Larry

Jeff Bogle
Nov 1 · 2 min read

Larry’s afraid. He’s got it in his head that his dick is too small.

He has a right to worry, it’s a wee fucking thing. “But it does a job, and does it alright,” he once told a co-worker who had absolutely not asked.

Happy Hour invites tend not to penetrate Larry’s inbox. It’s not a spam thing or a careless oversight. The guy is too earnest, too creepy for anyone’s taste. Larry is a dated cocktail none of the regulars could explain the reason it’s still on the drinks menu.

Most in the office, save for Lonely Cas who’s husband died suddenly last summer, agree that fun times are more fun without Larry; without Larry’s smirk; minus Larry’s lingering gaze on the tits of the interns; with his Greek Tragedy of a combover out of sight; and without gratuitous punctuation at the end of texts which, granted, isn’t a problem in person at the bar but still, WTF Larry. Plus, Larry’s propensity for inserting himself into existing conversations without consent, a kind of verbal rape, bleeds the spirit out of a Thursday night’s celebratory toast. Everyone cries, whether the mascara runs or not.

Larry wants a woman with experience. He wants Lonely Cas like a fat kid lusts for a second slice of birthday cake, like a beaver needs its mouth on wood, but he’s never gonna get up the nerve to flirt on a Monday morning let along ask her to dinner on a Friday night.

Larry, who would be dead within a year from the cancer that would be caught too late, wants to be told, “there not there, yes please, just like that baby, don’t stop yeaaaas that’s what I want, fuck me hard,” but an experienced woman would’ve seen her fair share of dicks and would laugh at his. Then she might gab in the office. Larry couldn’t suffer those side eyes. It’s safer to keep jerking off to free internet porn on the 2014 Dell desktop in his apartment every night and to avoid looking Cas in her forest green eyes during the day.

Confidence wasn’t an issue early on in life. Larry dined out for years on his smile, his hair and his job. But age has weathered his face — creases wrinkle the corners like sheets that have sat in the washer too long; greys squat on his head like a homeless vet beneath an overpass on the edge of downtown; and his career careened off the highway when Bush and his cronies sunk the economy in the late 90s. His tiny dick didn’t matter to the whores he once fucked on the regular. Every Ginger, Destiny and Desiree would lap up the tiny cock he fed them: they’d feed him lies in return and march hand in hand in Larry’s parade of shimmering anklets, Caribbean all-inclusives, and beaver pelt furs.

The office isn’t the same after the funeral. There’s a new guy at Larry’s old desk. He’s a fucking riot on Friday nights and makes French toast the way Cas has always liked it.

Just like that baby, yes, please.

    Jeff Bogle

    Written by

    Dad, writer, picture-taker, traveler and decent human.