Remi Recchia
If I Had a 'Real' Penis, I'd Name Him Sting
Not in some nerd macho way—not because he would pierce or slice or whip out an air guitar—but
as tribute to the growing
pains of the current micro-penis nestled like a rabbit in the thistle of my pubis, how the hormone-
swelled tissue protruded without warning to rub against the seams of my pants, the pinch of silver zipper alighting the seemingly oxymoronic budded erection until, slowly, over weeks
of online dating & hookups & Uber rides to meet a stranger, the organ no longer took me to Mount Olympus, though it did guide me home. Sting as injury. Sting as namesake.
At times throughout the day—at the grocery store, for example, juggling oranges, or walking the dog through gnat & flame—I forget where I am.
I forget that it is unacceptable to adjust (ghost) balls & (phantom) shaft, that no one
around me will realize I am not cupping an actual live penis but am instead tugging on my packer
where it has once again flopped like a fish out from under my urethra
into the unhelpful sphere of corduroy & buckle, & while I have not yet been arrested
for indecent exposure, I am inhaling, now, the private horror of a TSA screening booth & the breath of two armed men more curious than bloodhounds.
Blurred badges flapping like long ears. Dewlap gathering under the chin. Smirks
wide enough to fit a muzzle. The humiliation of alarm where everyone can see for a reason
no one can guess. Seven years of transition have led to healing & self-
actualization & also, apparently, to this. The men believe my underwear will explode.
The danger to my being is not what they envision. The cheap prosthetic, more plastic than polymer, has masqueraded as a threat.
While I wait for my wife to be rushed through her own pat-down, I explain the prosthetic— name without naming—but not the diagnosis. I do not say trans. I do not say assigned female
at birth. I say accident. I say It helps me pee & penetrate. I choose emasculation in front of my wife
instead of rape without a witness. When my wife has been brought to me, the TSA
agents watch hungrily as I unzip the front of my jeans & pull the faded flesh-
colored head into the light without revealing what lies underneath. No female agents are called.
But though the screening ends without forced entry, the man who walks out of security does not resemble the man who’d walked in, assured most days of his place at the table,
confident enough to use the appropriate restroom, proud owner of suits & ties. I thought I’d already breached the line between before & after, open & closed, female & male.
It seems now, in my shock & shivering, that there are many befores & many afters, & incisions do not stop just because the original scar tissue has softened.
The flight home: quiet. In my head—forgive me: in what used to be my head—for days: quiet. Then weeks of Googling What is TSA allowed to touch? until I realize that the U.S.
government is allowed to violate the tenderness of any tender person for the sake of never forgetting—forgive me: for the sake of friends, Romans, & countrymen—forgive me:
I mean Nationalism—forgive me: I mean national security—& I will never again make the mistake of thinking others know my name.
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I order a new prosthetic online. He’s expensive & dynamic, screams Marlon Brando, Clint Eastwood, & any other man who has ever stuck a gun in someone’s face.
The website boasts of free-floating testicles & twenty-plus shades of skin color options. He’s longer, thicker than I’ve ever let myself consider before, which is saying something, as I, like any other man
consumed by consumerism, am preoccupied with virility & valor & who drives the biggest pickup truck. When he finally arrives at my doorstep, I cradle him like a newborn & sing him
a song, like any other man would soothe his progeny. I hug my new penis to my chest, name him my
beneficiary. He is my sole
dependent on Tax Form 1040. I set up a registry for my penis, purchase special
luggage, wrap him in crushed velvet for the next domestic (fight &) flight. Together we will rise in the early morning, take communion, & meld where tip meets silicone, our union glowing
like a sunset. Like a sword. Like a Christ weeping at the grave of Lazarus. I do not forget that a grave is only a grave if there is a body inside it.
