Pinocchio’s Puppet by L.A. Fields (Adult content)

The line of people stretched all the way around the block. It was 1983, it was Rome, and Mr. Castano’s sculpture work was in high demand for movie sets, fashionistas, and pranksters. The artist also reserved a certain amount of his time to help the injured or disabled with realistic or artistic prosthetics. I was a customer close to this latter category, though the only person I wanted to look right for was myself.

I came to see about a cock, and I’m not talking about a rooster. Born in a female body, I had done everything in my power to change its contours and presentation to male. I left my home in Ohio, I changed my name from Sally to Silas, I procured enough testosterone to gain facial hair and a new distribution of muscle and fat, but there was of course one element still missing. Short of a magic spell, I wasn’t going to gain a substantial horn between my legs, but I could purchase the final piece of my puzzle, if Mr. Castano was willing to sell such a thing.

“You’re my last appointment for the day, Silas Woodrow?” he asked in English, as that was how I made the appointment. He was younger than I’d imagine, like a new 40-year-old and not some wizened old carver. His accent was strong, but if he could understand mine, I couldn’t complain.

“Yes, sir,” I said, shaking his hand.

He smiled at me, warm chestnut eyes and thick mahogany curls in his hair. “I like your name. I started working in wood and still love it the most.”

His decision to like me prompted me to blurt out my need. “I know you help people with missing limbs, what about someone who’s missing their prick?”

His smile smirked up on one side, and he motioned me into the back room. It was a workshop full of lethal-looking tools and half-made projects. A table full of whittled hands, a wall of silicone faces, and a floor littered with chips and peels. We walked to a large cabinet with rows of flat drawers. He opened one with a key to reveal its contents.

Male members of many sizes and shapes were arrayed, some looking erect, some bundled with testicles as if meant for stuffing underwear rather than putting to pleasurable use.

“Some of these are prototypes made for nude scenes where the actor is shy or unphotogenic. I’ve made a few for soldiers who suffered injuries to their privates. But you don’t seem like an actor or a soldier?”

“I’m not,” I confirmed. “Have you heard of someone being transgender? I’m that.”

Again Mr. Castano smiled as if a deep joy smoldered within him. “I’ve been hoping to meet someone like you. I may be able to help you more than you’ve ever imagined. Are you available for a late dinner, a drink?”

I said yes because there was no way to say no before I knew what he was proposing. I walked with him to a favorite hole-in-the-wall place he knew, a tavern inside a building that could have been ancient for all I knew. He ordered a bottle of wine and one bowl of pasta and two plates so we could each help ourselves.

I was mid-slurp of a noodle when he told me he was Pinocchio. I almost coughed pasta into my lungs.

“I am Pinocchio,” he repeated, replacing my wine with a cup of water so I could wash down my surprise. “I am not crazy. I’m sure when you tell people you are a man they don’t believe you even though you would know better than them. It’s not so different.”

“Okay,” I said. I thought he was nuts, of course, but plenty of artists had delusions and myths about themselves. I was happy to call him anything he liked if he was willing to help me; I respect a preferred name more than most.

“I have been living as a human being for more than one hundred years, but I was not born this way, I was not born at all. If you’re aware of the story of Pinocchio the puppet, most of it is embellished by my father who loved me very much and wanted to share his delight of me with the world. But my origin is true: I began as an immortal spirit of the forest, and though I transitioned to human form, I cannot die.”

I lowered my voice to as soft as it could be. “Have you tried to die?”

“Not in earnest,” he said, returning to his food since I was breathing again. “I haven’t tried to set myself on fire yet, that could work. I fear that I would still be alive in the ashes, but unable to control my destiny as I can now. I do know that I can stay underwater without drowning, and I can starve without perishing. It has not been fun to learn these things, but I’ve accepted my reality.”

“What happened to your father?”

“He died a peaceful death from old age with me to support him. He did not know I would outlive him so long. No one knows except me, and possibly you, though you don’t believe me yet.”

“You don’t look one hundred years old,” I said by way of explaining why this story was so unbelievable.

“I can replenish myself endlessly. Something about my spirit still lives in wood. If I want to grow taller, I carve myself longer legs. If I want a new face, I craft a wooden mask, and sleep beneath it, and in the morning I am it and it is me.”

My mouth watered at the thought. How marvelous it would be to fall asleep beneath one of the cocks in his drawer and wake up attached to it. Wouldn’t it be divine to broaden my shoulders, narrow my hips, and square my jaw?

“You wish you had this power too,” my new weird friend Mr. Pinocchio Castano said, and I nodded. “I have a theory that I could bestow it on you, if you want to try something with me. I’ve been so lonely since the death of my father. I want a companion to live this life with me. I’ve been waiting to find someone like you who does not want the life they’re in, but still wants to live, perhaps forever, in a new form. How does that sound to you?”

“Too good to be true,” I said.

Pinocchio smiled. “My theory may not work, but if nothing happens I promise to craft you the appendage you want at no charge, and you promise to keep my secret, yes?”

“Deal,” I said.

So that night he took my measurements, and for the next week he cleared his schedule feigning illness so he could work on a special item just for me. His theory was: if he wanted a new cock, he would carve one, set it over his waist for the night, fall asleep, and wake up enjoined with it. But what if another person like myself slept between him and the cock? Would it pass through me? Would it fuse with me? Would it capture me and fuse us together? Pinocchio wanted to find out, and I didn’t believe in his magic … until it came to live in me.

It didn’t work how he theorized, but something happened. We went to bed, nonromantically, but together. My prize lay atop me: a beautiful masculine specimen, with wood that matched the tone of my skin, supple and lovely. I took a sleep aid, not one so strong as to incapacitate me should this strange man try something untoward, but enough to help me nod off in an uncomfortable stacked position.

When I awoke I felt stiff as a board, mostly because I was one. I heard Pinocchio calling my name, long and echoing, but I couldn’t open my eyes. He found me, and wrapped his arms around my trunk. Not my torso, but my trunk, for I was a tree. I had no mouth but I could still speak, or rather will my thoughts outside.

“What happened to me?” I asked.

“Your spirit was accepted by the forest. I’ve been searching for you for days, and here you are. A stone pine with a rather … unusual branch.” He touched it, and I felt him touch it. At last I had the piece my body was missing, but at the same time I was missing my body.

“What now?” I asked him.

“I’ll cut you down, I brought my axe. I’ll take you back to the workshop, I’ll recreate you however you want to look. You’ll be a puppet at first, but in due time you can become a real boy, my boy.”

He tickled me until he found my feet, and marked a notch below it. Once I was felled, he tickled to the top of my head, and gave me a haircut. I was a log strapped to his back as he hiked through the forest. It was after midnight when we finally made it home.

L.A. Fields

Image: This image has been extracted from another file
: Pinocchio;the story of a puppet, (IA pinocchiothestor00coll 1).pdf Wikicommons public domain.