Zoltan Komor's Blog
May 27, 2017
URETHRA BALLERINA - excerpt
My urethra-ballerina is crying over a dance move she just messed up; thus, transparent fluids keep leaking out of my pee hole all day. The pirouette á lá seconde is not an easy task, and though I really can't complain about my dick size, all in all, it's smaller inside than a proper rehearsal room—which of course makes the tiny dancer's job a hell a lot harder. A try to cheer up my penis a bit. I put on Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker—it usually calms things down.
I can almost hear my father laughing at me, as I'm wiping down the tears from my penis with a tissue. He would surely consider a ballerina living inside my manhood rather gay. Hell, he always thought that my love towards ballet shows makes me a queer. But I always enjoyed them, thus letting his son visit a gracefully expressive dance show was out of the question.
"You know why men never go to the ballet theaters?" he damns over a beer, rubbing his black, greasy hair. "Cause little ballet dancers crawl into their dicks, that's why! Only women go there! If a guy steps into a place like that, he will surely catch the damned cock-disease!"
Nonsense, I told myself, and I sneaked out one night when I was fifteen, to watch The Firebird at the local theater. The performance captivated me instantly, and it never really let me go. But the next day my shaft began to burn, and yellow pus started to leak out from the peehole—it made me dizzy when I found a tiny ballet shoe in the small puddle.
I never told my father that he was right. And I never visited a doctor to get my little ballerina surgically removed. If I would, that would make my dad a winner. Even tough he was right: according to the books, the urethra-ballerina is the distant relative of the vampire fish (Vandellia cirrhosa), a native parasite in the Amazon Basin, that is known for an alleged tendency to invade the human urethra, to feed on human blood and tissue. Although the vampire fish attacks both women and men, the urethra-ballerina (Ballerina cirrhosa) only invades the male genitalia. The parasite spreads on the velvety chairs of the ballet theatres—the loud music stimulates its movements—and yes, the old fucker was right, this is the exact reason, why men don't visit ballet shows. But I never told him or visited a doctor.
Regardless, why would I do that? It didn't take much time, to get used to my little intruder—and now, we're getting along more than well. After some time, the swelling went down, and I could urinate normally again—though in a much thinner stream. At night, I hear beautiful music coming out from my shaft, and a nice, tingling feeling overwhelms my cavernosa as the Lilliputian prima donna begins to practise—the roses of joy blossom under her soft moving feet. And when I can't bare the pleasures anymore, I explode—like a giant whale spraying sea water in the air -, and on the top of the white ooze, there's my tiny little dancer, like a wind-up toy, swirling, making her grand plié turn. This is also our great moment—the only time we can have a glimpse at each other. I throw a kiss at her, and she catches it—then she disappears again into the deep hole, and I wish I could follow her.
In my dreams, I grab my dickhead, and I start to stretch it, like if it were made of taffy. It widens, and the pee hole turns into a magical cave. My head disappears into my member, and I arrive into a gorgeous practice hall. There are mirrors all around. And she’s there is also. Holding out her delicate hands, inviting me to dance. In reality, I'm clumsy, but in my dream, I dance beautifully.
Again, I'm drinking milk and eating eggs. I need the proteins. The more I can see every day, the more time I can see her. And we talk every day—but we can only exchange a few words before she disappears again. However, if we add those words together, we spoke over the years; I can say, we talked so many hours already. She tells me, she loves me. She blows kisses towards me with her bloody cherry-red little lips, and she keeps chewing my ear, sorry, my urethra about marriage.
"But I would have to introduce you to my parents," I stated in the moment of joy. She replies the next day at the time of another ejaculation: "Please, introduce me."
"Is this really necessary?" I ask her that night, pulling my dick.
"Yes. You know, I'm an old-fashioned girl," she informs me, and she slips back into my penis.
All right, I give in. So I call my parents on the phone, and I tell them, that I'm getting married. They are of course want to meet the girl as soon as possible, and they're also mad; because I didn't tell them earlier. They invite us for dinner. My parents are quite surprised when I arrive alone the next day. I take a big breath and sit them on a chair. I tell them just to wait and watch. Then I sit on the dinner table and pull my pants down. I start stroking my hardening manhood. They are just sitting there speechless, with gaping mouths. I tell them to get ready; because my fiancé is arriving. (Of course I didn't give her a proper ring, but I put a cock ring on my shaft before the family meeting.) And my body begins to shake. The exploding sperm flow splashes everywhere—even on the hot food. But that doesn't matter—because there, on the top of the white fountain my little lover spins and whirls, pirouetting and waving towards my parents, showing her best form.
My mother faints and my father begins to curse and cry: "I knew I was raising a fag!" he yells.
For days after days, the transparent tears of my love keep leaking out of my penis after this incident. And no matter how loud I play The Nutcracker, she just can't calm down. I keep telling her, that it doesn't matter, what my parents think about our relationship, we're gonna live together anyhow forever and ever. And I try not to imagine the distant future; when I became an impotent old donkey, and there will be no more tender moments together. We belong to each other.
I'll take her to a priest tomorrow.
Urethra Ballerina
I can almost hear my father laughing at me, as I'm wiping down the tears from my penis with a tissue. He would surely consider a ballerina living inside my manhood rather gay. Hell, he always thought that my love towards ballet shows makes me a queer. But I always enjoyed them, thus letting his son visit a gracefully expressive dance show was out of the question.
"You know why men never go to the ballet theaters?" he damns over a beer, rubbing his black, greasy hair. "Cause little ballet dancers crawl into their dicks, that's why! Only women go there! If a guy steps into a place like that, he will surely catch the damned cock-disease!"
Nonsense, I told myself, and I sneaked out one night when I was fifteen, to watch The Firebird at the local theater. The performance captivated me instantly, and it never really let me go. But the next day my shaft began to burn, and yellow pus started to leak out from the peehole—it made me dizzy when I found a tiny ballet shoe in the small puddle.
I never told my father that he was right. And I never visited a doctor to get my little ballerina surgically removed. If I would, that would make my dad a winner. Even tough he was right: according to the books, the urethra-ballerina is the distant relative of the vampire fish (Vandellia cirrhosa), a native parasite in the Amazon Basin, that is known for an alleged tendency to invade the human urethra, to feed on human blood and tissue. Although the vampire fish attacks both women and men, the urethra-ballerina (Ballerina cirrhosa) only invades the male genitalia. The parasite spreads on the velvety chairs of the ballet theatres—the loud music stimulates its movements—and yes, the old fucker was right, this is the exact reason, why men don't visit ballet shows. But I never told him or visited a doctor.
Regardless, why would I do that? It didn't take much time, to get used to my little intruder—and now, we're getting along more than well. After some time, the swelling went down, and I could urinate normally again—though in a much thinner stream. At night, I hear beautiful music coming out from my shaft, and a nice, tingling feeling overwhelms my cavernosa as the Lilliputian prima donna begins to practise—the roses of joy blossom under her soft moving feet. And when I can't bare the pleasures anymore, I explode—like a giant whale spraying sea water in the air -, and on the top of the white ooze, there's my tiny little dancer, like a wind-up toy, swirling, making her grand plié turn. This is also our great moment—the only time we can have a glimpse at each other. I throw a kiss at her, and she catches it—then she disappears again into the deep hole, and I wish I could follow her.
In my dreams, I grab my dickhead, and I start to stretch it, like if it were made of taffy. It widens, and the pee hole turns into a magical cave. My head disappears into my member, and I arrive into a gorgeous practice hall. There are mirrors all around. And she’s there is also. Holding out her delicate hands, inviting me to dance. In reality, I'm clumsy, but in my dream, I dance beautifully.
Again, I'm drinking milk and eating eggs. I need the proteins. The more I can see every day, the more time I can see her. And we talk every day—but we can only exchange a few words before she disappears again. However, if we add those words together, we spoke over the years; I can say, we talked so many hours already. She tells me, she loves me. She blows kisses towards me with her bloody cherry-red little lips, and she keeps chewing my ear, sorry, my urethra about marriage.
"But I would have to introduce you to my parents," I stated in the moment of joy. She replies the next day at the time of another ejaculation: "Please, introduce me."
"Is this really necessary?" I ask her that night, pulling my dick.
"Yes. You know, I'm an old-fashioned girl," she informs me, and she slips back into my penis.
All right, I give in. So I call my parents on the phone, and I tell them, that I'm getting married. They are of course want to meet the girl as soon as possible, and they're also mad; because I didn't tell them earlier. They invite us for dinner. My parents are quite surprised when I arrive alone the next day. I take a big breath and sit them on a chair. I tell them just to wait and watch. Then I sit on the dinner table and pull my pants down. I start stroking my hardening manhood. They are just sitting there speechless, with gaping mouths. I tell them to get ready; because my fiancé is arriving. (Of course I didn't give her a proper ring, but I put a cock ring on my shaft before the family meeting.) And my body begins to shake. The exploding sperm flow splashes everywhere—even on the hot food. But that doesn't matter—because there, on the top of the white fountain my little lover spins and whirls, pirouetting and waving towards my parents, showing her best form.
My mother faints and my father begins to curse and cry: "I knew I was raising a fag!" he yells.
For days after days, the transparent tears of my love keep leaking out of my penis after this incident. And no matter how loud I play The Nutcracker, she just can't calm down. I keep telling her, that it doesn't matter, what my parents think about our relationship, we're gonna live together anyhow forever and ever. And I try not to imagine the distant future; when I became an impotent old donkey, and there will be no more tender moments together. We belong to each other.
I'll take her to a priest tomorrow.
Urethra Ballerina
January 23, 2015
Fuel
I notice a strange symptom, so I decide to consult my doctor. My urine smells like gasoline. The doc doesn't believe me, so I have to produce a sample in his office. Puckering his brows he tells me: "Well, I admit. This really smells like fuel. But I'm gonna send this sample to the lab, we should wait for the results to come back."
A few days pass, and I'm still waiting. Then the doc calls, and tells me that the sample was lost, and I should bring another one to his office. More this time. Then this happens again. And again.
Later, the doc takes off for a few days, and I start to suspect that all the piss I gave him landed not in the lab, but in his car's fuel tank. I call his cell phone. He denies it, of course.
My friends are beginning to act weird too. There's not a day, when one of them doesn't ask me to come over for a drink. And when I ask them about the bathroom after a few beers, the answer is always the same: "Sorry, bro, broken pipe, use this can instead."
I stop visiting them, but I also can't go home anymore. Someone broke into my apartment last night, and packed my fridge full of drinks. I'm sauntering in the streets. Not drinking a single gulp. But strangers come to me, asking if they can buy me a drink. I must escape from the city. Faceless people follow me all day, catheter tubes quiver between their fingers. I woke up drunk. Someone must have poured beer down my throat, while I was sleeping in the alley.
I totter to my doc's house, spitting profanities and I piss down the corner of his house. A few drops land on my trousers too. Then I light a cigarette.
A few days pass, and I'm still waiting. Then the doc calls, and tells me that the sample was lost, and I should bring another one to his office. More this time. Then this happens again. And again.
Later, the doc takes off for a few days, and I start to suspect that all the piss I gave him landed not in the lab, but in his car's fuel tank. I call his cell phone. He denies it, of course.
My friends are beginning to act weird too. There's not a day, when one of them doesn't ask me to come over for a drink. And when I ask them about the bathroom after a few beers, the answer is always the same: "Sorry, bro, broken pipe, use this can instead."
I stop visiting them, but I also can't go home anymore. Someone broke into my apartment last night, and packed my fridge full of drinks. I'm sauntering in the streets. Not drinking a single gulp. But strangers come to me, asking if they can buy me a drink. I must escape from the city. Faceless people follow me all day, catheter tubes quiver between their fingers. I woke up drunk. Someone must have poured beer down my throat, while I was sleeping in the alley.
I totter to my doc's house, spitting profanities and I piss down the corner of his house. A few drops land on my trousers too. Then I light a cigarette.
January 17, 2015
Shitorium
“Well it’s about time to housebreak the child!” the parents decide, so they buy a little potty at the pet shop. The thing just growls at the child, following him everywhere. The little boy is so scared that he locks himself in the closet, his tears are wetting the musty smelling clothes.
This method might seems barbarous to you but in other places it is common to solder a pot to the child’s back: the kids then crawl up and down the room like giant snails, and when the urge comes they have to work themselves into the most uncomfortable positions to plump their waste products into the potty. They are standing on their hands, with legs pointing forward, they look like scorpions ready to attack and the parents flash lights at them, watching the pits and the bulges of the wrapped little bodies, the lines of the bones under pale skin.
These kids usually grow up to be artists. Their tricks evoke amazement in the audience who clap so hard that they almost shit themselves, but of course, in the final moment the memories come back about the lonely hours they spent in the closet many years ago and their anuses close up and they watch with envy the artist who can freely defecate. Thence springs the old joke about the artist who walks into the bar and asks the bartender where he might find the washroom and the bartender tells him to go shit himself.
*
I became house-trained when I was two years old. But lately I’m suffering from some hygienic problems: every time I sit on the toilet to do my business I feel something gruesomely enormous is trying to leave my bowels. After an hour of straining I give birth to my one and a half year old self. The kid keeps running up and down in my house, laughing wildly. He defecates in corners, on the carpet, then he sticks his little hands into the poop and smudges everything with his dirty fingers. I try to catch him, but he is too fast. In the end I collapse exhausted, and when I wake up the kid has already crawled back into my ass.
What a little goblin. Other times, when I have company he reaches out his hands and he tosses shit onto my underwear just as if he were playing with sand. It’s quite difficult to explain that I wasn’t the one who shitted my pants and of course no one believes me. A doc finally sends me to a rehabilitation center. “Don’t be ashamed, this is quite common you know. Sometimes people forget how to eat or shit properly, but we’ll teach you again!”
In the shitorium tv headed nurses put me in nice fresh powdery diapers. The screens on their necks are showing movies about women and men defecating into various toilets. They are really trying to carve the right way into my brain. A doctor keeps telling me that if I don’t co-operate he’ll have to surgically implant a potty into my body, as he did with a former patient. He’s showing me pictures and ultrasound recordings: the poor fellow’s anus is all sewed together, his rectum is now joined with a pot inside his belly. They cut him open once a month to empty the implant.
I become friends with a nurse. At nights, she sits on my bed and starts to hum a song to the child inside me. Sometimes, I want to kiss this woman. But buttholes of strangers are gaping in the screen where her face should have been. So I just fall asleep. The angels dip their toilet-paper wings into the stool of the night.
This method might seems barbarous to you but in other places it is common to solder a pot to the child’s back: the kids then crawl up and down the room like giant snails, and when the urge comes they have to work themselves into the most uncomfortable positions to plump their waste products into the potty. They are standing on their hands, with legs pointing forward, they look like scorpions ready to attack and the parents flash lights at them, watching the pits and the bulges of the wrapped little bodies, the lines of the bones under pale skin.
These kids usually grow up to be artists. Their tricks evoke amazement in the audience who clap so hard that they almost shit themselves, but of course, in the final moment the memories come back about the lonely hours they spent in the closet many years ago and their anuses close up and they watch with envy the artist who can freely defecate. Thence springs the old joke about the artist who walks into the bar and asks the bartender where he might find the washroom and the bartender tells him to go shit himself.
*
I became house-trained when I was two years old. But lately I’m suffering from some hygienic problems: every time I sit on the toilet to do my business I feel something gruesomely enormous is trying to leave my bowels. After an hour of straining I give birth to my one and a half year old self. The kid keeps running up and down in my house, laughing wildly. He defecates in corners, on the carpet, then he sticks his little hands into the poop and smudges everything with his dirty fingers. I try to catch him, but he is too fast. In the end I collapse exhausted, and when I wake up the kid has already crawled back into my ass.
What a little goblin. Other times, when I have company he reaches out his hands and he tosses shit onto my underwear just as if he were playing with sand. It’s quite difficult to explain that I wasn’t the one who shitted my pants and of course no one believes me. A doc finally sends me to a rehabilitation center. “Don’t be ashamed, this is quite common you know. Sometimes people forget how to eat or shit properly, but we’ll teach you again!”
In the shitorium tv headed nurses put me in nice fresh powdery diapers. The screens on their necks are showing movies about women and men defecating into various toilets. They are really trying to carve the right way into my brain. A doctor keeps telling me that if I don’t co-operate he’ll have to surgically implant a potty into my body, as he did with a former patient. He’s showing me pictures and ultrasound recordings: the poor fellow’s anus is all sewed together, his rectum is now joined with a pot inside his belly. They cut him open once a month to empty the implant.
I become friends with a nurse. At nights, she sits on my bed and starts to hum a song to the child inside me. Sometimes, I want to kiss this woman. But buttholes of strangers are gaping in the screen where her face should have been. So I just fall asleep. The angels dip their toilet-paper wings into the stool of the night.
