The Chronicles of Enhanced Males - Living Enlarged (Part 1) Read online

  I meet Laura at the door and she’s carrying my coffee and aspirin. I take the tablet and just swallow it. The coffee’s still hot.

  - Leave it on the desk. I’ll be right back.

  I slide down the hall and into the men’s room. It’s freshly cleaned. Vanilla scent. I hear the silent, monotonous buzz of the vents. All stalls are free. I lock myself up in one of the stalls and drop my pants below my knees. My buddy down there is asleep, and I need it wide awake for this. I slap it against the thigh a few times. Nothing, it doesn’t respond. I think of this morning’s lovely croissant butt. It does the trick. That’s right, up you go.

  I grab it firmly with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, making an OK sign around the base. I make another OK sign with my right hand, right above the left, and slide my hand up, slowly, counting to myself: 1, 2, 3. As soon as my right hand reaches the glans, I start sliding my left hand upwards. I place the right OK around the base and repeat the motion. 1, 2, 3. Slowly and firmly. One hand, and then the other.

  The penis is getting filled with blood. It’s thick and dark. My hands slide alternately up the hard tissue. I’ve got an erection. I wait for it to ease up a bit, so I don’t risk a broken capillary.

  I glance at the watch: it’s9:25. Ok, 20 to go. I’ve got enough time until the meeting. I continue doing jelqing, counting three seconds per motion.

  Then someone knocks on the door.

  - Mark, are you in there? The boss is looking for you. It’s urgent.

  - I’ll be right there.

  I wait for the erection to subside a bit before I go back to the office. I pull my pants up. Unlock the door. It’s doesn’t work. The mechanism is stuck. I push the door outwards. Try again. Won’t budge. I turn the knob and pull the door inwards, but I still fail to unlock. I break into cold sweat.

  - Hey! Is anybody out there? – I bang on the door.

  No one answers. I bang harder and harder. I’m sweating like a banshee. What a dumb situation. What kind of excuse will that be? Why are you late for the meeting? I got stuck in the john. I pound on the door like a madman.

  - Anyone?

  - Mark? – I hear the voice of Matt Dobkins coming from the other side of the door.

  Wherever you go, he’s always there. Buzzing around, sticking his nose in other people’s business, gossiping, eavesdropping. A rather annoying guy. But, this time, his annoyingness saves me.

  - Matt? O, thank goodness you’re here. Can you call someone to open the door? I got stuck.

  - Why aren’t you using the urinal? Are you shy? – like I said, a really annoying guy.

  - Um… it was… urgent.

  I hear laughter fading away into the distance. Great, that’s just what I needed. Matt probably holds the world record in transferring information. In a matter of minutes, the whole floor will know what happened. Maybe I’m better off stuck in here all day.

  It takes the handyman five minutes to get to the men’s room and another five to fix the lock. It’s already 9:42 when I enter Angela’s office.

  - Angela, I’m sorry. I’ve had a kind of a mishap…

  She says nothing and just points to the chair. She catches a quick glance of my crotch and quirks her eyebrow. Shit. It’s still visible. Now she’ll think that I was playing with myself. As if this morning’s mishap wasn’t enough.

  I can already see Matt, schmoozing with that twiggy yenta who works in the copy room: “Hey, you know that guy Mark from Angela’s department? He was taking a dump this morning and got stuck in the toilet. I know, but he wasn’t taking a dump, he was actually wanking off.”

  - Mark, are you all right? You look a little pale.

  - I’m fine. I just slept badly last night. Thanks.

  - All right. The reason I called you is a new client you’re taking over.

  - I’m afraid I won’t have enough time for another client.

  - What are you working on now? Ores and McCaleb? Don’t worry. Clara and Adam will take over that account. This one is extremely important and we need to give him our best. I’m sure you can make that happen.

  That’s not flattering. That’s how Angela praises people. Discretely and indirectly. Criticism, however, is a whole new ball game, but I’m on her good side, even when I do make a mistake.

  - Who’s the client?

  - Greg Kolba.

  - The Greg Kolba?

  She nods and smiles. Suddenly, I forget I was just caught with my pants down. I’m in a great mood.

  - What do I need to know? – I’m anxious to find out.

  She hands me the folder.

  - He’s started a sports drink business. I’ve already sent you an e-mail. You will find a zip in the attachment, all details are in there. You can start right away.

  I walk out of Angela’s office, looking at the folder in my hands. The smile on my face is that of a boy who’s finally stayed alone with his new toy.

  ***

  Greg Kolba. Outfielder for the Yankees. When I was a kid, I worshiped him, although I wasn’t even born when he first stepped onto the field. He was a nineteen-year-old wonder in the late seventies, when he came from Detroit to play for the Yankees. Tigers fans saw him as the next Ty Cobb. My grandpa, who introduced me to the world of baseball, thought the same.

  Unfortunately, fate doesn’t care about plans and hopes. It seemed that, although his talent was indisputable, he lacked that certain something, necessary for becoming a real star. As if he didn’t adapt all that well to the new club and the new town. By the end of the eighties, he came around and had two amazing seasons, but in 1992, he got injured and was mostly a benchwarmer during the next two seasons. Everyone wrote him off. He himself thought of retiring.

  Thanks to his coach’s patience and faith, he made an incredible comeback in the season of 1994-95. Although he was already 35, he was superior to all others. And then, a strike broke out, preventing Kolba from entering the Hall of Fame and preventing the Yankees from winning the title after so many years of waiting. They won the title in 1996, but by then, Kolba’s spark was gone. He retired the following year. Although the unfortunate set of circumstances didn’t let him shine, there was something about him, about his moves, strikes, and manners that made me appreciate him more than the other players. He wasn’t the best, but I’ve always wanted to play like he did. And now, he’s going to be my client.

  - What’s with the mysterious smile? – Laura asks me as I walk into my office. – Was Angela a bad girl?

  - No, she was really nice.

  - Nice girls are boring. Oh, yeah, she’s not a girl.

  - Don’t be like that.

  - Why? Do you like her? Are you going to do something about it? Huh? – she keeps teasing me.

  I chuckle.

  - And how come you never took me out for a drink? What’s wrong with me?

  - Nothing. You’re wonderful, beautiful, smart… witty… wait, what else?

  - Go on, you’re doing so well.

  - Charming, strong, and independent. You’ve got lovely cheekbones.

  - So why don’t we go out?

  - I don’t think that would be a good idea. We’d spoil these moments of sweet anticipation.

  - Oh, yeah? Ok, then, if that’s so, you’re not my type anyway. – she smiles naughtily.

  - Oh, yeah? – I burst out laughing as I walk into my office.

  - Your new cup of coffee is on the desk. – she winks.

  - I don’t know what I would do without you. – I reply.

  - You’d go down like the world economy.

  Flirting with Laura began three years ago, when she started working at ThinkBean. We met by the coffee machine. She started a conversation I quickly got absorbed in. It’s no wonder, since she’s the kind of a woman a man cannot be immune to, except if he’s a Tibetan monk or a bearded member of the Jihad army. We were both shocked when, later on, they introduced her to me as my new secretary, and introduced me to her as her new boss. We quickly dealt with the confusion and went back to
the way things were before.

  And the way they still are today. We’ve never slept together. Both of us see flirting as a kind of stress relief at work. Sex would probably ruin everything, because sex never travels alone; it’s always accompanied by a whole bunch of various emotions. And soon it all becomes blinded by lust and ruined by jealousy.

  If I had met Laura somewhere else, in a sea of other women, I’d approach her. Scandinavian face, high cheekbones, dark blue eyes, C cups, perfect ass. I fantasize about her. A lot. But here, she’s my right-hand person. That’s it. For moments of pleasure of uncertain duration I look for others, with whom the possibility of things getting complicated is not that great.

  But it hasn’t always been this way. If you had met me some 20 years ago, you would never have recognized my face underneath all those pimples and braces. The self-confidence strutting around the tenth floor of ThinkBean spent its high school days in the basement. On a couch covered in ketchup stains, with porn mags and video games stashed underneath. I was a squabby little boy whose real life began in college. Although, back then, I still had no luck when it came to women. The few relationships I’d had ended before they even began. The reason?

  What you would call a million dollar question. Or perhaps not. Why do women usually leave men, other than:

  a) Looks? No. I looked quite decent. Handsomish. Laura recently told me that I reminded her of Julian Morris. To be honest, I had no idea who he was. I had to look him up on Google. A rather likeable guy.

  b) Money? No, I’ve always had a decent amount of money. My folks insisted on sending cash, but even in college I preferred earning my own money.

  c) Caveman manners? No, it’s not that either. I’ve always been polite. Holding doors open for ladies, paying bills, and being infinitely thoughtful. I’ve never chomped or slurped. I’ve never been an asshole. It wasn’t that I was trying to be like that. That’s just who I am. A good guy.

  d) The car? Back then, I was driving a piece-of-junk Honda. Nothing special, but it could take me from point A to point B relatively quickly. And the seats were quite easy to recline.

  e) Lack of personal hygiene? No. I wasn’t a clean freak, but I was clean. I showered every day. I never left the toilet seat up or covered in pee, nor was my room filled with trash and dirty laundry.

  f) Small penis? Bingo. When you’re endowed with just a bit over 5 inches, no matter how smart, caring, or clean you are, in a matter of just a few months, be sure to expect the talk that starts with: “we should talk” and the next thing is “…I have realized that this doesn’t work…”, “…I’ve been having a dialog with myself for quite some time…”, “…I’m trying to understand my desires…”, or “…I’m just not ready to be in a relationship right now…” and it usually ends with “you’re a great guy”, “…it’s not you, it’s me”, “I’m going through a strange phase right now”, and the like.

  Anyway, you get the point. Of course, she doesn’t end up lonely, contemplating her own desires. The very following week, she will be fucking Steve Lavelle, a promising running back and a future used car dealer. Steve’s dick was the talk of the town, a gossip I learned was true once I saw the thing in the locker room (I’d spent two semesters trying to be a wide receiver).

  Forgive me if I get a little carried away or if my emotions get the better of me as I take a walk down memory lane. Although, those days, in Minnesota, I kept everything and everyone at arm’s length. And not just arm’s length. The Moon was closer to me than home.

  That small penis of mine was the reason why none of my relationships could last longer than three months.

  So, what’s changed?

  Well, It’s bigger now.

  How big?

  7,25 in.

  Bullshit! No way!

  I know, a couple of years ago, I would have said the same. But I’m not talking magic. There’s no such thing as magic. You can’t just wave a magic wand and make your penis grow two inches. It takes time and Spartan discipline. And a lot of manual work. The kind of manual work that got me stuck in the john this morning and nearly got me embarrassed.

  Jelqing is just one of the techniques used to stimulate penile growth, supposedly invented by Bedouins with a lot of time on their hands. You know, the sun is burning like crazy, you find yourself a nice oasis, and what else can you do but shake the snake while looking at camel asses. They might’ve been better off selling this trick instead of oil. More fucking, less fighting.

  And it’s so simple. It’s all about those two OK signs and the slight pressure to the penis as you move your hands up, first one and then the other. Like milking your dick. And it grows. Not overnight, of course. Sometimes, it takes months and even years for results to begin to show.

  ***

  I first heard of this jelqing thing some seven years ago. I had already been living in New York for four years. My situation women-wise didn’t change much after I arrived in the Big Apple. A whole bunch of exchanged numbers, and just a few consequential drinks and intercourses. Not a single relationship.

  Not until I’d met Valerie at a Hurricane Relief concert. She was from New Orleans and she had spent most of the concert crying. We slept together that same night. Actually, we didn’t sleep at all. We made love five times and fell asleep just as the sun began to rise. I thought that for her, that night, I was just a shoulder to cry on and a happy pill that made her forget about the bad stuff for a while. But I was wrong. After that night, Valerie and I had spent almost every day together. We were soul mates for eight years.

  The phone rouses me from my thoughts.

  - Yes. Don’t worry, Angela. I’ll be ready for the meeting.

  I open the folder. Inside, there is a ten-page contract, made in five identical copies. I know that Angela’s team takes care of every detail, but my approach is even more detailed. I carefully go through every copy. Sipping my coffee, I check every paragraph, comma, and footnote. Everything’s in order. Our client won’t be financially damaged, nor will we, in case of a breach of the contract.

  Then, I read the e-mail outlining the details about Kolba’s product. After he’d said goodbye to baseball, Greg worked at a radio station until 2010, when bigger sharks invaded the calm waters of Kolba’s life, bought the radio station, and cancelled his show. After that, he became partners with a fellow journalist, Ray Davis, a New Yorker who had spent his entire career in Baltimore, playing for the Orioles, and they came up with a patent for a sports drink.

  Ten-color, ten-flavor powder that mixes with water and helps your organism replenish electrolytes. They had the great idea of making the drink for every MLB team, so that every team gets its own color and flavor. This idea would surely make them millionaires, but it didn’t work. Afterwards, Davis gave up on their business due to health problems, and Kolba continued modestly, working on his own brand of sports drinks. He’s named it KolBase-X.

  Can you see why this is not a good name? No. Well, that’s why, just like Kolba, you’d come to me for help.

  I take a look at the time. It’s almost noon. I walk out of my office. Laura isn’t there. I go back to Angela’s office, walking past Matt Dobkins and the twiggy yenta who are standing by the copier. Ha! They look at me mockingly, with smiles on their faces that would make lemonade go sour. I try to stay calm. I walk down the hall and see Angela through the glass. She’s smiling charmingly and talking to a man in a Boss suit, with wide shoulders and short pepper-and-salt hair. I knock and get in.

  - Oh, Mark, there you are. Let me introduce you to Mr. Greg Kolba.

  Kolba turns around. He looks young. Just a few vertical wrinkles here and there on his tanned skin.

  - It’s great to meet you, Mr. Kolba. – I introduce myself. – I’m a big fan. I worshiped you when I was a kid.

  Kolba smiles, showing his pearly whites. They must have cost a fortune.

  - Thanks. I wasn’t sure anyone remembered my sports career.

  - You must be kidding. Hitting streak from 1994 was the bes
t thing that ever happened in baseball. If there hadn’t been for that goddamn strike, you would have made history. Especially after the injury, after everyone had written you off.

  Angela is now smiling confusedly, with an imploring look in her eyes as she shifts her gaze back and forth between us.

  - Forgive us. The lady probably isn’t interested in all the details. – Kolba smiles at her charmingly.

  - That’s right, I’m sorry, boss. I tend to get a little carried away when it comes to baseball.

  I invite Greg to my office.