Moby Quim

An offering for the

2023 Halloween Contest

.

****

"I have a passion for pudenda," said LaMonte, staring me straight in the face.

We were sitting in the living room of his third floor flat in Somerville, the Charles River off in the distance with Boston beyond. A chill October breeze rattled the window as he reached for his beer glass.

"You using the singular or the plural?" I cocked an eyebrow.

LaMonte shot me an annoyed look, his big brown eyes level and impatient in that long Jamaican-heritage face.

"You know Latin's not my strong suit, Kumar. You messin' with me? Spanish or German, even Russian I can do, but never did Latin. It's just how I've heard it said."

"What kind of linguist doesn't know a bit of Latin? I still want to know, singular or plural?"

"Plural. One is never enough."

"Even if you have the right one? Attached to the right person? A lifelong endeavor? Perpetual pudenda? I don't see anything wrong with that."

"

Pudenda

plural,

pudendum

singular," I continued, "although note the 'neuter' gender of the word. Lot of these ancient grammar rules defy logic. Neuter for a feminine attribute?"

LaMonte looked at me as if I were a pedant, which of course I was.

LaMonte and I had been arguing, with no appreciable effect on each other, since our days as grad school roommates. Ten years hadn't dimmed the verbal sparring even though our roommate era had ended long ago. I was over visiting on a free Friday night, as it sounded like he had plans for us later in the month.

He exhaled. "No, I misspoke. Singular. A singularity of sex. A single source of pleasure. A uniqueness so individual that I have been driven to distraction for nearly as long as I've known you. You know that well enough."

"Okay, I confess. I was messing with you. It's always plural. Even for the singular woman. But I get your meaning. You thinking about that girl again?"

Halloween was always a fraught time for my buddy. He had tailed a girl, what, almost ten years ago? We'd only been roommates for about a couple months then. The party had been a costume affair hosted by a fellow linguistics doctoral student and LaMonte had never gotten over the event. There's something about Halloween and adults dressing up that tends to lead to excitement of one sort or another.

"I'm on a mission, man. You know it's that time of year."

"Halloween? Right. Don't tell me you're still trying to find that woman?"

"That woman!" Both eyebrows went way up. "Not just 'that woman' but the one who granted me the most divine copulation, the one whose great white quim squeezed my member with such abandon..."

I snorted. "And pushed you off before you finished, barely in time for you to shower her belly with sperm."

He looked pained. "Exactly. A great regret. But not my greatest regret..."

"Right. You didn't even get her name. I still don't know how you managed to hook up with her in that upstairs room. How'd you ever manage to get that intimate? Without any preliminaries?"

"I have absolutely no idea. The night was a blur until that point. We must have been talking, and I don't even know about what."

"Because your attention had been focused, one pointedly I might add, entirely on her cleavage."

"She was dressed as Catherine the Great, man. In one of those regency dresses. Pale silvery tan if I remember right. Breasts pushed up and together in that tight top, bare shoulders, hair swept up so you could see her inviting, soft white neck. Even had one of those masks over her eyes that you held in place with a stick. Period perfect. Such a heavenly, inviting cleavage valley her costume created..."

"I had taken her to be Marie Antoinette, how did you know she was Catherine?"

"I must have asked. I don't remember, I just know." His eyes went off in the distance.

"You know the legend of how Catherine died?"

"Yep. One randy royal wench."

"It's not true. One of those myths. It did not involve a horse or anything like that."

"All I know is I want to find that girl again. If it is the last thing I do."

"You been kicking yourself forever. I can't believe you're still looking for her."

"It was a complex night, man. That masked ball at Jon Stubb's place. Our little adventure got truncated when our amorous embrace got interrupted by a couple other folks, looking for a private room for their own wanton dalliance."

"And she slipped away. Before you could get her name."

"Don't remind me, Cumar."

This was always his way to get a dig into me. My first name with its Kerala origins was mispronounced astonishingly often in North America, usually by older white guys reading the attendance roster at the beginning of class. "Kumar Kama" they'd read, but instead of 'COO-mar' they'd say 'CUM-are.' I would always patiently correct the instructor, but it didn't always take. I confessed this peeve to LaMonte once and regretted it forever since. Whenever he wanted to needle me he called me 'Cumar' or sometimes, even more annoyingly, shorten it to 'Cum.'

But LaMonte went back to his memories.

"God she was gorgeous. Long taffy-colored hair done up, sweet soft belly, hefty thighs. I had to pull that dress and all those petticoats up to get to her quim. But she was period perfect there too, no knickers in the way, just that darkly furred triangle of trouble to beckon me, goad my lust into impossible dimensions."

"Looked nice when semen slicked, I grant you that."

I had been in the room when he tailed her, the first and only time I ever witnessed his penis erect and out for a ride. It is always a bit unnerving to witness a copulation, and at that point I barely knew LaMonte. I got a pretty good look at the proceedings, her dress thrown up over her head, his dark brown body pressing lovely on her white skin, his sperm, after she had rather rudely yanked him out, spurting out over the expanse of a sweet, smooth, pale belly. The look on his face when he climaxed, his surprise at the unexpected ejection from her nethers.

"And the grip that quim had, I tell you, there's never been another like it."

Events had gone quite south immediately, however. We were interrupted, got separated in some confusion and LaMonte spent the next half an hour in the house, going from room to room, desperately trying to find the wench of his dreams, but she had vanished.

"So haven't you tried some basic detective work? Asked Stubbs if he knew her?"

"Don't you think I haven't exhausted every angle? Sure, Stubbs first, then every damn person I knew at that party. Don't think I haven't tried every approach?"

"But she wasn't at his Halloween party the next year. Or the year after. I've taken to going to every party with any possible connection, sometimes three a night. All I know is that she's luscious, likes to fuck, and attends Halloween parties."

"Maybe she's left town? Bet all the money in my wallet she's not looking for you."

Another withering look. "Doesn't matter if she is or isn't. I am after her. My over-educated, over-trained, hopelessly focused mind cannot accept the notion she isn't still around. A quim like hers cannot possibly stay empty for long, and she needs me more than she can ever suspect. I will find her, and fornicate with her again, at least once, if it is the last thing I do."

"I think your odds are exactly zero. So she let you put your organ of degeneration up her. I bet she likes sex. Maybe a lot. But her head was covered by that upswept dress! She wasn't even looking at you when you tailed her. And she pulled you off before your spawn even entered her."

"Lots of reasons for that. I can think of three at least. Birth control. STDs. She likes to see semen out in the open?"

"But she couldn't with her dress pulled up like that. Did she like you? No way to tell, and if she did she'd be looking to find your name and location. She's a big white girl, likely high status."

"She dug it man, I know it."

We stared at each other.

LaMonte had done linguistics at MIT while I finished my English degree. He does computational linguistics now, at a large company which I neither like nor will name, with an office here in Boston. Making way more money than I, a humble editor for a local law journal. But we were each doing what we'd been educated to do, nothing wrong with that.

LaMonte went back to wording again.

"Do you regard 'pudenda' as a collective noun?"

"Depends. You thinking linguistically or functionally?"

"What I really want is

cuntius grippius.

Did I get the grammar right? Noun/adjective agreement?"

"You'd better stick to pig-Latin, LaMonte. Neither one of those is a real word, never mind the case endings or anything."

"When it comes to cunt, I am race-blind Kumar. I just want grip. Give me a woman with a woke cunt, one who squeezes me like a python, and I will be putty in her hands."

"Or mouth. Or anywhere, far as I can tell. Look, LaMonte, it seems to me your phallocentric worldview has some intrinsic deficiencies."

"All I'm saying is that that girl got me in her grasp like no other. I was dying, dying man, to pump my sperm home but she pulled me off. She's a hot-cunted one, I tell you. The sight of my sperm, my spermaceti, coating her belly, the sheer delight she took in coaxing my semen forth, that is worth a long and hard search."

"Hard search indeed. Though you got a good song title in there, bro. 'Here's some spermaceti, coating your sweet belly/ Gonna make you mine, gonna make you come.' I'll have to work up the rest of the tune on my guitar, see how it sounds."

"Phallocentric, eh?" He sneered. "You think that's all I think about?"

"Not one hundred percent. Maybe ninety."

"So Cumar, you're telling me when you got an erection sitting between your legs you aren't phallocentric yourself?"

"Of course. What male isn't? But it's what's going to happen to that erection next, that's the deal. But you're one of those addictive personalities, LaMonte, luckily not literally, since you stay away from anything stronger than a good Cabernet or IPA. But obsessive? Absolutely."

LaMonte stood up. There was no doubt he was indeed in the grip of his own erection moment.

"You know nautical life much, Kumar? Boats, ships, tales of the sea?"

This sounded like a change-of-subject moment, but knowing LaMonte, I had my doubts.

"Some, not much. Read 'Horatio Hornblower' as a kid."

LaMonte laughed. "Great series. I'm gonna write me a 'Hornblower' erotic story sometime."

But he went on. "So you know how ships used to get described in the old days?"

"Sailing ships? I dunno. Number of masts maybe? How long they were? I am not an oceanic guy."

"Displacement. That's the key feature. You'd say a ship displaced a hundred tons, that would be back in the day of the first cross-Atlantic ships, the voyages of discovery. Think carracks, Columbus' square-rigged ships, that sort of thing."

"Okay. So?" I had no idea of where he was going with this.

"Want to guess my displacement?"

I looked at his long, lean dark-skinned body. Smooth, sinewy, not a lot of extra weight on him.

"You're almost six foot, short of two meters, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds? I'm guessing."

"Two hundred and nine cubic centimeters," he announced, with more pride than I thought warranted.

I scrunched up my face. "That's tiny man, you take up more space than that."

"I'm giving you the figure for what matters. We're talking penis displacement."

Now we were in surreal territory.

"You know your penis displacement? Why?" The guy's obsessions were endless and complex. "How do you reckon this highly specific number?"

I could tell he was pleased I asked.

"You need to know how much room your prick is taking up in a cunt, how much it displaces. Well, to start with, I thought I could just calculate. I reckoned a penis is just a cylinder, so I could just take length and girth measurements and do the math."

"I'm just over six inches, which I'll have you know is in the upper ten percent range of length for the male of the species. Beyond the average penis bell-curve."

I gave him a long stare.

"Seems to me that isn't so big. I've seen plenty of impressive size."

LaMonte waved a hand. "Where? In porn. Most of those big whoppers you see and hear about are mythical, rare as unicorns. Yeah, they show up in porn, although you also got to take into account the standard porn tricks: close-angle camera distance, various post-processing 'enhancements.' They exist, and as far as I can tell, that's the only reason those horse-hung guys can make a living."

He stood up tall. "But in real life, anything over six inches is beyond the bell-curve. Anyway, my article is 155 mm long, 133mm around, and if you do the calculations that's about 218 cubic centimeters, or milliliters if you want it that way."

"But you said you were two hundred and nine."

"Right. That's where you got to get empirical, Kumar. A penis, if you think about it at all, is not just a cylinder."

"Of course, the end is rounded, or pointed, you lose volume, your cylindrical calculations won't be accurate."

"'Xactly. I figured mine would be a little less than the plotted volume, but didn't know how much. I thought it would significantly less, but you know what? My cock-head is bigger than my shaft width, by some margin."

My head began to spin.

"So what did you do, LaMonte?"

LaMonte gave me a wide smile of complacency.

"I did a cast. Wanna see the result?"

There was no sense in declining, I was likely in store for it anyway.

He went into his bedroom and brought back a most realistic looking dildo.

"There you are, my man, an authentic facsimile of my most precious parts. Two hundred and nine cubic centimeter's worth of penis pleasure."

It was striking. Made of some rubbery material, there were veins on the side, and indeed a rather impressive circumcised head.

"I almost want to ask how you did this, but you're probably going to tell me anyway."

"Ever heard of the plaster casters?"

This sounded vaguely familiar. "Some rock and roll groupies from the sixties or seventies?"

"Yep. They managed to put together a collection of their favorite rock star's appendages, Jimi Hendrix among others. I read up on their exploits, their technique, their technology."

I rolled my eyes.

"Making this beauty took several days." He held it lovingly, then handed it over to me. I had to admit it was handsome. Circumcised even. "Had to make a cast, that was the biggest pain in the ass."

"Figuratively," I said sarcastically. "After you got yourself hard, naturally."

"Naturally. And slathered on a pile of Vaseline so the cast didn't stick. Still pulled some pubic hairs off when I removed it after it dried, but you don't want to hear about that. Your penis deflates naturally, the only reason you can pull yourself out of the cast."

"Right."

"So then I had me a proper mold, and that's how I was able to calculate my true displacement. Used a graduated cylinder of water to fill it up, got the exact volume that way. My true empirical displacement."

His eyebrows went up and down. "Then later I just poured in some silicone stuff into the mold and pulled it out and there you go. Pretty good harpoon, eh? The original is going to land me a big one, I predict it."

Holding the slithery LaMonte penis surrogate in my hands, I suddenly felt rather foolish. I passed it back to my buddy.

"So Cumar, you know your own dimensions?"

I did not, much to LaMonte's disgust.

"Come on man, I can't believe you don't know important stuff like this. A smart, aware guy like you?"

"Here's where we differ, Mr. LaMonte. I am happy that my penis works properly, gives me pleasure, is friendly and outgoing. Don't need the specs, to be honest."

"All right. Even so, for my own edification, indulge me. Let's see your manly tool, out with it. I can see you're stiff, plain as day in your jeans, and no surprise since we be talking cunts and all."

So out I pulled my

membrum virile.

There was no telling what could happen if you were hanging out at LaMonte's place. He examined it carefully, my foreskin coming in for particular attention.

"I'm guessing your part of the world doesn't do the snip business, right?" He eyed me warily.

"Nope. If there are any Jews in Kerala I never met them. I suppose Muslims too, but unacquainted there too."

"Damn foreskin on you uncut types always makes a cock look bigger, Cumar, but I think I got you beat." He reached for a tailor's tape measure and 'sized' me up.

"One hundred and thirty-five millimeters long, one hundred and twenty-five around. A little bigger than average. Nothing wrong with that. I'd have to do the math but I am guessing maybe one hundred and eighty cubic centimeters for your unit."

"Eleven of them and you have the equivalent of a car engine of about two liters, maybe a Volkswagen GTI?"

"Never thought of it that way, but good observation. Course for me it would only be a ten penis car." He looked pleased.

"That makes a Ferrari 812 Superfast, what, with its six and a half liter motor?"

LaMonte looked at me, did some quick calculations in his head. "About a thirty-two penis affair then?"

"They should just rename the damn car, the Ferrari Phallus maybe."

LaMonte smiled then looked serious.

"Alright, enough of this stuff man, you know where my thinking is going. Let's get down to business and talk Halloween coming up in a couple weeks."

His words tumbled out, excited and breathless. "So Cum, we got two parties lined up. She could be at either one, I've got high hopes of finding my Great White Wench this year. The second one is invitation only, I scored a good one. Theme is 'Fame and Leadership' your have to wear a costume from some well-known leader or famous person. A god or goddess. Doesn't specify any more than that."

"You can come as my guest. Maybe with some luck, you'll 'cum' as my guest. Maybe both of us. Oh, and there's one more thing, some paperwork you have to fill out. Do me a favor and get this done before the Big Night?"

He handed me a couple of forms which I sheaved in my notebook.

Two weeks later at LaMonte's place on Halloween eve, I looked at him in wonder.

He had scored a great costume. He said he would be Alexander Hamilton himself. He knew someone who had access to the prop closet of the 'Hamilton' production in town.

Long, blue revolutionary-era jacket with handsome shiny buttons. Tri-corner hat. Some tight tan breeches.

"Doesn't look like you got any underwear beneath those breeches there, LaMonte." The breeches were tight enough you could pretty much see the clear outline of his prick, slanting down towards his left thigh.

"Nope. I stayed authentic."

He looked at me.

"Don't suppose you've got undergarments either though, right?"

In fact I didn't.

I was bare chested, couple of golden-colored upper metal arm bands, just above my biceps. A white dhoti for my lower body and sandals. Had my long hair tied up in what I regarded as a proper Krishna topnot.

LaMonte sniffed. "Aren't you supposed to have blue skin? Not up on my Hindu trivia but in all the Krishna artwork I've seen I seem to recall an unearthly blue tint to his skin."

"Not going to that much trouble. I'll have a blue cape over my shoulders to begin with. Just to keep the chill off before we get inside. The mark of Vishnu," I pointed to the distinctive white 'V' shape I had applied to my forehead between my eyes, "is as far as I'll go in the make-up department."

He gave me a man-hug and we were on our way.

The first stop was a large apartment not far from Davis Square. The living room alone held maybe thirty closely packed folks, all drinking and talking.