As secretary for the Cleveland Chapter of the Violet Myers Fan Club, I obviously wasn’t first choice for Violet’s Brazzers exclusive series “Violet Fucks Her Fan Boys.” Our president and founder of this chapter, Marvin, had a strong claim: young, good-looking, firm biceps, has an MBA, wears collared shirts. But as the date approached, he contracted COVID and though his fever was mild and, as we all saw, as he made us all witness, he could still get hard, Violet’s agent nixed the idea. Donovan, our vice president and generally agreed upon to have the largest cock in the club coming in at a cool 8½ inches, was next in line but his girlfriend got wind of the plan and though she was very open-minded about his adoration of Violet and even brought videos into the bedroom to their mutual titillation, she feared he’d come to see her as inadequate after a round with Violet. And who could blame her?
Thus, it came down to me: a modest man of modest looks and means with a modest 5¼-inch cock. But it wasn’t just about me and my average cock. I was representing the entire Cleveland chapter. I had to do better than my best, get harder, last longer, look leaner and smoother than I ever had before. For me. For the club. For Violet. I consulted my psychic who told me that violets are inspiring, symbols of passion and faith, and I have all of the above for Violet and then some. Of course, I never presumed to be capable of pleasuring Violet but I had to leave it all on the field, so to speak, and let the boys, Violet, and viewers everywhere, judge me as they saw fit.
I spent six months in training. Picture a Rocky montage but instead of trudging through Russian snow, I worked my way through amateur porn stars and ex-girlfriends and even a few accommodating wives of fellow club members to try to up my game. My thrust power increased two-fold. My clitoral stimulation dexterity tripled. I could last longer, rebound faster, and shoot my wad farther than I ever could before. “If I can change, and you can change,” I said to myself, “everybody can change.”
Fate came for me on a chilly December night in a McMansion in Solon. Violet’s people greeted me, prepped me, pancaked me in make-up, and fed me a fistful of Viagra. I changed into a white silk robe with the words “Fan Boy” embroidered in purple on the back and they pulled me into a bedroom that was brightly lit with a team of photographers and a waterboy mixing electrolytes with a large ladle in an even larger cooler and there, on the bed, looking small, smaller than the screens I’d spent the last two years watching her on and worshipping, was Violet.
I had tunnel vision, barely seeing the tip of her nose. She smiled, asked me some things about me, I think, my job or family, it was all a blur. I’m not even sure I answered her. Then, and this I recall, she said, “let’s see what we’re working with,” and parted my robe and it wasn’t sexy or even exciting like getting an autograph from a celeb you admire. It felt clinical. Cold. But my body responded. It remembered my training, or the Viagra was working its magic, so I was rock hard as she held my cock, rubbing her thumb along the top and then with the rest of her fingers stroking my balls.
More people came in, as if the whole fan club were there only these were studio people, cameramen, the director who looked like a black-haired Philip Seymour Hoffman. I was playing myself, the role of myself: a 29-year-old UPS driver and the Secretary of the Cleveland Chapter of the Violet Myer’s Fan Club. But all of sudden the role seemed too much for me. Yet it was too late. Bright lights and pushing and pulling and the director telling me to “kiss her there” or “touch her here, here, is this your first time?” And “stop being such a robot and there, now just like that, see, you’re getting into it, I can tell and the audience can tell” and it was all so strange that I felt like I was outside myself, a fan watching a movie, watching this man put his cock between Violet’s breasts and watching Violet press them together with her arms but a part of me was still the secretary too, used to taking the minutes and planning the events, drafting the monthly newsletter, so I couldn’t let the club down, let Violet down, let the world of lonely, horny men who lived through her and for her, down. No, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. In the missionary position I found my stride, my rhythm, I was moving and she was moving, a real pro, releasing perfectly timed moans to encourage me and the audience, the audience out there who was counting on her, on us, to get off, the future masturbators out there on couches and toilets, in beds and cars, fingering and flicking and rubbing and stroking, and we were all connected across time in that eternal moment of self-pleasure and I thought: I’m doing it, guys, for you, for all of us, thank you and you’re welcome.
And then, the finale. Violet, for those not familiar with her work, has one of the best—I’d say the best but I’m biased, clearly—asses in the porn industry. It’s large and round and powerful, charismatic, hallowed cheeks: a consecrated ass. For the finale, the director had said he wanted to see us do doggy-style, that’s what he said, “like hounds in a kennel,” so we shifted and she’s suddenly on all fours on the floor and she’s fucking me now, I’m not fucking her, because I’m paralyzed, frozen by her numinous ass in a state of carnal grace, and she’s twerking on my cock, a vortex of sucking flesh and my cock is numb from all of the fucking and then, and then, and then—
It falls off.
My cock falls off.
There’s no blood, no screaming, no alarm, even, just a cock disconnected from a man, on the floor beneath the best ass in the porn industry. Lying there like a piece of flesh-colored chalk some kid forgot on the sidewalk.
I look around, embarrassed for myself, for not finishing the work, for my average lonely little cock lying in the field of white, lube-stained carpeting. A paltry sacrifice.
“Cut,” the director says. He rubs the bridge of his nose. “We lost another one.”
Violet turns to me, still on all fours, breasts swaying, hair up in a tight ponytail that moments ago I’d been shyly pulling, and kisses me softly on the mouth. She then says, looking at me but addressing the director, “this is the third cock this week.”
“Don’t worry, babe,” the director replies. “We’ll iron it out in post-production.” Then I pass out.
Four weeks later the whole club and I drove north to a cemetery outside Chicago specializing in cock burials. Evidently, the ubiquity of sites like OnlyFans and Pornhub has led to all sorts of sex stunts where pornstars break the cocks off eager but ill-prepared fans. This is no business for amateurs. Violet’s team paid for the little casket. The club arranged the services. A twenty-one-cock salute. They stood in a ring around the tiny grave, flies open to the chill wind whipping off one of our great lakes, and jerked off onto the casket housing my poor little cock with my phone propped up on the headstone showing a highlight reel of Violet’s greatest hits flashing into the night, her glorious tits and ass and pussy reflecting off faces, cocks, and graves. And as I watched Violet’s digital flesh and listened to my fellow club members’ strokes and moans and yes, cries, for this was a day of mourning, I heard more mourners out there in the cold Chicago dusk, jerking off and for and over the loss of other cocks, blowing loads of mourning onto other graves and mixing their come with the freshly-dug earth in melancholy tribute to the loss of a comrade-in-arms, a kindred cock fallen in the line of duty, crusader come home and laid to rest, what a pussy, Hail Mary, those tits, Full of Grace, that ass, Glory Be.