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The PC’s account
So I goes into the Gents on Cavendish Street. The one near the cenotaph. We’d had a call someone was injured and I was passing. I found this man laid out by the urinal.
It looked like he’d been having a pee, slipped and banged his head. No one else around. He was breathing regularly, so I wasn’t worried, but called an ambulance just in case.
When he comes round, he looks embarrassed and tries to hide something in his hand. But he’s also struggling to zip up and suddenly this thing leaps from his hand, springs over to the washbasins. An effin’ penis! Looked like he’d castrated himself zipping up!
He tells me it’s a medical thing. Says he’s got eczema, wears this thing for protection. Yeah, I thought. Pull the other one!
At this point, Stan, the ambulance man, arrives. He seems to know the man. ‘Hi Jimmy,’ he says. ‘What’s up, then?’
I left them to it. Personally, I think this ‘Jimmy’ had been flashing someone with his joke penis and they’d planted him.
Jimmy’s story
There I was, in need of a whiz, and there’s the Cavendish St ‘conveniences’. Used to be quite lively down there.
Anyway, I stroll in. There’s this young fellow standing there, nice bum, wiggling it just for me, so I think. But then I see he’s having trouble freeing his tackle. Catching sight of it, I’m not surprised. Hung like a Suffolk Punch, he was! Standing next to him at the stalls, I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
The young fellow didn’t seem bothered, though. In fact, I thought he relished my attentions, standing there like some fire fighter hosing a blaze. When he finishes, he shakes off the drips, giving his tallywacker a couple of stretches. It’s like watching someone cock a rifle. Is he inviting me to take him in hand, give him some pump action?
I barely touch him before he squeals and backs off the stall. And then I get the biggest shock of all. His tackle comes clean off in my hand!
Staggering backwards, I topple off the step. And that’s the last thing I remember until the plod finds me. Smirking he is, like he knows exactly what’s what, despite sounding all official.
And I was still holding this fake willy, till it flies out of my grip. You should have seen the shock on the his face! I feed him some guff about wearing it for medical reasons. Lucky for me, Stan arrives, and the plod leaves.
Richard’s tale
I’ve always been sensitive about my member. I know it’s a common worry — ‘penis envy’ — but my concerns are based in fact. I know I’m smaller than average. Haven’t I got in all sorts of bother sizing up others’? ‘Oy, queerboy, want some, do you?’ ‘Brown noser!’ ‘Shit stabber!’ You know the sort of slur.
It didn’t seem fair. The rest of me sailed through puberty — voice breaking, secondary hair sprouting — but nothing down below. I’d been told it might have something to do with my Coeliac Disease, which hadn’t been diagnosed for years, even though I’d been a sickly child. ‘Are we feeling a Little Dicky?’ It used to be Mum’s standing joke. After puberty, I banned her from saying it.
You can understand, then, why I was self-conscious in public toilets – unless, that is, there was a cubicle. Otherwise, well, I’d stand there, desperate and frustrated, listening enviously to the sighs of relief, the bladders emptying, the steam rising. After a while of pretending, I’d zip up and leave, then loiter outside until things quietened down — although hanging about was also risky.
It was all very stressful until I met up with my old pal, Wallace Bingham. We’d been at university together. He had a job in anatomical modelling, which meant designing body parts, mainly for medical training. And there was this silicone penis, slightly larger than life-size, used, he said, to show students how to insert catheters.
Of course, I asked Wallace if he could design something I could wear. He rose to the challenge and made a prosthetic so impressive I was loath to take it off.
Percy worked a treat. I had no more problems with what Wallace termed ‘paruresis’ (shy bladder syndrome). I voided like a veritable stallion, savouring the covetous looks of those alongside.
Everything went fine until I was down in the Cavendish Street Gents, struggling with Percy. I suppose it looked like I was playing with myself. And maybe that’s what made my neighbour react as he did, grabbing my buddy. Shocked, I stepped back, then the shock was on him as he realised what had come off in his hand. He stumbled off the step, crashing onto the tiled floor.
I legged it. Halfway up the road I realised he still had Percy. But I couldn’t face going back. I did report it, though; that is, about someone collapsing in the Cavendish Street Gents.
Wallace promised he’d replace Percy, but I never took him up on it. I should say, this all happened a while back, since when I no longer experience the paruresis. Nowadays I revel in being invisible, confident that no one is going to molest me. Even my mother is delighted. I’m her Little Dicky once again.
About the author
Dr David Rudd is an emeritus professor who, after 40 years, turned from academic prose to creative writing. He has published some fifty stories, several appearing in ‘Café Lit’. A collection of his short stories, 'Blood Will Out, and Other Strange Tales' was published in 2024 (available Amazon and elsewhere).
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