"dick lit" by any means necessary

I'm often asked whether "dick lit" is a mocking response to "chick lit"? And while that may be true as a pure unadulterated marketing ploy to bring men back into the reading fiction fold, more than likely it's the other way around, since basically "dick lit" has been around long before the idea of commitment to something other than himself became the albatross (holding civilization as-we-know-it together) that man had to come to grips with if he wanted to hold cavechick's attention for any longer than it took to rub two rocks together. In fact, “dick lit” has been around since the first caveman's curiosity stuck his dick into the equation when he rubbed those two rocks together around it until WANGO! He discovered, despite the pain (without gain), man cannot live by fire alone, and understood for all time how important it was for man to be able to get off by any means necessary. Which is the logo for this crude, rude, often ridiculous quest that drives everyman's ludicrous every waking and slumbering moment, towards the existential drive for him to fill and refill the Holy and Unholy Grails of existence with momentary proof that KILROY IS HERE, as opposed to the much more noble creator's banner stating KILROY WAS HERE. For was ain't is, no matter what monuments or monstrosities man leaves behind. Or how much he would like to remember those long gone moments of good, bad or indifferent ecstasy that make up the raison d'étre of his piddling existence. So like it or not, “dick lit” is here to acknowledge the good, bad and ugly that goes with it, as it celebrates every young boy’s quest to get off for the first time, everyman’s quest to get off the next time, and every old man’s quest to get off one more time, before there is no time left to get off on.

From Bukowski’s SIX INCHES, the all time classic masterpiece of the then still undubbed genre (now claiming accreditation as a low rent literary school), to Joe Maynard’s innocent jism flailing MISSIONARY POSITIONS, to the desperate brutality of Joey Amdahl’s LIFE OUTSIDE THE BOX, “dick lit” no longer has to worry about skulking through the utilitarian sewer of “no redeeming value”, since like it or not, “no redeeming value” (except the writing) is the recognized heart & soul of “dick lit”.

MG / 8/25/06

Life Outside the Box
By Joey Amdahl

It finally arrived. I had the UPS dude set it in the center of my living room. A wooden crate the size of a small refrigerator. I have waited eight months for today -- for what waits for me inside the box. After trudging through my anticipation, my yearnings, my hunger -- I finally feel in the present tense of my life.
I want to relish this moment but my excitement makes me crazy. I twitch, shake, pace and sweat. I touch the smooth wooden box, the crate -- what‘s lurks inside cost me forty five thousand dollars -- my entire life savings. Relax, relax, I try and tell myself. I pop open an ancient, half-empty, bottle of Kendell Jackson that’s been sitting in my fridge for weeks and I take a swig.

I dial my old pal John Rigsby on my cell. Pick-up, pick-up, pick-up.

“John, it’s me bro. It’s FINALLY here.”

John mutters “I’m on my way and this better be good.”

I shower, smoke a joint, do thirty push-ups, stare at the crate, check my email, and then wait. John arrives wearing his black trench coat and furry moon boots. He’s more weird than stylish. I met him at my old Telemarketing job. He was my boss. I hated that job.

“I brought a hammer. What’s in the box?” He accidentally steps on an empty pizza box and crushes it under moon boot. “Dude, you got empty pizza boxes, beer cans, trash -- you‘re filthy bro, you should think about cleaning once in a while…”

“This is clean.”

John scratches his fat head with his fat hand and then kicks the pizza box across the room. “So what’s in the crate?”

“What’s in the crate? I never thought that question would drive you so freakin’ crazy.”

“Don’t even know why I care man but you keep fucking building it up. If you ever talked about anything else… Like politics or sports but you just talk about... That.” He points to the crate.

I sit on the couch, light a Parliament, and flip through the latest issue of Harper’s magazine -- which I don‘t know why I subscribe to because I never read it.

“Sooooo, let’s open the fucker, Barry.”

“Not yet. You can’t rush this moment.”

“Dude, if you don’t open the crate in the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to beat you into a little pulp. -Asshole. And quit smoking. It annoys me.”

“Go home then! I don’t care if you’re here for this or not.”

“I’m not going home! Fuck off.”

“Then you better stop bitching.”


“Fuck it, let’s open it.” I say while squeezing-out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.

I pry the claw-end of the hammer in-between two boards and I begin to pull. Within minutes the lid to the crate is off. The moment of truth. I open it. It takes about twenty minutes to unwrap the girl. They have her in there good, protected -safe.

“Holy shit man! She looks real. She looks alive!” John takes three steps back.

We prop her into a sitting position on the couch. She wears a flimsy flower dress. She looks fantastic.

“The dimensions are like totally realx” He takes a cautious step forward and stares at her face. “How do I get one of these bitches?”

I sit next to her and flip through her flimsy instruction manual written half in Spanish.

“Well John. First you have to have about forty five thousand bucks. Do you have forty G’s?”

“No... Can I touch her breast?”

“Sure, but only over the dress.”

He gropes her but pulls his hand back. “She feels so good. So real.”

“Well John, that’s because there’s a thin layer of silicon lacquer covering her body and it makes her skin feel...”

“Can I have about half-hour with her?”

“Get the fuck out of here. That’s gross.”

“Her teeth are like real. And her hair. What did they put her together with?” He opens her eyes with two fingers then runs his fingers down her face to her chest.

“She’s a high tech design, John. She’s the Rolls Royce of blow-up dolls.”

“I gotta get me one.” He walks towards the door. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone.”


He turns “What did you name her?”

“I don’t know. I’m leaning towards Melinda.”

He opens the door. “You’re a sick fuck but I sure wish I had one of those. No more lonely Friday nights, ehe?”

He leaves. I couldn’t tell John the truth. It’s one thing to make sweet love to a really good looking blow-up-doll and it’s another to make love to... I couldn’t verbally face up to the fact that Melinda wasx built to last roughly three weeks in her present state. Shit. See, Melinda had once been alive, had a family, had a life. She probably had a string of boring jobs, a dog, a dream, all those other dumb things that make us human. But now she was gone, dead, her body immured under a layer of silicon and preservatives, her body drained of blood and filled with a light rubbery foam -- stolen from a morgue and essentially -mounted for the customer's pleasure.

For the next hour and a half I fondle her -- trying to get hard. But nothing works. It’s ironic that now that I own her, I don’t fully want her anymore. But sometimes an erection just takes a lot of work. It’s layers and layers of fantasy, the right moment, a sense of safety, a need. I had all those going. Just something wasn’t working. My mind was getting in the way.

So I take a break. I sit next to Melinda, her brown hair messy and covering her unmoving eyes. I move her hand to my leg. I wonder how she died? The Jackie Mcobb Company doesn’t go into stuff like that. It would ruin it to know anything about her previous incarnation.

“Melindax Sweet Melinda.” I brush her brown hair out of her eyes and move her semi-stiff arm inches over to my pajama clad crotch.

Nothing. I’m limp.

So I stand, walk to the fridge, eat some cold KFC, sit back on the couch and watch an episode of Golden Girls. I have no idea how this works but my mind starts to construct a really twisted fantasy out of Bea Arthur’s (Dorothy) image. Before I know it, my hand’s down my pants and I’m harder than Easy E on Viagra.

I whip it out and slap her face with it then I grab the Johnson’s and Johnson’s baby oil. It doesn’t take long before she’s properly lubed and properly bent over the couch and I’m in it. But something is wrong. It’s way too tight. And it clamps. I don’t know how I got it in there and for some reason it’s not coming out. I relax. I pull back. Nothing. I’m freakin’ stuck. It must be the silicon preservative. Damn it! I pull back again. My dick it’s completely submerged and stuck. I glance down at her leg to see a lone drop of my blood slowly dripping down towards her knee. My blood! “ARGGGGH! FUCK!”

After fifteen minutes of excruciating pain, I reluctantly pick up my cell “John, John, please answer.” He doesn’t pick up

I drag Melinda, heavy and stuck to my dick, to the kitchen where I pick out a dirty knife from the kitchen sink. I drag Melinda back to the bathroom and I begin to saw. And saw, and saw, and saw. I’m breaking bones, the foam rubber is going everywhere. My dick is bleeding and still clamped in. With every turn of her mangled body, the pain increases. Soon I’m thrashing around. Breaking more bones and reaching to the bathroom counter for the bottle of Jergen’s lotion. I rub the Jergen’s on as much of my self as possible and I pull. It’s excruciating. I scream. In mid scream I glance in the mirror. My face now purple and my eyes large.

I scream until my voice leaves me. I fall to the ground--the imagery of my life flashing through my head. All the good stuff. The birthday parties, pizzas, movies, late afternoon naps, friends, the coffee, the everything else that makes life worth living. But the pain is too much. With one final gasp I try to plunge the knife down into my chest.

When I wake up, I’m in a hospital bed. Soon the nurse explains that my neighbor Benny heard my screams, called the police and they got there just in time to save my ass. I’m going to live. Anyhow I’ve decided to lay off the dead girls for a little while and maybe focus more on my dream of writing political speeches. Life has a funny-ha-ha way of working itself out sometimes.


                              DICK JOKES
     “Two’s a dialogue, three’s a conspiracy.”
- Richard Nixon -    

A man comes out and goes into a ventriloquist act with his dick. First he simulates stimulating himself, until out comes a humongous phallic shaped dummy riding on his hand.

Get your hand off me!

I thought you liked that.

Well, I do, but we’re doing a show now, aren’t we?

This is what the show’s about.  A man and his dick.

You mean a dick and his man, don’t you?

The Vagina Monologues would accuse us of pandering--

It goes without saying

--to the Lowest Common Denominator.

The lowest common denominator?  Is that what you  think I am?

It’s either all about sex or Democracy. You either get what you want out front, or sneak around back like--

I beg your pardon!

That’s a first.

I told you twice, I told you thrice, I ain’t workin’ on Maggie’s Farm no more.

I don’t think you’ve ever worked on Maggie’s Farm, unless you were stalking Maggie when no one was looking.

Blame it all on me!  That’s right, blame it all on me!  

I’m not blaming anything on you.  But my whole life you’ve been telling me what to do.  Follow that blonde! Dig the tall one!  Look at that rack!

I can’t help it if I like women.

And I don’t!

Let me remind you, it’s not me they call a misogynist.  

No, or course not.  There’s no bias on you.  You’re just a poor helpless body part. I recall, when you were younger you once got it on with a slice of calves liver. (option here to have Philip Roth read liver section from Portnoy’s Complaint)

Better than a rack of lamb.

I think you did that one too, but while it was still on the lamb.

If you’re going to turn this into vaudeville, you’d better talk to my agent.

The dick has an agent, ladies & gentlemen!  Let’s talk to the Dick’s agent.

                                      TO BE CONTINUED
                   (tune in for an interview with the dick’s agent in DICK LIT #3)