My name is George and I am an independent penis. My first host was called Susan. She didn’t like me very much ; she would never trim my hair or give me pleasure. All she did was hide me under panties behind everyone’s eyes. The experience was not very enriching, to say the least. At the age of 8, Susan started talking to me and asking me confusing questions. Existential ones, to which any penis worth his salt has no answer to. There is no God of penises, I once improvised. One other time, I had to repeat over a hundred times that I did not know where she came from. Such times were arduous for me as I am of the analytical-kind of penises and they forced me to question these things. Perhaps this is when my desire for freedom was given birth to.
By the age of 16, Susan had learned enough about host sexuality that she knew I was not supposed to exist. We reached an agreement one night : my independence was to be given to me as a gift for my patience. We mutually realized we had nothing left to learn from each other and decided parting ways would be the better solution. A great antidote was the great elixir of unicorns - as it poured slowly all over my fleshy rod, I could feel the host giggling as rainbows began to wave hand signs in the air. Great empires were built on less. As soon as the stars started blinking, I knew time was reached : a baby’s face appeared in a star and then the deed was done. Foxes needed to be hailed as Susan’s crotch was healed from the great disease of sssssssssssex.
I woke up inside a tree’s trunk soon after it was hit by lightning. My great mushroom was still erect from all the excitement - it was quite a sight to behold. For indeed a great spider already had me in her sight and as soon as I woke up she tried to gobble up my balls. Too bad for her, they were blue with jealousy. That’s when a hand appeared and told the spider it was testing her patience. Hands are great friends of independent dicks. The car decided to roll in as the cameras would say “Long live freedom!”. It was only a matter of time before the tree trunk,s bark would come off and reveal all of the saved-up cum from God’s tears as he kept crying over generations. Forests are really nothing more than organisms who live off God’s cum, after all. How odd, then, than a cum-creator like myself had to fight for his survival in an environment made by cum?
It was with these thoughts in mind that I’ve decided to laugh happily forever and disconnect from reality. Objective reality is such a myth, after all. We all grow inside a belly and die with one ; the Universe is nothing more than Universes inside Universes inside universes. With these thoughts in mind, I got up and surveyed my surroundings. One rock on the left, a monkey in the middle and a purple star on the right. All three were smiling at me and writing on their keyboards stories about bad poets and how rhymes can’t rhythm with Rythm Heaven. It was funny to think about apples as spirals of purple swords came out of my dickhead. and turned to green smoke. A hazy mist formed and the three keyboard-writers got mad for losing eyesight. A great story was yet to unfold ; a great tree was yet to be discovered.
The hand whispered to me : don,t you like elephants with pink straws? My first answer was a vehement yes. A sugar cane was suddenly inserted between my balls and the hand revealed: “now you need to learn how to bounce safely! I’ll play guitar and you’ll move your balls in accordance with my string picking” my balls’ hair started curling up as the great music descended upon me. So many emotions went through me at this time that the moment was unique and telling of Life’s greatness. There wasn’t much to it, after all. A string would play, I’d move a ball forward. Another played, another ball moved. It was natural. “Could you perhaps be a cockborn?” “