Rex Clydesdale was feeling lucky. The dark and deathly cold South Dakota winter was creeping to an end. As he motored his wheezing pickup truck to his favorite bar while sunset crept over the flat horizon, he could see water dripping off the icicles hanging from the balconies above Main Street’s abandoned stores. The long thaw was coming.
Rex was not an attractive man by anyone’s standards. He stood only five-foot-five and was 120 pounds overweight, but his face was so plain and lumpy, he’d still be considered undesirable even with an Olympic swimmer’s body. He wore a grimy baseball cap to mask his rapidly receding hairline and smelled vaguely of horse urine and sweet pickles. Due to his poor dietary choices, he was chronically constipated, which was beginning to give him back problems. While straining to defecate, he’d fart loudly and unabashedly on the toilet—so loud that the neighbors would often hear.
Rex had toiled for over 20 years as an inspector at one of the largest hay-production factories in the upper Midwest. Rex would scrutinize bales of hay to make sure they met minimum quality standards before allowing them to be shipped to farms all across the American heartland. Sometimes the hay was moldy or too dry, and he’d have to reject it. If the hay was acceptable, Rex would fill out the bills of lading and instruct the workers—some of whom were undocumented—to load the trucks and send the hay on its way.
Like most males, Rex measured his penis throughout adolescence. It was actually a little longer than average—just a touch over seven inches—but as thin as a carrot. He could easily pierce a woman’s cervix with that length, but his lack of girth gave him plenty of breathing space on all sides. He could have intercourse with a woman without even touching her vaginal walls.
Rex was a chronic masturbator—not by choice, but by necessity. He had trouble recalling the last time a woman so much as smiled at him. He hadn’t been laid in over fourteen years, but a small inner voice told him tonight would be the night.
The cigarette smoke in The Wishing Well was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. Through wobbly speakers, new country music blasted so loudly that you had to scream to hold a basic conversation. Yelling at the top of his lungs, Rex ordered a shot of whiskey and a mug of beer from Mitzi, a wizened female bartender who’d worked there since Rex was a child. With his liquid courage in hand, he sat on a stool in front of his favorite video-game machine and began feeding it dollar bills.
After several games and several failures to reach the top levels, Rex noticed in the corner of his eye that a woman was seated on the stool next to his, lost in video games just like he was. He tried not to make it too obvious, but he shot her a glance every so often when he felt it was safe to do so. She was his female doppelgänger—grossly overweight and with a face that was not only forgettable, one was glad to forget it. After assessing her to be a 3.4 on a scale of 10, Rex knew he had a chance with this woman.
Even though the woman clearly had no idea how to play the video game in question, Rex figured it would be counterproductive to break the ice with an insult.
“You’re really good at that,” he told her.
He suddenly felt a small jab in his crotch, almost as if he’d been punched in the dick with a tiny fist.
“Thanks,” she said, turning to him and smiling. Her teeth were a dark yellow—almost brown.
“My name is Rex, and I have to say, you’re the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen in this bar.”
Again he felt a mild stabbing pain in his groin.
She smiled back at him. “My name is Mary, but all my friends call me Kippy.”
“Mary? No kidding! That’s my favorite name!”
Once more he felt as if someone had bitch-slapped him in his lap. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked her.
“That would be wonderful,” she enthused. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
While flirting, Rex didn’t realize that enemy alien spacecraft had pierced his force field, exploded all his attack planes, and destroyed his home base. GAME OVER. “Well, let me go get us another round,” he said winking, “and when I get back…maybe we can take this to a private booth?”
“I would love that,” Mary said.
“Gimme two more whiskey shots and two beers,” Rex told Mitzi. “Here’s ten dollars. Keep the change. I’ll be right back. Gotta go to the bathroom. Like they say, you don’t buy alcohol, you only rent it.” Mitzi smiled politely and stuffed the ten-dollar bill into her ancient bra.
The bar bathroom reeked of pee and mothballs. Rex rushed into a stall, locked the door, unbuckled his belt, and opened his pants. To his extreme dismay, he noticed his penis looked substantially smaller than normal. He assured himself that it was merely a case of bad nerves. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman allowed him to buy her a drink.
He zipped up, returned to the bar, grabbed the four drinks, and headed toward the dark booth in the far corner where Mary/Kippy awaited. She smiled as he approached.
“To springtime!” Rex said, clinking his shot glass against hers.
“To springtime!” she smiled, downing the shot in one gulp. “So, Rex, what do you do for a living?”
“Me? I, uh, I’m in the financial industry.” Once more he felt a sharp punch straight to the cock.
“Oh, that’s nice. You must make a lot of money.”
He mischievously smiled in the affirmative. More groin pain.
“I’m a greeter at the Walmart over in Mitchell near the Corn Palace,” Mary said. “I’m divorced and live with my teenaged son. I just turned forty. How old are you?”
“How old am I? I’m thirty-seven.” He turned his head and winced. It felt as if a tiny demon was using his balls as punching bags.
“Well, you’re just a child compared to me,” Mary said. “I’m part Scotch, part German, and part Sioux. My last name is Schmidt—that’s German. What’s your last name, Rex?”
“Clydesdale. Rex Clydesdale.”
“Clydesdale? Isn’t that a horse?”
“Yep,” Rex said, leaning in and feeling emboldened by the alcohol’s warm glow. “And I’m hung like one, too!”
Then came the sharpest pain of all. This time he couldn’t hide it. He yelped like a puppy that had been stepped on.
“My goodness, are you OK?” Mary asked.
“Yeah,” Rex said, lying yet again. He began to panic. “Look, Mary—or should I call you Kippy?”
“You’re my newest friend, so please call me Kippy.”
“Look, Kippy, my mother is ill, and I have to go home and check up on her.”
“You live with your mother?”
“Yes, but only until she dies. But I’d like to hang out with you again. Maybe another Friday night…maybe at your place?”
“That would be delightful,” Kippy said. “You can bring the alcohol, and maybe we can watch a movie. Do you like romantic comedies?”
“I LOVE romantic comedies,” Rex said, grimacing from what felt like a boot kick to his family jewels. “But I’m very sorry that I have to leave. But you wouldn’t want to hang out anyway with a man who neglected his mother, right?”
“You’re darn tootin’ I wouldn’t,” Kippy said, winking at him before guzzling the remainder of her beer.
“You can look me up on Facebook—Rex Kevin Clydesdale. I look forward to hanging out with you again.”
“Me, too.” And with that, Rex was gone.
When he arrived home, there was no “mother” who needed him. His mom had died years ago. That was yet another lie.
And when he stripped naked to shower off the shame and defeat, he noticed to his horror that he no longer had a penis, just a tiny nub where it once was.
It was then that he realized he had no more lies to tell.