My dead mother’s accountant has a schlong the size of a pencil.

“Are you serious?” says Lily.

“Well, I haven’t actually seen it yet.”

“He volunteered this information? Unsolicited?” Lily folds herself neatly into my kitchen chair. “Do you think he’s backing down, Barbara? Or having seconds thoughts, maybe?”

“No. No, he's still interested. Definitely interested.”

“Are you?” Lily asks.

Even seated, I am dwarfed by my friend’s supple legs and flawless posture. Momentarily consoled by a stubborn patch of psoriasis entrenched in Lily’s brow and a series of cherry moles that wander aimlessly from her left submaxillary gland to her right shoulder and down her cleavage, I consider my prolonged celibate state and my upper thighs. Both issues are sensitive; possibly tragic.

“Maybe,” I say. “It’s been a long time.”

Lily reaches across my oak-stained butcher block. She squeezes my hand. In exchange, my lips pull against a removable bridge and several root canals. Masquerading as a smile, my facial distortion reveals the outcome of a pesky ingrown hair and repetitive tweezing. The synthetic dimple deepens. Lily probes further.

“And that was all he said, Barbara? ‘I have a schlong the size of a pencil?’”

“Well ... no. Not exactly.”

“I knew there was more to it than ...!”

‘The circumference, Lily. He said the circumference of a pencil. Not the length.”

While my friend reflects upon these new dimensions, I retreat toward the stove. Deposits of Ramen noodles and last night’s gluttony -- fourteen toasted marshmallows -- stain the top burners. My tongue finds the outcome of a brief encounter between my stainless steel fork and lower lip. The pin-sized blister stings. I flick my tongue across the mishap. Ten thousand nerve endings connect to the cleft lodged between the folds of my thighs, major and minor, surprising me into action. “I’m dripping some coffee,” I pant. “Would you like a cup? Lily,” I repeat, “do you want a cup of coffee?”

Lily swivels in her seat and grabs the lone pencil next to my phone pad. “I want,” she demands, “the truth, Barbara.” My friend slices the air with my number two. “Do you want to get poked by your dead mother’s accountant ... or do you want to get laid, hmm?”

Suddenly, I know exactly what I want. In a flash, I jerk the pencil from my friend’s fingers, claiming the slender shaft as my own. Fondling its pink rubber hood, I whimper softly, “I want my mother, Lily. I ... WANT ... my mother!”

And then, with even thrusts, I jam the graphic instrument into my grievous thigh, penetrating my flesh, again and again, grunting and moaning and weeping, until I am finally sated.