Denny opened one drawer and looked at the silverware. “Hey … I used to know this guy once who would slam a drawer closed on his nuts. For the fun of it. He’d bet people he could do it; at parties.” Denny opened another drawer, full of paper bags. “He’d do it three or four times, sometimes. Fuckin’ hard, too.” The drawer under it slid out: it had nails and string and a hammer and two screwdrivers and a spool of tape. Denny opened a fourth one, which had a carving set and a potato masher; but went back to the hardware drawer. The head of his cock was resting on the paint-chipped rim as he pawed inside. He took out a pliers and put it on the counter, brushed his hair off his forehead—his sleeve was torn at the arm-hole—and poked again: he took out a six-inch finishing nail, the kind with almost no head, turned from the drawer and closed it with his hip. His cock bounced in the air. “You’re gonna have to help me do this, cocksucker.” He slid one palm gingerly under his dick, and turned the nail between the nubby thumb and grimy forefinger of his other hand.

In the living room somebody shouted; which turned into a scream. Then Hogg and the wop laughed.

“Okay, now—” Denny pushed the nail point into his piss-hole. He slid it in maybe half an inch; then turned the nail to the side, hard, thrusting it into the wall of his urethra—“Jesus … Oh … shit …” And shoved it in another half inch. And kept pushing.

He was standing on one leg, the other bent like he couldn’t put his weight on it.

And pushed. Blood ran down the nail, got on his fingers. “Shit …” he whispered. He leaned back against the closed drawers, gasping. “Come on, cocksucker. You push it … push it for me … till it comes on out, huh …?”

I took the nail in one hand and his cock in the other. It had gone half soft. He bobbed his chin down and back, and made a strangling sound. Then he opened his mouth and started panting. “Push it, cocksucker …!”