This one's a two-parter, from K's sojourn as a diver for a marine life waterpark, henceforth designated [Waterpark].
There’s a new girl in camp— well, a neighbor who’s moved in— and someone mentions Dolphin Cock, and everyone laughs, and she asks what that’s about. She’s soon informed that it’s a K story, and none of us can tell it to her, because it’s K’s story. Things are hectic for a few days, and so there isn’t time for K to tell the story, but she reminds him of it every time she sees him. “I still have to find out what’s up with the dolphin cock thing,” she says.
I point out that she has so little context that she doesn’t even know why he would’ve been around dolphins in the first place. She stands there, bewildered and waiting, and I say that perhaps K was just walking down the street one day and a dolphin came up to him and that’s where the story starts.
K laughs at this, promises he’ll tell her the story that night, and goes on about his business. “He was totally just walking down the street,” I say. “Random dolphin encounter in downtown [Midwestern City]. Dolphin jumps out, whips open his trenchcoat, dolphin cock, oh no get the eyebleach!”
“Damn you,” he says to me that evening. “You’ve built this up to the point that I don’t even know if it’s a good enough story to be worth all this hype.”
“Oh,” I answer, “don’t worry. Dolphin Cock is a classic for a reason.”
“It’s not that funny,” he says. “I mean, it’s kind of dark really.”
“Yes but it’s a good story,” I say.
That night, we are around the fire, and K comes over with his mug filled and settles himself in a chair. “All right,” he says.
“Dolphin Cock!” says new girl, excitedly.
“Dolphin cock,” K confirms. “So…”
“You were walking down the street,” says New Girl. K bursts out laughing.
“Exactly,” he says. “Oh she told you?”
“Man, did I ruin it?” I ask.
“No,” K says, “no, I used to be a diver. For the [water-based armed force of a large North American country], and after that, for [Waterpark]. And my job was basically to be a glorified underwater janitor. But since I had so much diving experience, I wound up being the diving operations manager, and that meant I had to schedule the dives. A bunch of the divers were women, and as it happens, a bunch of the animals are really sensitive to the smell of blood. So I was in the awkward position of being like a 30-year-old dude asking a bunch of hot twentysomething chicks to tell me about their menstrual cycles. Not surprisingly, a lot of them really didn’t want to tell me. Can’t imagine why.” He shrugs. “I mean, to be serious for a moment, I worked really hard not to be creepy about it. I was in a long-term committed relationship, I did my best to, well, at least sort of rein in the crude [water-based armed force] humor. I really, really worked not to be creepy about asking them what their uterus was up to.”
“I was really hoping this story happened on the streets of [Midwestern City],” New Girl comments dryly.
“Close,” he says. “But no. In a tank in [Midwestern City]. Well… [neighboring suburb]. So the thing is, dolphins are horny little bastards. I mean they are randy as fuck. Hornier than monkeys. Hornier than just about anything you can imagine. Hornier than me. I know, I know. Hard to believe. I can’t imagine why those women didn’t feel comfortable discussing their reproductive cycle with me.” He scowls at a heckler. “Hey. I’m a sensitive feminist type. Shut up. So. Anyway. The thing with dolphins is, they don’t have hands.”
He lets that sink in.
“What do they do?” someone asks, on cue.
“They rub themselves on whatever they can reach,” K answers. “Mostly the bottom of the tank. Sometimes, divers. Yyyyeahh. So one day we’re cleaning the tank, and this one big male dolphin is bodyskimming. I mean, that was the polite way of describing it. Rubbing his dick all over everything, was really what he was doing.” He holds his arm out, elbow bent, hand in a fist. “A dolphin cock is about like so, with a 90 degree bend in the middle. It’s intimidating. So he’s just swimming with this thing out, rubbing it on stuff. And he’s coming towards me, so I move out of the way, kind of automatically. You just got used to it. But one of the female divers, beautiful woman named M— I mean this girl was smokin’ hot— she’s not paying attention to him. He kind of had a thing for her. And she looks up just in time, and THWAP.”
“Oh dear,” I say.
“Teabagged. He just teabagged her right in the forehead. And then he… finishes. Big, white, kind of… milky cloud. With a totally freaked-out girl in the middle of it. And the dolphin’s looking all pleased with himself.”
There is a collective groan of disgust.
“That’s not the dolphin cock story, though,” K says. “That’s just the warmup. I need another drink. The dolphin cock story is… worse.”
He settles himself back down by the fire, with his filled mug. “So, dolphin cock. So the thing is, M really really didn’t like the idea of me keeping track of her menstrual cycles. So she’d outright lie to me about it. And I sort of understand, both because it’s creepy telling some dude about your period, and also in that the jobs you have to do when you’re bleeding are less interesting— you can’t be in with the sharks, you can’t be in with the dolphins, you can’t be in with many of the animals, so you wind up for safety’s sake doing lots of surface jobs that are a lot less interesting. But it’s no small matter, it’s a huge safety issue. Not just for you, but for everyone in that tank. And so I had started keeping track myself. M got a little green dot— I wasn’t stupid enough to use red— when I thought she was bleeding, J got a little yellow dot, D got a blue dot. I know how it works, I’ve been with the same woman half my life now, I’m used to counting days so I know when I have to duck.”
“Hey,” S says.
“Darling, you know I love it,” he answers. “But anyway. I mostly knew when their cycles were. But they didn’t like me knowing. And then there was a huge algae bloom in the dolphin tank and I had to get everybody in there to work on cleaning it before it upset the chemistry too far. So in the hustle of that emergency, I kind of forgot about the little green dot.” He takes a drink. “Until I noticed the big male acting strangely. Not bodyskimming. He was driving off the other males. Driving them away from—“
He pauses, and there’s a collective murmur. (Some of us have heard the story.) “Oh yeah. Driving them away from M. And I stop a moment, and I think, and as I’m counting on my fingers and the ohhhh fuck is just dawning on me, he suddenly just throws himself at M.”
“Oh no,” several people gasp, as we realize that this is not just a funny story.
“Oh,” he said, “it wasn’t funny. He hurt her pretty badly, cracked some bones, really attacked her. He cracked her pelvis. He was really trying to mount her. All of us jumped in to try and haul him off of her, and we finally got him corralled a bit and yanked her out of the pool. I was worried, of course, but I was just so mad at her. A couple of us got bruised fighting him off. He could’ve really injured several more people if he’d been more persistent. And he could’ve killed her. We sent her off to the hospital and had to let him settle down a good long while before anybody could go in that tank.”
He shakes his head. “She was okay, in the end. And the other women started reporting their periods to me, like I’d asked. M came back, and was all right, but we fought a couple more times about her reporting her cycle properly, and I just stopped scheduling her in tanks because I couldn’t fucking trust her. When she finally quit… OK, this sounds pretty awful. I’m not the kind of asshole that blames the victim in rape cases. But… when she finally quit… We broke into her locker, and put a big stuffed dolphin in it, and a box of condoms, and a Valentine’s card.”