"How was your surgery?" she said.
It was lunch. She'd known him just five weeks. It all started when he came into her flower shop looking for a Maiden Hair fern.
They'd had dinner that same night, out on the deck at the Alta Mira Hotel overlooking the moonlit waters of the bay. It was early enough in June for the icy marine layer to not have breached the Golden Gate and spilled its version of wintertime into an otherwise decent San Francisco summer, warm enough for him to push out a bead of sweat above his right eyebrow as they talked about horticulture. That little pearl of body water meant he would be glowing with man scent. That made him sexy. She'd never had dinner with a man so quickly. What was it about this guy?
Yes, of course they'd had sex by now. Three times already. She remembered each time as an isolated billow of light. How strange, that sex could start as the unspoken intention to have sex, understood immediately as a bond between them in that early moment in the flower shop before words were spoken. That's not supposed to happen.
Strange also, that there had been no separation between conversation when the words did begin and the idea of sex, as if each word were connected to a caress somewhere on her body. How exciting when he finally touched her under the table that evening. That was the moment she realized she'd given permission long, long ago.
These three wild, getting acquainted fucks were now spinning in her mind, trying to merge with one another: the back seat of his car, the floor of her shop under the Stargazer Lilies, her day bed. She didn't want those memories to merge. Separate is sweet, she thought. It amused her how urgent each of them was. How they almost didn't make it to the car that night before she lifted her dress and placed his hand underneath.
What was it with him? Instant intimacy. No subject off the table. No barriers. As if the need for a time of introduction, of shadow dancing, of testing each other as if shopping for the right avocado at the grocery—all that no longer mattered.
Never a doubt about the sex! Not if, but when, she had said. Unexpectedly easy to have sex in the car in the parking lot that night, not caring if anyone saw them. Exciting, yes. . . sex, danger, the thrill of a long awaited recklessness.
"Surgery?" he echoed. They were sitting across the table, Saturday, in her apartment.
She nodded.
A slight curl appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Surgery was fine," he said. "Recovery sucked."
She took a quick breath. "How so?"
He looked away, then back. "A touch of pain and misery," he said.
The real question shot up in her head and rattled there. That question he'd not answered. Was he dodging? Being coy? She wanted that answer. The only thing to do was to ask. She would get around to it.
Hernia surgery. Yes, he'd told her how the doctor said it wasn't a large hernia but it was the proper size to be dangerous. Something about getting a piece of his. . . whatever. . . caught inside it that could get strangulated. Gangrene, shit like that. So he had to get fixed.
Yes. But the question loomed and consumed her. She shifted in her seat. "How's your penis?" she said.
He laughed. "Different," he said.
She worried. She knew his penis by the way it pressed against her, how it felt inside her, but not the kind of visual detail she needed to know. Especially now that it had changed somehow. Curiosity stirred and itched like poison oak. Oh, of course she'd seen it. She'd glanced at it as he stood at the foot of her day bed, and in those moments when he hovered over her. She loved the way it looked, long and substantial. Regal, almost.
Not circumcised. She liked that. The foreskin not the kind that covered everything and came together in a pucker beyond the tip. Instead, it paused half way over the helmet like a turtleneck sweater, stretched tight, hiding some but not all. Perfect! Always at the ready. But now there was this new something to contend with. Her concern split evenly between excitement and fear. What did the word "different" mean?
"Tell me," she said. As she spoke she felt that quality of concern for the poor penis like one might feel for an injured puppy.
"Tell you what?"
"How different."
Lunch was finished. The plates were pushed to the side. His hands straightened the tablecloth before him.
He looked into her eyes. "Larger," he said.
She gasped. Then covered her mouth.
A mischievous smile crashed his face.
"What do you mean, larger?" she said.
"Bigger around . . . and longer."
She could hardly sit still. "Describe it. I want every detail."
He leaned back. "Well," he paused, searching for the right words, "its like an Italian sausage that's become a German bratwurst."
She laughed. Secretly, she wondered how it would feel in her hands, how it would feel inside her.
"And, it's a different color," he said.
"What!"
"Yeah, darker. It's turned sort of reddish brown and the skin wrapped around it got all puffy."
Her mouth dropped open. She sucked her lower lip then let go. "What the hell is happening?" she said.
"The doctor said it's just congestion."
"Congestion."
"Yeah."
"Congestion?"
"Yeah, like the circulation to it was. . . disturbed somehow, leaving too much blood or fluids in the region. I don't know. Swelling it up, I guess."
"Like getting hard?"
"No. Different than that. It's actually really soft. Softer than before."
She tried to picture it. Larger. Softer. Darker.
"Is it painful?"
"No, but I'm aware of it."
"How do you mean?"
"Like I feel it all the time. Like it's sending me signals, or something."
She laughed. "Talking to you?"
"Kinda. It's a good thing, though."
"Sexy?"
"For sure."
"Oooh," she said, "this is interesting."
He watched her face. She was trembling a little. He remembered how he enjoyed catching her looking at his penis, how he could feel her eyes upon it, searching. . . it almost felt like she was holding it in her hands, giving it the satisfaction it constantly, urgently needed. It reminded him how his penis had always wanted to be released from captivity, to be attended to by a woman filled with aura and mystery.
He checked the expression on her face. She'd run out of questions, he could see that. What was she waiting for?
Suddenly he stood from the table and dropped his pants.
The penis dangled, swinging a little from sudden release, succulent in its new clothes, moist with anticipation out in the nascent air.
She froze to her place, eyes glued, breath short and rapid. "May I touch it?" she said.
He nodded.
She hesitated.
It was fatter. And longer. It was darker and, yes, the skin around it was puffy. It had a glow about it that was both ominous and enchanting. As if it had gotten in a fight somewhere but emerged victorious, battered and bruised.
"Is it painful?" she said.
"Not in the least."
She still hesitated.
"Go ahead," he said. "You can touch it, play with it, knock it around. Do whatever you want. It only looks like it might be tender. It's not."
