the anatomically correct penis

During the mathematics course that ran through the final two years of my secondary schooling I drew a remarkably lifelike penis in a state of erection upon the desk I used with some regularity. It began as a pencil etching cast in little but boredom but was soon emboldened with ballpoint ink. I then added further precise details to the penis over time, veins, hairs, a convincing hemispherical curvature about the base of the glans, until the representation was notable both for its authenticity and for its conspicuousness. Neither my fellow students nor the facilities staff made any attempt to remove the penis throughout those final two years and, despite its presence on one of the bank of desks that bordered the teachers own and its proximity to my own person, not to mention the lesson-based time commitment that my frequent addenda represented, no comment was ever passed in reference to the penis (in fact the teacher was, I am sure now, either a drunk or completely mad, leering about the desks with red cheeks and slapping a metre ruler against the flat surface of his briefcase at sporadic unannounced intervals throughout the lessons, his mood volatile and often fierce, his infrequent school reports a jumble of insult and random aphorism). It was amongst my finest work as an artist and the cause of much joy amongst my immediate mathematical circle (little Denis, tall Pete, fat Dan and others, the monikers of memory!), and we sniggered at the anatomical precision of its network of veins, the sole product of personal recollection of my own organs structural appearance.

In one particular lesson I came to my desk – with little enthusiasm for the lesson but some for the penis – to find text written beneath it in a precise and apparently feminine script. It simply, dully said “Hello?”. Like a shit Ouija board I wrote my response as follows: “This is 'Mr X'”. I know, it’s terrible, absolutely terrible, excruciating even to think about, but I was young and fundamentally pure, despite regular wanking into balled crusty t-shirts that I stuffed beneath my bed, and I had consulted with my circle on an appropriate nom-de-plume for my illicit extracurricular activities. With it there began a lengthy correspondence between me (and my immediate mathematical circle) and this writer of unknown specifics, who claimed to be of female origin and in the year below my own, though any details beyond that are forgotten to me now. The narrative spiralled immeasurably around the penis that bore it, the table smothered in this staccato exchange, great lags between responses as we awaited next lessons with baited breath. Eventually, inevitably, with only a precise sketch of a penis to bind us but bind us it did, an arrangement was made to meet in some courtyard one lunchtime, her and I, a rendezvous I had no intention of keeping (as I’m sure she didn’t herself) but which I had intended to view from afar, my curiosity piqued to levels equating to incredible sexual arousal. In fact I was too cowardly for even this lurking and detached observation, assuming that the (possible) girl and her hoard of giggling friends would be undertaking the exact same methods to identify their perverse seducer and do so on sight from little but the quite futile aura of a man who draws accurate penises (and not the crude bulbous ejaculating scrawls of most moronic graffiti) on school desks, the same aura that has haunted me to this day, perhaps with policemen or parents or senior faculty in tow to impart grave justice upon the pathetic groomer I had over the weeks and months inadvertently become. I stayed well away, leaving the penis and its surrounding narrative susceptible to the erosive wear-and-tear of so many notebooks, a fading monolith to be unearthed and excavated by some future twat like me.