They arrive in a box. A housewarming gift.
Six multi-colored phalluses, an erotic rainbow.
Priapic wax sculptures with anxious white wicks
protruding proudly from smooth soldier helmets.
I dare not attempt to discover if they are scented.
Unconventional gifts present their own dilemmas.
Where does one place such perverse, yet practical, protuberances?
They elicit whispers from neighbors when placed in windows.
On mantles and nightstands, they startle new houseguests.
And there's no way to explain their presence in a candelabra.
Their veined, ridged tumescence belies their incandescence;
these potentially shimmering shafts seem better suited
as figurines adorning a shrine erected to Eros or Pan.
Light fixtures should not inspire off-color limericks or feelings
of inadequacy in those merely seeking casual luminosity.
So these hot rods are desperately dubbed emergency supplies
and shoved into drawers and cabinets and other dark crevices,
where they lie dormant, but far from flaccid, concealed
throughout the house like an inappropriate Easter Egg hunt.
But out of sight is not out of mind.
For I find myself growing increasingly feverish in anticipation
of a power failure, or some other excuse, to plunge me into darkness
so I can storm through doorways, thrusting my turgid torch with purpose, and vigor,
hot wax dripping lewdly onto fingers twitching with illuminated arousal,
allowing these volcanic urethra to fill the night with their flaming ejaculate.