“I See Dick People,” by Marsha Smolev

Apr 27th, 2022 | By | Category: Fake Nonfiction, Prose

I was starting down the aisle to my seat on Flight 288, moving past the woman with the white hair who was holding the overfed chihuahua, past the curvaceous athletic teenager who dropped her phone under the seat, when I locked eyes with an athletic tanned man sitting in 5C. He smiled, great smile, white perfect teeth, dark almost black eyes, graying hair. Why was he sitting there like that with bare shoulders?

He was stark naked, his ample dick leaning against that indescribable private area between his groin and the top of his left muscular thigh. I looked away to the balding heavyset man in the next row, but he was also naked, his dick hidden by his watermelon-shaped belly. I forced my eyes to cross the aisle, only to discover, as I continued to inch forward to row 8, that all the men were sans clothes, the skinny old wrinkled guy to the left, the round blonde man next to him, the muscular father dealing with his fidgeting child, all of them.

I closed my eyes, opened them, reset my gaze to the floor. Somehow seeing the naked father who was struggling with his toddler daughter, seemed particularly wrong. Last thing he needed was me staring at his huge member while he searched for a sippy cup.

“Coming in?” The young thin man at my row asked, unfolding himself from where he sat in the aisle seat, stepping out so I could pass in front of him.

I made an attempt to smile, but it wasn’t easy. He was so tall, so absolutely naked, that as I squeezed past him, I couldn’t help but face his penis that dangled like an extra-long hot dog. It was a nice enough looking dick, smooth-skinned and thick, one I might have appreciated in another situation.

I stared out the window while we took off, but there was no escaping my fate. I knew it.

That was the first time it happened to me, that all the men around me appeared to be naked, but it happened again quite soon after that trip, so I had to face the truth. I was doomed to see dicks.

I was in the supermarket back home, just there to pick up a few things, some asparagus and grapes, cheddar cheese, black tea. I turned the corner to pick out the tea. Two of men were talking to one another by the coffee grinder. One guy was very tall, built like a football player, and the other was a local chef who I knew. Both were naked! The football player guy looked very attractive and I had to admit to myself it was interesting seeing him like that, huge thigh muscles, bulging pecs, appropriately sized dick. But in the market?

The chef called ‘hello’ and I wanted to return the greeting, but all I saw was that weeny dick. How could such a big guy have such a tiny penis? I nodded to the chef and hurried down the aisle with my tea. This was just my imagination, right?

A few months passed without any more of these dick episodes. I was relieved and had pretty much stopped thinking about them and then it happened again.

I brought my car in to get the rear right tire checked and when a man came out of the shop to look at the tire, he was naked. Greasy hands, sweaty blonde hair, some sort of tattoo on his tanned chest, and completely undressed.

“It’s this one,” I said, pointing to the tire.

He didn’t speak, just bent down to check it.

I stood there admiring the dark tan lines around his hard little white butt. And then he stood up and there it was, a terrific good-sized dick. I turned away, but there was no escaping the problem. All the guys in there, all five of them, the young, the old, the overweight, the skinny, were naked.

Sweat broke out between my breasts and my heart took off in a gallop. Maybe if I closed my eyes for a few seconds everyone would get dressed. So I squeezed my eyes closed and held them like that for what felt like a long time, but when I opened them, nothing had changed.

My dick problem began to escalate. Men on television, newscasters, politicians, performers, all appeared naked to me. I didn’t really want to think about Donald Trump’s dick and where his scrotum lay when he was sitting on that chair, or how his equipment hung when he was speaking at a podium. I couldn’t watch any concerts or musical performances that I usually enjoyed. Naked guitar players scared me.

Was I the only one who saw dicks like this?

I used to think, seen one, seen them all, but clearly that wasn’t the case. Did other women realize there was such diversity in dicks? Why was this happening to me?

Something inside me was on tilt, off track. I wanted to be free of dicks.

Maybe this was what happens after years of trying to meet men, attempting to find a partner and be intimate. Perhaps in my search for love again, I looked at too many online photos and profiles of men, or more likely, I dated and dealt with too many dicks. Truth was, I was sick of dicks, everything about them, their needs and demands, their reluctance, their responses. And now, I was cursed with seeing dick people everywhere.

Maybe that liar guy I stayed with too long did this to me. He said, when he left, “You’ll be sorry.” Was this what he meant?

Thing is, I don’t really have any regrets about seeking love. Dealing with dicks is part of being sexual and sexuality is part of dating, part of being alive. So, I remain open and assume the dick problem will eventually fade away. Right now, I have to confess that I’m all cocked out.


Lucky to end up on Martha’s Vineyard Island, Marsha Smolev raised her sons, worked hard, studied Karate and took to walking with her Cobberdog. In an otherwise noisy world, there is peace on the dirt roads, with only the sounds of the sea or woods. And so she writes.

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