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Fuck! That Demon Stole My Dick!

By Victorie Lazer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

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* * *

It's been said that one of Hollywood's greatest mysteries is that of Ken Moreschi's genitalia.

The young director, as well-known for his eccentricities as his sudden, explosive growth in popularity in every possible venue, naturally stirred up his share of gossip. There wasn't a thing a person could say that hadn't been said about Moreschi. But there was something lingering about the sexual rumors in particular, a raw consistency between each of the models and starlets who'd seen him after dark.

"He's a fine lover," they'd say, "Goes down like he's diving for sunken treasure. But he never took his pants off."

In fact, there wasn't a single woman who'd seen him drop trou, at least not one that could be even remotely verified. So the rumors spread and multiplied, and theories began to spring up. He's tiny, the unimaginative ones claimed, practically microscopic. He's impotent. He's purple and twisted. He's a never-nude. A small, but vocal faction insisted that he was a biological female, bitterly ashamed of a woman's folds, and had amassed an impressive amount of evidence to support their conclusion.

They were wrong, of course. Every single one of them.

* * *

Back in film school, when the contents of Ken's pants were a subject of no one's interest but his own, he'd had quite the respectable member, thick and robust and always on-call. Of course, that was all he had in those days. Even though he poured his heart and soul into everything he did, he got no respect or acknowledgement of his work on the screen or in the sack. He would have done anything to change that.

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