CHAPTER ONE

PART ONE

 

My name is Davy Fuchs and this is my story. I’m in my therapist’s office. He’s my fourth therapist. I liked what he said on his website: It stated that he believed the role of a therapist was to help a client explore the meaning one attaches to something. So, impressed with this, I had been writing to him for several months. Because of my schedule, I had not been able to meet him and now; at last, here I am waiting to meet him. Why am I so anxious to meet yet another therapist? I need to know why I attach so much importance to my cock. You see, it nearly got me killed.

 

“Yes, of course, I’ll tell you about myself. I’ve told you quite a bit in my letters,” I said as I eased into a soft leather recliner. It was a bit short for me.

My cognitive behavioral therapist and my pen pal, Dr. P. J. Saulo, recognized my need for more legroom. He pushed a matching footstool toward me. He cleared his throat.

“Start as far back in your memory as you can. Leave out nothing. Include as much detail as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Good. Sometimes it’s the little things that become the key to unlocking one’s memory bank. What is your earliest clear recollection?”

“Well, little things bring back one and one I’ve never forgotten. My earliest recollection had to do with my—,”

“Penis, I believe you have indicated many times in your letters.”

“Well, yes. Let’s see. My first clear recollection takes me back to the Valley.”

 “The Valley,” quizzed PJ?

“Yes, that’s what we called the area where my family had its farm.”

“I see. Please continue.

“One day we went visiting one of our few neighbors, the Kahlils. The Valley probably should have been called Kahlil Valley since they had three farms. I guess it wasn’t because our spread was the largest and supposedly my family had been there for several generations. We even had a creamery. Anyway, Niles Valley had only about a half dozen farms in it. The whole area was a beautiful rural farm country with low-slung hills and gently rolling fields. There was a full-sized creek called Marsh Creek that ran the full length of the valley and eventually dumped into a river. Anyway, it was while we're visiting the Kahlils and of course, I had to use the toilet. I went to their “outhouse.” It was hard for me to pee at their place because they didn’t have a low hole as my folks did for me.

While I was letting water, the Kahlil girls began bugging me. One was three years older than me; the other was 5 years older. There was a small knothole in the side of the outhouse. I have never forgotten that terrible day. I was so embarrassed. They had been taking turns watching me pee. Suddenly they began their infernal chanting. I was sure the whole world could hear as well as my folks. The chant turned into a screaming, giggling uproar:

We see your pee-wee, pee-wee. Teeny-weenie pee-wee. T’aint no bigger than a bee.