Chapter 1

Things with penises scare me.

I can’t really explain why. They just do.

I don't care what species the penis belongs to—whether it’s a man, dog, stallion, or goat—they all make me shudder. I don’t mind big dogs with razor sharp teeth, black devil eyes, and a mouth capped with foam—as long as it doesn’t have a penis. If a big, penis-bearing canine came charging at me, I swear I would run for the freakin’ hills, screamin’ like a banshee on crack, and would look twice as crazy doing it.

My motto: Penis free? A-ok with me!

My best girl Molia (pronounced Moo-lee-ah), I call her Moo, said that I was traumatized in the ninth by the cutest boy in school and—of course—my crush, Darren Silversmith.

Oh, Darren. My mouth still waters thinking about him.

He was the epitome of gorgeousness. He was a surfer—and surfers are a rare breed in Queens, New York, so Darren was extra exotic to me—with green-blond (chorine-dyed) hair, big sea-blue eyes, a nice little six pack (for a thirteen year old), and dimples to die for. He spoke with a Beach Boys lithe and tended to lick his lips a lot. The way his tongue would roll over that puffy lower lip had made me think of French kissing him under the school bleachers; or sex in the locker room. I thought about sex in the locker room a lot. My mother, a devout Catholic, would have had a stroke to learn that her 12-year-old niña was thinking dirty, raunchy thoughts about Darren Silversmith’s luscious, full lower lip. She would have died to know that I shivered each time the tip of his pink tongue darted out and swept over the surface of his lip.

Anyway… Darren was nonchalant, suave, and aloof. He had this devil-may-care type of attitude that made me weak in the knees.

Moo and I used to watch him during the Lunch B period. Moo would stab at her salad—because salads with little-to-no dressing were (and still are) the staple of Moo’s diet—and coo at me to go talk to him. Every day it had been the same. She would jab her boney elbow into my flabby little pooch-of-a-roll that my Tia affectionately called “Donut Hole” and would bet me a penny that I wouldn’t do it—that I wouldn’t go talk to Darren and tell him that I loved him.

It took five thousand pennies to get me to approach Darren.

Sure, it had been my mistake to approach him while the Barbie Bimbo, Elizabeth Burkhart, was draping her cute, little, designer clothes wearing body over him. And I shouldn’t have done it while he was surrounded by his cool jock and popular friends. Fifty bucks was a lot of money then, and I had never passed up one of Moo’s bets and lost.

So after one particularly hard jab of Moo’s elbow, I sashayed up the “popular table” and sucked in my courage (and gut) and spoke to the great Darren Silversmith.

“Hi Darren,” my voice had come out in a squeak. He looked at me with his blue-green eyes and my face pooled with blood. I giggled unnaturally and rattled on quickly. “I just wanted to say that I think you’ve got the cutest dimples in the world and that I… think you’re really cute.” Moo came up behind me and sucked in a sharp breath as I finished. I felt her fingers tug the ends of my long straight black hair. When I looked back at her, her blue eyes popped and she bit her lower lip. She wanted me to run away. Hell, I had wanted to run away.

Darren shifted uncomfortably before me as his friends started to snicker. Elizabeth blushed in her embarrassment for me. She covered her mouth with her hand, flashing her glittery press-on-nails at me, and giggled. Darren looked at Elizabeth, he looked at me, and he looked at his friends who were laughing silently at him.

“So,” I said. “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the spring dance with me and…”

The laughter would have made me deaf had that been remotely possible.

Moo’s fingers had brushed down my arm and curled around my wrist.

“C’mon on, Estela…” she whimpered. “I was just kiddin’ you... you don’t have to do this.”

I had stood firm. I was getting that damn 50 bucks.

“So the spring dance is Friday,” I rambled, “and I thought that maybe my tio could pick us up and we could….”

Darren held up his hand, silencing me.

From that day on I hated any man who made that gesture to me.

Darren’s cheeks were as red as mine as he smiled and chuckled. He shook his head at me and then leaned in over his orange lunch tray with it’s tipped over carton of 2 chocolate milk and Snickers bar wrapper. His blue eyes had burned into mine.

“How now brown cow?” he asked.

Fucker.

That had been the moment that I learned to fear anything with a penis, according to Moo. I think it really happened later that same afternoon when my cousin Lucio’s pit bull—seeking a bitch in heat—bit my face and scared my cheek forever. That dog bite only intensified my belief that all penis carriers were evil.

How now brown cow? still haunts me to this day. And because I can’t let go of the past, I’ve done nothing productive with my life.

I have three degrees in art, advertising, and communications, all from Columbia University. And yet I work in a Java-Loo as a baker/assistant manager on Wall Street, where I’m surrounded by penises, and skirts wishing they were penises, all day long. I currently share an efficiency loft in Chinatown with rats the size of my little cousin's size-six sneakers. And every other Saturday I hear my upstairs neighbor Lonnette, bonking some grunting baboon—not her husband—for hours.

And on Sundays, I have to suffer through a plate of charred-crunchy chocolate-chip cookies that she made especially for me. The cookies were probably made to pacify my tongue that she felt may find the need to go wagglin’ to her trucker hubby. She doesn’t get it that I don’t care about her monkey lover. I just want her to keep her sexual squeals down to a minimum. But, nonetheless, Donut Hole was happy for the cookies, which I usually eat while watching my TIVOed shows after work.

I don’t complain about every aspect of my life.

Moo and I are still really close. She’s a high-fashion supermodel and is always jet setting across the country to some fabulous photo shoot or party. We still talk daily and see each other whenever we can. She’s like a sister to me, and has even offered to introduce me to one or two of her ex-lovers in hope to get me a “real” job in advertising or public relations. I always turn her down, but the gesture is nice, I suppose.

She also invites me to a lot of parties, which I never turn down. They’ve usually got some killer caterers, which brought me to the message on my machine from Moo.

Beep.

“Hey Stela my bella,” Moo cooed in her sultry, I-just-did-the-dirty-deed, voice. “I’m calling to invite you to a little soirée that I’m throwing tomorrow night.”

Moo… always one for last minute invites, I thought.

“I really want you to come and meet my boyfriend,” her voice grew to a low whisper, “he’s a good penis!” I heard a manly growl followed by Moo’s shrilly laugh.

“Hang up the phone, baby, I’m not through with you yet.”

A twinge of jealousy rushed through my body. Why did Moo always find good penises?

“Come Stela, okay? Seven o’clock… I really… i-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

I blinked at Moo’s scream, which was followed by nearly two minutes of hysterical Moo laughter that ended with wet kissing noises and a long manly moan.

Shuddering I stopped the message and deleted it promptly.

Pulling off my Java-Loo visor, I tossed it onto the floor by the front door so I wouldn’t forget it tomorrow morning when I went in to bake pumpkin muffins. Ahh, seasonal goodies! Plopping myself down on the sofa I grabbed the remote and thought about what I’d wear to Moo’s party. Black probably. A brooding artist always looks good in black.

Moo, with yet another man.

I don’t care what she says… there is no such thing as a “good penis.” Not that I’ve found, anyway.