Penises grew in our garden. At first we weren’t sure that’s what they were. When they were small, they could have been little developing cucumbers or zucchini or beans or (of course) eggplants. But as they grew larger it became unquestionable: these were sure-as-shit penises. And human ones, at that.

Rosemary had a habit of throwing seeds recklessly into the raised bed and the planter bags, never remembering what she threw where, but she swore she hadn’t sown any penis seeds. And you can bet I didn’t. So the penises were, as penises are wont to be, mysteries.

I was naturally discomfited. I consider myself progressive in most matters, but I’m a pretty standard heterosexual cis man of my generation; the only penis I’m really interested in is my own.

They were strangely beautiful, the way ugly things sometimes are. There were color gradations, most of them corresponding to the colors of flesh known to exist on human men, but some of them edged into more extreme hues. An inflamed red. A shiny midnight purple. They were flaccid unless the wind blew them together or unless Rosemary handled them. Then, tumescence would make their colors lighter.

You can’t google something like “how do you harvest a penis?” Or, you can, but the results will not be helpful. The first few went overripe and rotted on the ground, and the smell was something you’d never want to smell in your life, so Rosemary carefully took them by the base of their stalks (if you’re wondering, there were no testicles, just leaves down there) and wrenched them side to side until they became unmoored from the earth. They came out of the ground with a pucking sound I felt in my lower stomach.

When Rosemary put them in the air fryer, they shrivelled up and became inedible, but when she pan-fried them with a little olive oil and salt they looked more beautiful than they’d looked in the garden. Glistening.

Rosemary says they taste nutty and moribund, but not in a bad way. I don’t know what that means, but I’m not about to find out. I’ve had just about all I can take with harvested penises nestled in little baskets in the kitchen, sticking up in the garden because the wind seems to always be blowing.

I don’t go outside often anymore. I sit in the living room, watch TV, and wait for penis season to be over. I pretend it’s not even happening but am only moderately successful.

“Now you know how I feel,” Rosemary says.

+++

Jamey Gallagher is the author of two short story collections, American Animism and Bodies in Bags, and a short comic novel, I Am Idris Elba. He lives in Baltimore and teaches at the Community College of Baltimore County.