My Brother's Penis

kay, let's get the truth out of the way right up front. This is not a story about my brother's penis. This is a story about my brother's Corvette. I lied because the reader I am reaching out to would have passed this story by, if it were titled "My Brother's Corvette".

What I am seeking here is a discriminating reader with the same low taste that I possess. So if you have gotten this far, and have decided to trust me for a few more sentences, I promise not to mislead you any further. If you find anything of redeeming literary value here, the fault lies within you.

My bother's Corvette was born in Detroit in 1992 and was subsequently adopted by him. Six years later, it was still a baby - the odometer registered only 14,000 miles. My brother kept it garaged, and in the garage, he had not one, but two, car covers protecting the lustrous white finish. If you were allowed inside the cockpit, and few were allowed this privilege, the silver colored leather seats still smelled new. It wouldn't be quite correct to say this baby was pampered; the more appropriate word was worshipped.

Looking back at it now, there was a logical progression of events that led to my brother owning a Corvette. His first wife was his childhood sweetheart, the only one he dated from the time he was sixteen. After his first divorce, he remarried quickly, running from the coldness of his sweetheart-turned-bitch, to wife number two, the Romance-of-all-Romances. After his second divorce, the Corvette was purchased, and marked the beginning of his crusade to experience the bachelor life he missed, a period named I'll-Never-Ever-Get-Married-Again.

My bother was a young looking 42, tall, slim, and very heterosexual. He still had his hair and worked out two days a week. More important than his physical appearance, he had a six figure yearly income, lived in a posh, high-rise, riverfront condo, and was a Jewish accountant. According to reliable public opinion polls taken at the time, he was irresistible to 99.97% of unattached females of the species. The survey included lesbians.

Meeting women was too easy. His condo was right next door to a five star hotel that specialized in conventions, had a five star dance club, and a five star health club. My brother, dressed in silk shirts and Italian designer slacks, would troll for women on Wednesday, Friday, & Saturday nights at the dance club. After work on Tuesday & Thursdays, he exercised in Pierre Cardin sweat suits at the health club, near the co-ed tread mills. If he had some spare time between Tuesday and Saturday, he lounged at the hotel pool in his Speedo's, and talked to lonely, unattached members of the Ladies' Marketing Institute, or the Women's Realtor Association, or other some such similar convention. (Sundays and Mondays were set aside for rest. He needed an extra day with all the action he was getting.)

His routine was simple. He plied some sensitive conversation, dispersed several humorous anecdotes, and after a sufficient quantity of alcohol, and he would casually ask if his ladyfriend wanted to go next door, to his apartment with the spectacular, panoramic view, for an innocent, asexual, platonic nightcap. On the way over, skipping like the Pied Piper, he would point to his Corvette, safely parked underneath the building. Sometimes he would lift the two covers and show them it's sleek sportscar lines. There was no need to take it out for a drive and sully it.

My brother and I grew close during his bachelor period. While he was experiencing these hedonistic changes in his life, it was natural that I, his loving older brother, married over 20 years at the time, would become his confidant and Father-confessor. I listened on the phone for hours, occasionally wiping the drool from my mouth, to ribald stories of sexual conquests and debauchery in his screw-anything-that-breathes, low-lifestyle.

My mate of twenty years was not pleased to see me drooling at something other than her, so with a combination of psychological insight, and disappointment in my immaturity, my wife nicknamed the Corvette "Your Brother's Penis", and that's how this story came to be titled.

My brother's I'll-Never-Ever-Get-Married-Again period ended after five years, with the induction of wife number three, a feisty, warm-blooded gal whom I heartily approved of. The condo was gone, replaced by a cozy home with a fireplace. His super-kingsize bed, nicknamed "the playpen", was now replaced by a four poster feminine model. Would she keep the mirrors on the ceiling? I don't think so.

But it took a full year of marriage, 365 days of promises of forever-ever-after, before the final vestige of bachelor freedom was removed. And with this act of loving surrender by my brother, wife number three had proved herself to be a keeper.

I found out about his ultimate sacrifice by accident. I was reading the classifieds, and saw his phone number in one of the ads. I called immediately.

"Are you selling your 'Vette?" I asked, knowing full well he was.

"Yeah, I prefer the Lexus, and the wife wants the space in the garage for her car."

"Well, you know ... I'm going to need a new car soon. My Jeep has 110,000 miles."

"It's not for you, Zalman."

"Oh ... why not?"

"It's a young man's car."

My brother is 14 months younger than me.

"Besides," he continued, "you'd have to garage it, and put down rugs."

"Rugs?"

"To wipe your feet before you get in. I couldn't sell it to someone who doesn't take care of it."

"You mean there are conditions for buying it?"

"Zalman, it isn't just about the money."

Whenever a Jewish accountant says it isn't about the money, that is the signal to begin price negotiations."

"Okay, how much do you want?"

"$20,000."

The wholesale, dealer price for a 1992 Corvette in mint condition, with only 14,000 original miles, and a leather interior that smells new, is $13,000. The retail price that the average foolish consumer pays is $17,000.

Now, I am an auctioneer, and I have a reputation in the auction industry for being a Buyer's-buyer, a legal thief, a proud pirate. When I buy, I buy below cost, and then sell at wholesale to dealers. I do my homework, I work the details, I study and plan. I have a reputation for savvy purchasing that has to be preserved.

"Okay." I said.

It was that easy.

"Okay what?" My wife asked, appearing from out of nowhere.

"I'm buying my brother's 'Vette."

"Why? Don't you already have a penis? I thought you did, the last time I looked."

I was no longer listening to her sick sense of humor. I was planning where I would park it, and what type of wax I would buy.

Sale day was filled with emotion. My brother ran his hands lovingly over the fenders for the last time, while I looked at the check for $20,000, and my depleted savings account.

"Are you sure you really want to buy it?" My brother asked, placing a death grip on my check.

"Yes." It was a lie. I felt waves of regret.

"And do you promise to love, honor, and cherish her like I did?"

"Yes." I lied again. I worship only one God.

"Then, on the count of three ... one ... two ... three!"

I let go of the check and my brother let go of the keys. The deal was completed.

I drove the Corvette for the next six hours. I cruised the back streets, the main streets, the highways, and the Interstates. I didn't look at the other drivers or pedestrians looking at me, I was too engrossed in the joy of driving, of being in complete control of a fine machine. It had almost six feet of rubber meeting the road, a tuned suspension, and responsive steering. I glided along, a big smile on my face. This was not just a car, but a ride. It didn't make me feel more virile, younger, sexier, or more powerful. I maintained the speed limits, and felt no need to peel rubber at stoplights, or race.

It was, in short, a complete delight to drive.

When the ride was over, I moved the work truck out of our barn and drove my Corvette into its new home. And that began a new literary genre, invented by my wife, called "Phallic Metaphors".

The first night, I left the car uncovered. In the morning, I discovered Delilah, our cat, sleeping on the hood. I shooed her away, and examined the car.

"Damn cat!" I cursed out loud.

"What's the matter?" My wife asked.

"Look at what she did?" I got a rag and wiped it clean.

My wife started giggling. The giggle turned into a laugh, and the laugh became hysterical.

"What's so damn funny?" I asked.

"You were complaining about having pussy prints all over your penis."

She fell down on the ground, holding her sides, tears in her eyes.

"You're not funny." I got out the cover and began stretching it over the car.

"What are you doing now? Putting on protection. A prophylactic?"

She thought this was a scream. She laughed so hard she had to change her underwear.

Two can play most any game.

A week later, I was waiting inside the 'Vette, in the noonday sun, for my wife to come out of the house; we were going to a formal luncheon. When the front door opened, my wife appeared, looking beautiful in a stylish new dress.

I flipped a switch. The smooth, sleek front end of the car erupted, and two large headlights popped up.

"Why did you do that?" My wife asked.

"I couldn't help it. You looked so good, my you-know-what got an erection."