a poet's tale

Last year around this time, Reverend Godfrey, The Unknown Poet and I took a little trip. We jumped in the Reverend’s red convertible and drove out to the beach. The Unknown Poet left his pen behind that day and instead brought along his camera to photograph the autumn scenery. The Reverend and I were both happy merely to enjoy a break from our daily labours. We often wondered how our idle friend managed to sustain himself and his artistic habits and, petty as it may sound, were sometimes jealous of his seemingly uninterrupted leisure.

But those thoughts were far from our minds as the red sports car that was the Reverend’s pride and joy raced along the open road. After a time we arrived at an idyllic and deserted beach. It was an unusually warm September afternoon and The Unknown Poet decided to take swim. Not having planned on swimming, The Unknown Poet hadn’t brought along his bathing trunks. But he was among friends so he felt comfortable enough to go skinny-dipping.

The water wasn’t nearly as warm as the sun and wind that day so, of course, The Unknown Poet’s genitals withered considerably. Standing on the beach with a clear view, Reverend Godfrey and I could not conceal our amusement and The Unknown Poet was mortified. He remained silent for most of the ride home while the Reverend and I attempted to stifle our giggles. As we reached the city limits, The Unknown Poet finally spoke.

He calmly advised us that, as an artist, he had dedicated his life to observation. In the course of his observations he had also made a detailed study of the human anatomy. There were, he added, certain anatomical clues as to the size of those parts of the male person that, as a rule, do not go uncovered in public. He soberly informed us that, given sufficient time to warm up, judging by our various physiques, he would certainly prove the best hung among us.

So we pulled over at a coffee shop on the outskirts of town and went inside and made ourselves comfortable. The Unknown Poet ordered hot chocolate which, he said, would bring him around in no time. The Reverend and I had coffee. We were unsure what to make of our friend’s strange boast but thought it only fair to give him a chance, considering how his day had gone so far.

In truth, the Reverend and I were, I’m certain, both secretly rooting for The Unknown Poet. Furthermore, what he said about physique made good intuitive sense. The Unknown Poet had the large hands and feet typically associated with an ample organ. Frankly, I was curious to see how big it really was.

After a few minutes, The Unknown Poet announced that he was ready. The Reverend, being a man of some stature in the community, suggested we repair to the washroom to conduct our survey but The Unknown Poet would not hear of it. He bade us rise and instructed us both to whip it out and lay it on the table.

Still stinging from the shame of our indiscreet chuckling, we did as instructed and laid our members on the table. I am unable to report on the magnitude of the Reverend’s pecker because, in that rather awkward situation, my gaze remained at eye level with my companions. The Reverend, to the best of my recollection did not look down either.

After a few moments contemplation the Unknown Poet stood up and the Reverend and I beheld an alarming bulge in The Unknown Poet’s pants. I thought it strange that I had never noticed the sheer enormity of his package before that moment. I watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as The Unknown Poet opened his fly and then, with a quickness and dexterity I never imagined him possessing, proceed to remove his camera from his crotch and snap our photograph.

The flash of the bulb caught the attention of our waitress as the Reverend and I hurried to replace our shlongs and recover what was left of our dignity. She strode to our table and told us in the firmest tone that if we did not leave the establishment immediately, she would be forced to summon the police. The Reverend and I both produced bills from our wallets and left what I’m sure was a generous tip for our offended server.

Once outside, The Unknown Poet hopped gaily into the back seat of the red convertible and the Reverend took his place behind the wheel. We drove along in silence for what seemed like hours and as we neared his domicile, I stole a furtive glance in the rear view mirror at The Unknown Poet. He smiled back contentedly and enlightened us as to what a gaudy and ostentatious vehicle the red convertible was, and that he would only be requiring it on the weekends.

That warm September afternoon, Reverend Godfrey and I finally learned the secret of our friend’s mysterious and independent means. How many other unfortunate souls came before we cannot say. How many more unsuspecting pilgrims will be drawn in, we dare not imagine. We know with certainty only this: We are but two of the reluctant patrons of The Unknown Poet.