She got on the bus that runs from Avenida Reyes Católicos to Las Fuentecillas. She was a phallus girl, a true phallic symbol that she carried in her right hand an open banana like a flower in the style that lovers take the phallus, with the ring finger selecting the most interesting news from the mobile; mobile placed above her thighs at the crossroads of her legs, and supported by the bag she was carrying.
Her eyes were very well painted in the style of a party whore, who goes to mass at twelve o’clock on Sundays at the Cathedral.
When she lowered her black mask to take the first bite of the banana, my erect penis marched like a lingam bird of the god Shiva towards her mouth. She really knew how to eat a banana, oh my goodness!
Her style of grabbing the banana was typical of masters of the art of rubbing the member; in the style of that girlfriend I had, who was a cowgirl and milked donkeys with a salt shaker and the teats of the cows masterfully.
She only once looked me in the eyes of her lowering them instantly to my crotch, which was already swelling. Surely she saw in me that Mochica terracotta statuette that represents a being endowed with a large penis, so it was similar to the mythical Kurupí of Guarani beliefs, which is in the Museo de La Plata, Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Then she started looking at her cell phone, covering her mouth. Really, the figurative bite that she gave me on her glans hurt me, which for her was from the banana.
During the journey, I did not lose sight of her; figuring my penis was going into her Hohle Fels cave, a cave in the Swabian Alps, Germany, that covered the rucksack she was carrying.
The same bus had a phallic sense with rough skin and pimples. It was like a fat wheeled snake full of fertility with dung beetles sitting on its seats and a few praying mantises standing up.
When I got off at the stop in front of the Military Pharmacy, I was carrying a flan in my pants, and I was very sad remembering Príapo in his banana, who was now suffering from a new and last bite of the girl who, for me, had to be cross-dressed; she didn’t even look at me.
Walking, I put my hand in my pocket, beginning to move my penis in the style of the Norse god Freyr in the temple of Uppsala, who was very amused by his erect organ. I was amused because some hairs had gotten into the skin that bothered me; remembering at the same time that, next Sunday, I had to go with some friends to visit the Monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña, where it is said that there is the dissected penis of the Cid’s horse that the monks adore or adored.
El Cid was not, as they say, an upright and courageous uncle, but a coppery and stocky dwarf, ugly and hairy; yes, endowed with powerful hands and a virile member so long that he had to wrap it several times around his waist as a belt when he was not using it against Christian or Moorish women.
His prehensile phallus, which slipped through windows and holes in houses, without the need for him to enter through the door, drove women crazy without needing to see him.
On some occasions, women were heard to say:
“It is not necessary to see it; as long as he gets into the house, that’s enough.”
Daniel de Culla is a writer, poet, painter and photographer. He’s a member of the Spanish Writers Association, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of the Blake Society, and others. Daniel is the director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He participated in many festivals of poetry and theater in Madrid, Burgos, Berlin, Minden, Hannover, and Genève.
