Hallowpeen

by Holly Wilde

“The Hallowpeen comes and jacks you off at night, refusing to leave until your peen is as hollow as his soul, muahahaha,”

His engorged gourdhood’s orange surface is slicked with froth, like a whipped topping on a pumpkin spice latte. Inch by inch, I stare in awe at his immeasurable length that dangles in front of me. The fluted base curves away from his body, jutting out like a butternut squash. Under a layer of pumpkin foreskin I can see the tip of the stem wanting to poke out.

But, I’m currently in a Hallowpeen sandwich, all I can think about is how close their pumpkins are to my pie.

“Just because my guts have been ripped out doesn’t mean I can’t rearrange yours.”

But all I want to do is get back in the middle of their pumpkin patch and have them plow my field deep into the night.

“Let’s take her inside and show our new guest how we peen in Peentown.”

I’ve always been a coffee girl, but being tea-bagged like this is more electrifying than any seasonal latte.