I ain’t exactly young myself and she’s putting the pressure on me big-time.
I remembered then how she used to coax me along sometimes. Oh, I always like her coaxing. Sometimes, she’d cover me with food—syrup, honey, cream, even sugar. I wasn’t too crazy about the sugar but in the end, she made everything fine.
He’s a damn fool, though. Won’t talk to her about me. Refuses to explain how I’ve changed, how I can’t rise to the occasion the way I once did, since he hurt his back three summers ago painting the house. Fell off the ladder, wouldn’t you know it. Busted up a bunch of disks. Since then, he doesn’t talk to her much. And when she comes to him smelling all lemony like heavy flowers in August, he tells her he’s tired. Or turns away from her like he doesn’t care what she smells like.