“Thank you so much for showing me your pizzle, Auguste.”

“You’re welcome, Alyssa.”

“And for letting me touch it.”

“No problem.”

“I loved the way it felt. The smooth warm top. The long strong stem. And the silky pouch, too. And that darling slit with the slippery stuff seeping out. Thanks for letting me taste it.”

“My pleasure.”

“But you know, even though I promised and crossed my heart I wouldn’t paint it, I would really like to.”

“I don’t know, Alyssa. You wouldn’t ever show it to anyone, would you?”

“You mean like in the show? No. I’m not even going to show my banana picture, since it looks as you say so much like a pizzle.”

“So what will you show?”

“Maybe one of my tulip pictures.”

“Can I see them?”

“Sure. They’re not very good. Mr. Heaton says they’re pretty but lack substance. Here’s the version in oil.”

“Oh, Alyssa. I think it’s beautiful. I think it has plenty of substance.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh. I think it has power and flair.”

“But does it have prescience?”

“You are so funny, Alyssa.”

“Here’s the watercolor one.”

“Wow! I like that even more. It’s so delicate. So ... I shouldn’t say.”

“You should.”

“So sexual. It makes me think of ... No, I shouldn’t say.”

“You have to. Please.”

“It makes me think of a girl’s, a woman’s, um, sex.”

“So you’ve seen a lot of women’s...?”

“Not in real life.”

“Maybe, if you let me paint your pizzle, I’ll let you...”