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"You think my dick is the only thing I have going for me?
Have you read my writing? You can look at me longer than that.
Look at me."
There is silence in the room.
Then Falcon says, "I want to show it to you. I want you to see it."
He turns off the overhead light, so that only a small desk lamp
illuminates his body. The sound of a TV infomercial wafts on from the other room. Falcon pushes down his baseball pants.
God. Holy shit. Jesus Christ.
As his penis hangs there, its uncircumcised head reaching halfway down his leg, the failed dreams and disappointments that wallpaper this room begin to disappear.
Falcon knows the effect. He has seen it before.
He seizes the moment by grabbing the base of his penis with his left hand
and twirling the organ furiously, creating a blurry snake of skin and then a propeller sound, and while his penis spins around, Falcon looks as if nothing in the world could touch him.
Even if he had made the Yankees, there have been lots of Yankees.
If all else fails, he has this.
June 12, 2003
Story by Robert Kurson