The Organ

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 24, 2016

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Submitted: September 24, 2016

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Lately I have come to despise my reproductive organ. 

Every time I see it, I am repulsed by its shape and the way it just hangs there, flaccid, useless, as if it's something foreign installed onto my body by an outsider. I cannot reconcile with it. I fail to understand its motive. It torments me when I resist and taunts me when I indulge. Yet that is all it wants, the moment's pleasure. When that moment is over and done with, it takes a break only to resurface, demanding new methods of satisfaction with which I am unfamiliar. This...organ, this wretched worm that doesn't seem to even belong to me, dictates much of the decisions I make in life. Whenever I am alone I play with it. Whenever I'm with a girl I want HER to play with it. If they have a hot body I am in shambles. They can tell me to clean their feet, and I will comply just to feel their wet cunts. That's what makes the organ happy. Then, if the girl asks me to do other things, no matter how degrading, I will do it so long as I know I get to fuck their wet holes after. My will has retired, thinks I'm beyond saving. I am a civilized man with primeval thoughts, and no matter how much I try to expand my mind, it is my organ that in the end does the thinking for me. Perhaps, then, I was wrong in underestimating the power of the male organ, thinking that I could merely flick a finger and somehow exercise my will over it, suppress it, whereas now I feel as though this same organ will bring about my demise. So then more hours go by in despair as I stare at my organ, now horny and demanding wet holes, and I am reminded of how I have climb into an empty bed. I feel sad then reproach myself for feeling sad. It's no longer about love, it's become more about fucking itself, that magical release I so desperately long for. It is the will of my organ that matters most, and if this battle is futile, if my organ has already won, then maybe I should stop fighting and give in to its every demand. Just close my eyes and ears and devote myself to the organ. Maybe then I would feel less ashamed, more connected with my own centre, able to come to terms with what it is that l truly look for in my relationships, which always tends to be sex. Yes, I will most likely push people away and end up living alone, but it doesn't matter because to my organ, the pleasure of fucking a girl's cunt is the only goal a man must strive towards. 
Then it hits me. 
All this philosophical jibber-jabber could be stopped if I eliminate the root of the problem, the organ itself! This thought immediately appeals to me. I run downstairs to where the kitchen is, open a drawer, and pull out the kitchen knife. It's sharp and ready. There's also other appliances around that could come in handy, but for now I will start with the knife, maybe test it a little bit to see how the metal feels against my organ's skin. 
Right before I lower the knife, however, I see my own reflection in the metal, distorted and distraught. But something peculiar catches my eyes. I squint and look closer, only to realize that my head is beginning to transform into the shape of a penis, which leads me to bring the knife closer to my throat instead, ready to eliminate the cause of all this pain. 

I smile and close my eyes. I will no longer despise my reproductive organ. 


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