Jacob's Genitals

Jacob’s sexual apparatus is never far from my thoughts. It’s been like this for several years now. It started with his rape trial back in 2006, when I sat listening to the radio transmission of the judge’s summing up of evidence before delivering his verdict. I was amazed at how graphic the details were, from his arousal technique with the baby oil, to the way in which he parted his accuser’s labia with his fingers to facilitate entry. My heart was pounding, the way it does when I watch pornography. And I could see him standing there in the shower afterwards, giving his dick a thorough soaping, head to toe.

I happen to be straight (just haven’t met Mr Right, my faggot friends tell me), but from then on I’ve been fantasizing about Jacob’s organ obsessively. My initial problem was whether to visualize it as a Roundhead or a Cavalier. I knew that circumcision was not as widespread amongst Zulu men as with their Xhosa counterparts, so it was quite possible he hadn’t had his cock docked. I decided to toss a coin, and it came down heads. Roundheads. A big baldy without a collar.

The next time I saw him on TV my eyes went straight to his crotch, the way bored female shop assistants appraise male customers as they walk through the door. Could I detect a bulge, an extravagant padding beneath the expensive cloth? Was that woman one of his wives? Jesus, I thought, imagine having three or four wives. How do you decide on who to fuck, and when? And where? Do you go to them in their separate rooms, or do you summon them to the master bedroom? Or set them up in separate establishments, as if they were mistresses? Wow! You’d need a lot of kickbacks to finance that lot.

Then, when I heard he had been at another one of his friend’s daughters, and got her  up the spout, and laughed it off with some kind of admission of guilt fine, I was seriously impressed. He was in his late sixties and still going at it like a three year-old stud bull. What was his secret? Big balls pumping out industrial quantities of testosterone? I had already given him a nine-inch whopper; now I endowed him with two tennis balls in a leather moon bag. Jacob was the best-hung hero in Mzansi.

So when  Brett Murray came on the scene with his feeble version of South Africa’s crown jewels, I was appalled. Pathetic, man, pathetic! I can see why Jacob feels insulted.