Send Me a Pic

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What is it with guys and dick pics?  They just can't resist sending them.  You don't even have to ask most of the time.  It's as if the human male has always had this innate urge to share images of his own cock with unwitting females, and was just waiting for technology to catch up.
Not that I'm complaining.  This pride men have for their own junk suits me just fine.  In fact, I love it.  It's fun for me.  There's always a jolt of excitement when my phone beeps and a dick pic sprawls across my screen.  Hell, I ask for them in many cases, and these fuckboys are always happy to oblige.
When a pic comes in, I stare at it, studying it for a good long while.  I try to imagine the penis in full detail as if were right in front of me in all its glory.  If that one picture's not enough, well that's no problem.  I just ask for another.  And if he's reluctant, I just send a flash of tit in return.  No shame or bashfulness here.
When my mental image is clear enough, I set to work.  Wax is my favorite medium.  There's just something about it---how it can be soft one minute and hard the next.  Not unlike the thing I'm using it to build.  As I melt it, I sprinkle in my usual mixture: a dash of this, a pinch of that.  I say the usual words.  They're fully memorized by now.  They should be.  I've done this enough times.
Before long, my beautiful work of art stands fully erect before me.  Often, I'll just take a moment to marvel.  I've gotten so good at this.  The veins, the texture of the skin....  It's all so lifelike.  I could probably make a career out of crafting wax dicks if I wanted to.  But I don't.  My dicks are more than art.
Now the fun begins.
I find a paring knife is best.  It's just the right size for most of the cocks I deal with, and it affords me such wonderful precision.  I say the last few words and then in I go.
My favorite first cut is to trace around the head.  I know everything has worked perfectly when I see redness ooze from the incision and trickle down the shaft.  It's liquid I never put there.  Not by physical means anyway.  It's a sign that the work is being done.  It's exciting and presses me further.
Next, I drag the blade down the shaft all the way to the bottom.  The sticky, messy, crimson pool begins to spread. Its smell fills the air: metallic and sickly sweet.  I'm practically high from it.  The "skin" flays back so easily.  Beneath it, a pulsating mass of flesh.  You'd hardly believe I started with wax and herbs.  It's amazing what you can accomplish with a little help from the right sources.
In the locker room at the work, I love to hear people talk.  "Another one!" they say.  "Completely destroyed his bits!  And not one of them will say how it happened!  It's always 'I don't know!  I don't know!'"
"Well," I say, "you know how male pride can be."
We share a laugh.  Some weird self-pleasure trend gone horribly wrong, they assume. All in a day's work at a busy urban hospital.  But it never becomes routine to me.  It never loses its thrill.
My phone beeps before I head out of the locker room.  It's a message from my latest right swipe.  He's sent me the pic I asked for.  How delightful....
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