Pholus reborn

by Absman420

 A man inherits an elixir that transforms him into one of the old gods.

Added: Oct 2020 8,534 words 6,767 views 5.0 stars (11 votes)


When I got the call that my Grandfather had passed, I had an odd mixture of disappointment and relief. I’d just seen him a few weeks ago, when he’d turned 92, still as spry and troublesome as ever. He’d been a landscaper and gardener since coming to America in his youth—he claimed it a tie to the old country, the old ways. He knew plants and he knew how to love them—his garden lush and inviting, alive and ready-to-burst, even up to the end, when HIS heart had burst. (I’d inherited that from him—not the bad heart, the green thumb—though I only grew marijuana in the basement of my house.)

They’d found him in the garden, dead. It was the Executive Manager of the Home who felt the need to inform me—but still with his disapproving attitude—that my Grandfather had been masturbating when he’d died. “And in the garden, of all places!” he’d said with mock indignity. I shrugged—what should my reaction have been? It was the Home’s Resident Mortician who’d pulled me aside and informed me quietly that my Grandfather had been “remarkably blessed” with “prodigious equipment” and that the erection he’d had when he’d died hadn’t gone down. (Sadly, I’d not inherited that from him—mine was more pint-sized than prodigious.)

It was no secret that my Grandfather was the bane of the old folk’s home—the sexually-forward, inappropriate old man who wouldn’t leave the ladies alone. Or the nurses. Or the staff. Although they had a soft spot in their hearts for him—everything else was about his hard spot, the one he was constantly playing with. All in all, they were not sorry to see him go.

While in his room, gathering his few personal effects—the things worth anything—another old man came in, one of his fellow gardeners, and presented me with a towel-wrapped object, saying, “Big Red wanted you to have this.”

I’d never felt like I’d connected with my Grandfather—“Big Red”—we both shared the red hair, but that was all. I’d always assumed it was because I was gay—his generation had their old-school outlooks—and he believed in big, hearty masculine expressions. Potency with him, above all—fertility. His garden had been a reflection of that.

But he wanted me to have something! See? He’d thought of me! Even in death, there’s hope!

Rolling back the towel, I was surprised to discover a clay garden gnome, about ten/ twelve inches long—but at least not the cheap, Disney-fied version with the goofy red hat and cheeky smile. (That would’ve probably made me leave it behind.) This was significantly older, a hand-painted terracotta statuette of a disheveled old man dressed in rags with a lusty half-smile on his face—the only other noticeable detail about the sculpt was that the gnome had an obvious bulge. (Like the kind you don’t see that on the modern-day Wal-Mart gnomes!)

“He wanted me to have this?” I ask the other old guy, trying not to sound ungrateful, like I wasn’t suspicious of a joke. “A garden gnome?”

“Gnomes are powerful symbols of fertility,” the old guy said—just my luck, my Grandfather was pals with a professor—then he added, “Look it up. You’ve got The Google” and I felt a lot better about my Grandfather’s associates. “It’s been in the garden long as I can remember. Your Grandpappy said he’d had it his whole life!”

I took the Gnome—“Thank you,” I said. “I have the perfect place for it.”—(Ironically, I did!)—and after I’d gotten all the business and paperwork and payments at the Home complete—my Grandfather safely in a box being shipped to the family site—I headed back to my house, a few hours away, the Gnome resting in a box in the back seat.

I did have the perfect place for it—my little basement grow. I put it down at the head of a row of a hybrid I was developing—I aimed its little bulge at the marijuana plants. “Let ‘er rip,” I laughed. “Show me the fertility!”

And for the next year, it did just that—my yield increasing by over 65%—until I carelessly knocked the little Gnome off the shelf and broke it.

And that’s where the story really starts.

According to “The Google”:

Act surprised, the Ancient Greeks had a God for it—a God of Fertility: Priapus. Apparently his power was manifested in his oversized genitals—but with the Christian invasion (and forbidden sexuality that accompanied that religion), Priapus and his cock became a demon, or represented as a withered old man with an uncontrollable erection, often pushing his giant cock before himself on a cart. Religion made genitals and their symbology a punishment, a curse—act surprised.

So… Gnomes. Little old men with massive genitals—a European ode to the Ancients. Little clay gods of fertility for your garden—Priapus through the ages. (They didn’t become “cutesy” until the release of “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” at the beginning of the 20th century—Priapus becomes Dopey.)

I find stuff like that fascinating.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter because the Gnome was just a delivery device.

I mean, literally.

Just as I was about to buy into the idea that a fertility icon in your garden increases yield, I go and knock the fucking thing off the shelf while transferring a tray of younglings. Fucking stoner thing to do, honestly. I mean, I tried to “catch” it with my foot—or at least soften the impact. All I managed to do was scratch myself as it bounced off my sandal—don’t laugh! It drew blood—and then shattered on the cement, missing the floor mat because of my interference. Fucking idiot.

And I was hoping, you know, maybe some glue? But doesn’t destroying it wreck the mojo? Doesn’t breaking it stop the voodoo that it do so well? Isn’t that the folklore? Immediately I thought of my Grandfather—now a year in his grave—he managed to get through his whole life without breaking it! Maybe some glue….? Idiot.

So I knelt down next to it and gingerly lifted it up—the front wasn’t cracked, but collapsed from age, barely more than dust—glue wasn’t going to help. Fuck.

And then the discovery.

Something inside the hollowed-out middle, wrapped in what seemed to be very old cheesecloth—very, very old, like great-grandma’s linen that never came out of the box, faded and brittle and delicate beyond possibility—someone had planted something inside the Ancient Gnome.

Eagerly—nervously—I carried the whole mess to my work-table and clicked on the bright, overhead light. I was more afraid of ruining whatever was inside—especially if it was some sort of message or something. (This was why I wasn’t an archeologist—it couldn’t possibly be this romantic in real life!) Should I be wearing gloves?

I had to break the Gnome a little further to get the package to come out freely. I was a nervous wreck, suppositioning all over the place—had my Grandfather known about this? Was it my Grandfather who’d planted it? Was this why he wanted me to have the Gnome in the first place?

What could it possibly be?

The rag or cheesecloth or whatever the hell it was that wrapped it nearly dissolved away, turning to dirty dust even as I tugged on it. Pieces of it came off intact, but it was nothing more than wrapping, no message or clues. Just old—insanely old—hundreds of years old. If my Grandfather had known about this, he hadn’t changed anything—he hadn’t wrapped it in anything new.

It was two objects wrapped together. One was an icon, about four inches long, a crude stone carving of an overly muscular man with an enormous phallus—his dick went practically to his chest—his eyes dark jewels. The other was a tiny, dark bottle, like a perfume bottle, dark glass, deep blue, a small stopper with a wax seal. Holding it to the light, I couldn’t see through the thick glass, but I could feel it’s age.

I spent a few seconds cleaning the bottle, dusting it off and wiping it down gently. Even if there was nothing inside it, the bottle itself was spectacular—I’d never seen anything like it. I picked up the statue and did the same, wiped it down, cleaned it up, blew off the dust.

I was looking in his jeweled eyes when—I swear—they lit up, bright red. Not just “caught the light”, not just “sparkled”, they lit up and—I’m not kidding. I’m not making this up—I had a vision. I heard it speak to me.

It said, “PHOLUS”

I dropped the little muscular stone like a scorpion—like a venomous fang. I looked at it in horror as it balanced on its side by its big penis, staring helplessly at the table.

What in the name of God?

“Name of God!” That’s it!

I pulled out my phone.

From The Google:

In Greek mythology, Pholus (Greek: Φόλος) was a wise centaur who lived in a cave on or near Mount Pelion.

Are you kidding? Pholus is really a thing?

A centaur? Weren’t they half-horse?

Well, I guess that little statue there is partially-horse, at least.

But there was something else.

In astronomical terms, Pholus (from Φόλος) is an eccentric centaur (an object classified somewhere between an asteroid and a minor planet) in the outer Solar System, approximately 180 kilometers (110 miles) in diameter, that crosses the orbit of both Saturn and Neptune. It was discovered on 9 January 1992…

Wait. What?—I was born on 9 January, 1992. Pholus and I were twins… which wasn’t funny. It was getting weird.

Nicknamed “Big Red,” it’s orbit around the sun takes 92 years and one month…

92 years and one month… my Grandfather—Big Red’s exact age when he died!

Okay, I was fucking freaking out by this time! Too many coincidences. A centaur—an eccentric centaur—my birthday—my grandfather’s orbit—but that still wasn’t everything. There was one more.

When Pholus (from Φόλος) appears in an astrological reading, it represents a spark, a start, grand events set in motion from something small, like shooting oneself in one’s foot, the butterfly effect. When Pholus appears, an unexpected adventure follows.

Fuck you, the Google.

I leaned against the wall and stared at the work-table for a while, at the askew little icon and the blue-glass bottle.

I sat on a stool, smoked a joint, and stared at the stone man, released from his prison, forever erect. How did he talk to me? How had that happened? I’d never heard of “Pholus” before—I couldn’t have made that up. And even if I had—there were too many coincidences… there were three different versions of “Pholus” and all of them applied to me! I couldn’t have known about that and “forgotten”—I didn’t smoke that much weed.

No. I’d had a vision—the icon had spoken to me.

Assuming that to be true, I thought, I shouldn’t fear it. If this icon was meant for me—and it seemed like that was the only conclusion—then I had no reason for fear. One shouldn’t fear destiny, especially when one knows what it is.

Sadly, by the time I worked up enough brave-energy to touch the icon again, nothing happened—it was just a piece of cold stone. No more flare—no more sparkle—no more insight. The little stone dude had a pretty amazing cock… and he seemed so proud… but he’d stopped talking.

So, the bottle then.

What could it possibly be? Perfume? Wine? Magic Potion? Poison? I mean, it’s ridiculous. I should have it analyzed—I should find out what it is—I should know before I unleash some disease, some demon, some genie in a bottle. Maybe ingesting whatever was inside would transform me into a centaur—well, being gay, maybe a unicorn?

I couldn’t see through the deep blue glass, so I didn’t even know if anything was inside at all. I was so busy playing mind-games with myself that I hadn’t realized how much time had passed, even.

Sigh. Another joint.

Anyway, when I finally got around to opening the stupid thing, it was nearly midnight. The stopper, which was also glass, was sealed with what appeared to be a thick wax. I used a tiny screwdriver to flake it off. It took a little back-and-forth to completely break the seal, but once I did, the little stopper eased out quickly.

The Scent.

The Scent alone.

My cock was rock hard immediately, just on the scent alone—sex and leather and sweat and metal, the smells of masculinity, from the playful snips and snails and puppy-dog tails of youth to the moment of adult dominance, to the rut of the thrust, the spreading of the seed, it was fertility, the deep, moist earth. It was the Essence of Man.

I was compelled to taste it—I didn’t think twice about it—it wasn’t until long after the moment that I thought there may have been danger. In the moment, there wasn’t any thought at all, just need—driving masculine need. Whatever was in that bottle I needed in me.

A drop was all—and barely enough to qualify for the word “drop”—it rolled lazily out of the bottle like a thick, congealed syrup—but when it hit my tongue…


Immediately, my cock shot—overwhelming! Like this huge, savage, I’ve-never-felt-it-like-this-before orgasm! Like, so incredibly all-encompassing that every cell of my body was my cock and they were all shooting at once. And then I was able to taste this syrup as it spread across my tongue—battle and strength and muscle and sweaty maleness mixed with earth and flavored with fire, the taste of heroes and prowess and sweet, hard-won victory. Horse flanks, battle songs and flasks of wine, wrestling for sport and the tight, sweet holes of olive-skinned apprentices—it was everything dark and earthy, meat and marrow, savagery and strength. It was gloriously masculine.

And the aftertaste was dirty, and sexual, and rutted, the nasty, shit-flecked maw of the satisfied fornicator—the flavor of lust.

I was oh, so horny—I needed to fuck, cock-driven, unapologetic, just lay-in and pound kind of fuck. Not love-making, no gentleness—playfulness, yes; powerful, definitely—fucking male on male sex! Then came the mental run-down of my fuck-buddy list, too few and too far between, the usual Grindr stall, the seedy bar—any option. All options. Need to fuck.

It was a stranger whose name I sort of remember—I didn’t care—all that mattered was the hole. By that time, crazy, stupid needy lust. My little cock was flared and strong, flexing beyond its norm—serve it, suck it, take it, fuck it. Pholus started the adventure!

I woke the next morning in a stranger’s bed, crusty and sweaty, the smell of sex on my breath—glorious! My cock immediately hardened. He slept on his side, my unknown partner, his back to me, a little blond thing—his hole was red, swollen, smeared with my dried cum and his ass juices.

It smelled glorious—earthy, sexy—raw. It was impossible to resist, so I didn’t, licking his hole, loving the taste, digging in and eating. Gripping around his balls, I felt his cock harden with his morning’s piss. Fuck, I wanted that, too. All of it.

He woke moaning. “Ohhh, man… stop. I can’t… I’m sore and I gotta pee…”

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” I mumbled, slurping his hole. “Lemme just eat it awhile…”

“That’s gross,” he said, pulling himself away. “I’m gonna pee—you should be gone when I get done.”

I was laying there with this big hard-on—I showed it to him. “Aw, c’mon, baby, you can’t leave me like this…”

“You got a nice dick,” he said, pulling himself out of bed, “and you sure know how to use it. You fucked me every which way sideways last night and I’m sore as hell right now. But you should be gone when I get done.”

“Aw, fuck,” I said, with this impossible hard-on, and these blue-ass balls. Cold little bitch.

Where the fuck were my shoes?

The Uber driver could smell me—I could tell. And I know it made him uncomfortable—he shifted himself in his seat several times. After a while, I realized it was because he had a hard-on, too.

That was fucking hot.

Cocks were fucking hot.

With my fingers, I squeezed mine through the material of my pants while we drove. I knew he saw me—I didn’t care. It felt too good.

Everything felt good.

In the shower, I noticed it more in my balls than in my cock—the growth, I mean—but also from the undeniable rush of testosterone. The way it felt. I was a man—all man. I felt like a man—and I fucking loved it!

I gave very little thought to the idea that whatever was in that bottle had adversely affected me—just the opposite. Whatever was in that bottle had changed me for the better! Somehow, it had awakened something in me—it had connected me to something greater than myself—MY masculine essence.

I shot off a load in the shower, praising Priapus and Pholus (and Phallus, too!)—I could phuck them all! Who could deny the power of the cock?

Who wouldn’t want this?

From “The Google”:

Priapism is a condition in which a penis remains erect for hours in the absence of stimulation or after stimulation has ended. Most cases are ischemic. Ischemic priapism is generally painful while nonischemic priapism is not. In ischemic priapism, most of the penis is hard. In nonischemic priapism, the entire penis is only somewhat hard.

Aw, fuck man—that was me in one bold sentence—nonischemic priapism. My dick hadn’t been flaccid in over two weeks. The only reason it didn’t concern me was because it didn’t hurt—so why shouldn’t it show itself off? It was a damn nice cock—it was just putting itself out there. As a matter of fact, it was kind of hot

Fucking everything was kind of hot! That my sex drive was stuck in high gear was kind of hot—finding out I have nonischemic priapism was kind of hot. But hottest of all? My dick was getting bigger.

My dick, my balls—bigger. It didn’t help that my cock was semi-hard all the time, it just kept me from noticing it right away. But in the last two weeks, my hard cock had shot up to eight inches! And not in Grindr inches, either—actual measurement!

And my testosterone production was up, too, like a thousand percent, thanks to my growing balls, over-producing to make up for their past. My workouts had been fucking crazy—they would just go on and on and I’d never lose energy—two, three hours. The harder I trained, the hornier I felt, my big cock jutting out before me, struggling against the compression-anything I wore. I swear, I was shooing the guys off like flies—I think my smell attracted them. I think my sweat was becoming some kind of pheromone or something. I was fucking them in the steam room, the shower, one guy in the janitor’s closet—I was a fucking beast! A beast with big, low-hanging balls.

I thought about going to the doctor, but then I thought, why? What’s wrong with me?

For the first time in my life, it felt like everything was right!

I was getting muscular—not huge, not like one of those muscle-heads—but BIG, you know? Commanding. Six months after I’d been blessed by the gods, I weighed a solid 235, carrying almost no body-fat. I learned (from The Google) that testosterone was a natural leaning agent, one of the reasons teenage boys (at the peak of testosterone production) looked the way they did—the more I produced, the leaner I got. So, at 235, I looked fucking awesome, even bigger than I really was!

I started getting hairier, too. At first, a thicker pelt on the chest, a scruffier beard—sexy—but then my shoulders, my back—I began having to trim back my bush or it would’ve taken over. I became the King of Manscaping. I ended up with a rough beard—I gave in on that, otherwise I was shaving two or three times a day. But apparently, the boys liked the way it felt on their holes, so I didn’t sweat it. The hair grew thicker in the grooves of my abs, emphasizing them even more. I was so… fucking… manly!

By then my cock was nearly 11 inches long in its constant semi-erect state, displaying itself proudly before me. People reacted to it—no matter how I tried to hide it at first, once someone saw it, they couldn’t stop looking. (I do believe it’s hypnotic—but that’s a point for later.) And to be honest, I loved the attention. I thought I would’ve been freaked or embarrassed by having such an obvious member, but it was the opposite—the bigger it got, the greater my pride and eagerness to show it off.

From “The Google”:

Erect penises have appeared in erotic (sexually exciting) art for a very long time. Pictures of men with erections appear on ancient objects and in paintings. In the past, the erect penis was also a symbol or sign of health and fertility (the ability to give life). Ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans believed in gods that had erect penises. Men with larger penises are often thought to be more handsome, manly and powerful.

I became a Brand. There was little else I could do, actually. I mean, why wasn’t I in porn? Why wasn’t I sharing my blessing with everyone? I created the “Pholus” Brand—and I adopted my Grandfather’s nickname, “Big Red”—Big Red Pholus, that was who I became.

My OnlyFans page… I swear, I put up a video of me commando beneath a pair of loose gym shorts, jumping rope in slow motion, and within two days… money was no longer an issue in my life. I set a record for followers within a week and became an “Influencer” on IG so fast I had to look it up on The Google to find out what an Influencer was. Clothing designers—I had a guy specifically for underwear and jockstraps—assistants, an entourage, the works!

And this was the weird thing: the worship… empowered me. I mean, it… it made me… more than I was. As I did cam shows and live shows and as my audience grew, I grew, too. Not just muscularly (where I was steadily improving), or scrotally (where I was pushing boundaries), I mean spiritually. Can you imagine what it does to your psyche to have guys pay you obscene amounts of money just to touch your cock? To have them beg you to suck it? To love it the way you do?

I accepted it—I welcomed it. I had been blessed by the gods—I was something more-than-man. A demi-god—a demi with a semi. A demi-semi-god! I had a destiny.

Sex was easy, constant—I was either seducing or fucking. Wherever I was, whatever I was doing, it was a prelude to sex. I couldn’t have enough—there was never a moment when I was satisfied, when I wasn’t eager for more. And men fell under my spell—whether it was my smell, or my aura, or the obvious swell of my cock—they all gave it up for me, they all became my bottom.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than finding the Big Alpha straight-guy at a strange gym and watching him turn into a weak-willed bitch when he’d ultimately yield to my superior cock. The look on his face when he’d first see it beneath my gym clothes, or more regularly, my compression pants—shock and awe—the way he’d try to befriend me, like we could be the cocks-of-the-walk together, buddies—and finally him on his knees in the locker room, in the posing room wherever, pounding his own cock while he gave in and worshipped mine.

It was the way of men to worship gods.

And all men worshipped the god of the phallus—and now Pholus, who seemed the god made flesh.

More from “The Google”:

In Greek mythology, a satyr (Greek: σάτυρος sátyros, pronounced [sátyros]), also known as a silenos (Greek: σειληνός seilēnós), is a male nature spirit with ears and a tail resembling those of a horse, as well as a permanent, exaggerated erection. Early artistic representations sometimes include horse-like legs, but, by the sixth century BC, they were more often represented with human legs. Like satyrs, centaurs were notorious for being wild, lusty, overly indulgent drinkers and carousers, violent when intoxicated, and generally uncultured delinquents.

I gained the ability to make others like myself.

It began to happen late in the second or third year since my blessing from the gods, my rebirth. My cock was over a foot long by that point, meaty and thick, my pendulous nads nearly the size of oranges—even at 6’4” 245, they were out of proportion (I didn’t look anywhere near as freakish as I would’ve if I’d remained 5’9”, but I’d grown steadily since my blessing, so I looked like a really big guy with a really big cock. Who knew where, or if it would end.) I was hairy and gruff, balding from too much testosterone, bearded and beautiful. And naked, I was spectacular. I would watch videos of myself having sex because it was so hot, my big, hairy muscle destroying some boy’s sweet pink hole.

My favorites were the little tops who thought they were gonna top me. I mean, imagine having a cock like mine and the guy still wants to fuck me? Like, I’d made some of the biggest Alpha males submit to me, reveled in turning them into big muscle bottoms, but there were particular guys—usually wrestler/ MMA-grappler types—who wouldn’t fall under the spell of my cock, whose sweat smelled manly, too, and just went forward with the foreplay as if I were some meaty bottom.

The first time it happened, it was this hot little Jersey boy, muscular and sexy with some sweet abs, probably 5’8” or 5’9”, tattoos, steroid scars on his back, skinny legs but a dick to die for. It tasted as pretty as it looked. “You gotta let me fuck you,” he growled. “With that cock, you probably never get fucked as good as you should. Lemme show you, baby…”

Eating my hole, he won me over—fuck, I had to reward an enthusiast—especially the way he buried his face in my hairy, sweaty crack, like he couldn’t get enough. I’d forgotten how good a dick up inside me felt—I hadn’t bottomed since my blessing—and I gotta say, Jersey-boy wasn’t as selfish with it as I thought he’d be. He knew how to fuck.

On my back, my huge legs spread wide, he stood next to the bed and pounded my hole, my own hard cock resting between the halves of my chest, inches from my chin, fairly leaking my pheromone-laden pre-cum—even I was under my own spell. “God damn, you tight,” Jersey-boy muttered.

“Not damned,” I panted. “Blessed.”

“Gonna cum in your blessed hole…”

“Yes,” I moaned, placing my hands on either side of his head. “Yes. Give your offering…”

When he shot, driving his dick deep into me, his eyes rolled back in his head. In that moment, I felt—not only my own orgasm—I felt this energy leave me through my hands and enter him. I wish I could describe it better. It wasn’t like he took something from me—it wasn’t like I gave him power—it was more like I awakened something in him. Yet I felt that change in energy—I was the cause of it. The catalyst.

When he opened his eyes, there was something there that hadn’t been before—a glint, a lust. The corner of his mouth curled into a devilish smile and I felt his cock re-harden inside me, even harder than it had been, and he just started lust-fucking me.

What an incredible fuck that was—the sudden power, the masculinity, the determination—we were sweaty and breathless and oh, so hungry. I couldn’t even tell you how many times we came, how many moments of utter bliss we experienced—how much energy we expelled and exchanged.

The cock he pulled out of me was nearly twelve inches long, with heavy, obvious balls to match. Twice as big as it had been before—nowhere near as big as it would get—it looked magnificently out-of-proportion with the rest of him. He loved it!

The next few weeks were a blurry fuck-fest. He matched me for sexual energy and desire—his sweat was as irresistible, his personality as seductive—everything we did, everywhere we went ended up an orgy. At the gym, working out together, watching the big straight bodybuilders fall under our spell, envying our big, gorgeous cocks. At the bars, dancing on the bars, they worshipped us, watching us strut and flex. At the bath-houses where parties could extend into days, they gave us a never-ending supply of holes to fuck.

But after a few months, Jersey-boy began to bore me.

He was nothing but fucking. No thought, no drive, no interest, no appreciation—all he cared about was how to put his cock in some guy’s hole. He didn’t need me—he had his own circle of worshippers, of devotees—his entourage. I still loved him—I was bonded to him, my brother and my son; I could feel him wherever he was—I just needed my freedom.

But it wasn’t long before I created others. The same basic type: the cocky, unrelenting top—the guy who would insist on trying to fuck me, even after seeing my hypnotic cock. Through the years, I’d created about twenty of them—same way, they’d fuck me and at the moment of their orgasm, I would give them the energy to open themselves to the Primal Force, their Masculine Power.

Like me, they grew—muscularly, scrotally—all their lusty appetites, but unlike me, they lost their reason, their love for anything but sex. They became this hyper-masculine, hyper-endowed, sexually-driven fraternity—a herd of hairy, horse-hung men. Modern Day Centaurs.

They fucked with me—around me—the world became one never-ending sex party. I loved it, every moment of it, my constant libido, my unsatisfied hunger for sex—to express sex—to BE sex! With every fuck, with every orgasm, with every of my centaur’s orgasms, I became stronger. Worshipping the act of sex meant worshipping me.

For years it grew—for years I reigned, continuing to grow. I weighed around 270 by my 40th birthday (52 left, I’d joke) and my cock was a magnificent thirty-inches long, half-hard and hanging like a heavy branch from a sturdy tree. My balls dangled like melons, their weight stimulating me more, producing so much testosterone that I just reeked of it.

Huge rings hung from my nipples—another of the same size pierced my septum. (Many of the centaurs had pierced theirs—cheap horse-symbolism, but still sexy.) I was magnificent. There was not a man who could resist me, not an enemy I couldn’t dominate—I had the most powerful men in the world begging to serve me, willing to do anything to kneel before me—the richest men in the world as my benefactors. And all they wanted was sex.


I was sex.

Again, The Google:

Apotheosis (from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεόω/ἀποθεῶ, apotheoo/apotheo “to deify”; in Latin deificatio “making divine”; also called divinization and deification) is the glorification of a subject to divine level and, most commonly, the treatment of a human like a god. In theology, apotheosis refers to the idea that an individual has been raised to godlike stature.

It is the way of the gods to be apart from humanity, but desire to be a part of it. As I got older—and bigger—it became more and more difficult to move about in public. The year I turned 54—which coincidentally was the year I’d been elevated for as long as I’d been human, 27 years—I was 6’5”, 290 muscular pounds, still as lean as a teen, with a cock that was nearly forty inches long and balls that hung nearly to my knee. I was graying, sure, but didn’t look my age in the face—I looked like my Grandfather at the same age. The Daddy-thing worked in my favor.

I separated myself from the others. They never stopped—they never expressed interest in anything other than carousing and fucking around. It was exhausting. There was no appreciation of arts or literature or the expression of creative thought—everything was directed at sex. Everything.

After a while, I found myself bored, seeking more—though what more could there be? I desired to travel, but travel was nearly impossible. Wherever I went, sex happened. My smell, my aura, whatever it was about me that men couldn’t resist, it didn’t stop—I couldn’t turn it off. Obviously, I couldn’t fly—ultimately, the pilot would be unable to resist the inevitable orgy that would happen and the plane would crash. Maybe if the pilot flew with an air mask? Who knows? To me, it wasn’t worth the try.

Fortunately, several of my benefactors had yachts—massive, sprawling things that they were more than happy to offer me. In that way, I saw much of the world, spreading my seed all around the globe.

We were anchored off the shore of Mykonos and I was busy fucking my way through the height of the high season—oh, the gorgeous gay men who summered in Mykonos—when I heard rumor of another like me. One of the local boys, whose English was far better than my Greek—together, we spoke the language of Lust—told me that I reminded him of the stories he’d heard about a reclusive sex god who was said to live up the coast, on Mt. Pelion. An old man with a giant cock—the stories said he pushed his cock around before himself on a cart—his smell, like mine, was said to drive men wild with lust, enough to make them impale themselves on his huge penis until they were dead. It was a story locals told for generations, perhaps in an effort to keep the young men from playing in the many caves along the coast.

The boy told me this while impaling himself on my huge penis, so I wasn’t sure how much of it was porn-fantasy on his part. But I heard several corroborating stories over the next few weeks, so with little better to do, I had the captain sail us up the East Coast of Greece toward the Pelion Peninsula.

And there was someone—I could feel him. The closer we got, passing the spectacular cliffs and inlets of this ancient coast, the more I became aware of him. This feeling reminded me of the bond between myself and the ones I’d created, the Modern Day Centaurs—it had the same longingful pull. The call of sex.

I followed this call. Going ashore, dressed in linen pants and loafers, shirtless, my hairy beauty exposed to the world, I unerringly led myself up the mountain to the hidden door of a house nearly invisible in the mountainside of Mt. Pelion, as if someone had taken a cave and had Andrew Lloyd Wright develop it into a residence—the old and the new melded seamlessly together.

An olive-skinned beauty opened the door, dressed only in a short linen skirt and sandals. He was spectacular, young and hairless, his pink, puffy nipples sitting atop his tight, muscular chest—his pink, pouty lips ready to pleasure my cock. But he wasn’t the scent I sought.

“Geiá sou,” I said in my sorry Greek. “Eínai o kýrios sas?”

The boy smiled—probably because of the way I butchered his language. “He is expecting you,” he said in perfect English, opening the door to bid me enter.

Again, walking through the house was like walking through a cave that had been made into a house, all the stone and slate, with the sleek, LCD lighting and hidden speakers piping in some old folk music—it was the kind of place one saw on the Rich & Famous Real Estate shows, a little too over-the-top to be believed. Nothing could’ve been this nice. How much money had this taken? How many years?

The boy walked before me, allowing me to view his spectacular ass—it was hard to decide exactly what to look at, the house or the boy. We descended a short set of stairs and emerged into a grotto. It reminded me of the Ancient Public Baths, a large pool dominating the space, with several types of hot tubs adorning the circumference and a magnificent, raised dais on one end, almost like a pulpit where a massive bed sat ready for use. This was the biggest-budget porn-set I’d ever seen—as if Spielberg were shooting a Greek fuck-flick.

As we entered, the boy’s Master stood from the hot tub, his back to us, as two other olive-skinned beauties dressed him in a white, terry-cloth robe. He was nearly eight feet tall, massively muscular, though in proportion with his height, as if someone had taken a super-heavyweight bodybuilder and blew him up to 150%. An older man—I would put him somewhere in his early sixties—with salt-and-pepper hair that favored the salt, but long on top and shaved short on the sides—his grooming was as meticulous as his house. He sported a beard that was a bit longer than mine, but oiled and maintained with an attention mine had never known. The robe didn’t hide the fact that he was hairy, but why wouldn’t he be? He was the perfect man.

The robe made no secret of his cock, either. Like mine, it jutted before him like an extra limb, continuously hard and heavy, ready for more. It had to be over three feet long, but the way the boys had placed it in the material, it was hard to be sure. I’d hoped to find out. Hardly the image of a withered old man with his cock on a cart.

When we made eye-contact, he smiled—and in that moment, I recognized him. I didn’t know how—not then—but I knew who he was. I’d known him for thousands of years. “Oh my god,” I said. “Chiron!”

“Hello, Pholus,” he said in English, with a glorious accent, opening his muscular arms for a hug. “Welcome home!”

You know the gag by now:

In Greek mythology, Chiron (/ˈkaɪrən/ KY-rən; also Cheiron or Kheiron; Greek: Χείρων “hand”) was held to be the superlative centaur amongst his brethren, as he was called as the “wisest and justest of all the centaurs”. Chiron was notable throughout Greek mythology for his youth-nurturing nature. His personal skills tend to match those of his foster father Apollo, who taught the young centaur the art of medicine, herbs, music, archery, hunting, gymnastics and prophecy, and made him rise above his beastly nature. Centaurs were notorious for being wild, lusty, overly indulgent drinkers and carousers, violent when intoxicated, and generally uncultured delinquents. Chiron, by contrast, was intelligent, civilized and kind, because he was not related directly to the other centaurs due to his parentage.

I couldn’t even tell you how long we fucked before we had a chance to talk. It felt like that sexual communication was almost as valuable as the verbal would be. His age was buffered by his confidence and his ability, his skillful love-making knew no bounds.

Our cocks were big enough to be inside each other as we faced one another, each fucking the other while we deeply kissed. “I’ve missed you,” he moaned as he shot yet another load into me. “It’s been too long…”

“I don’t understand,” I said while he thrusted himself on my hard pole. “This all feels so familiar.”

“There will be plenty of time for talk,” he said, bringing me to orgasm. “But first, we must be what we are.”

That first sexual coupling lasted nearly a full week. We fucked in the grotto, we fucked in the pool, we fucked in his bed, we fucked in a sling that was hung deep in the cavernous depths of the mountain. He showed me more ways to stimulate someone than I’d ever known—or experienced! He was a master at pleasure.

“Well, I should be,” he said later, sitting upright against a massive pile of cushions. I sat with my back against him, in the crook of his arm—we were smoking some of my best bud. “After all, I’ve been having sex for thousands of years. I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“Thousands of years,” I mumbled, taking my hit. Then, upon exhalation I said, “So are you immortal?”

“Gods exist as long as people worship them,” he replied, taking the joint from me. “And fortunately, we’re gods of rutty, physical sex—men will always believe in that.” He kissed me deeply, sharing the hit he’d taken. Of course, he was a good kisser, too.

He had a staff of the most beautiful men, stunning examples all—they bathed us and catered to us and fed us. I could feel their adoration and pride and… worship. I let it empower me.

The myths held some truths: Chiron was a teacher at heart. He told me everything. “Surely you’ve done some research,” he said, indicating the computer screen before us—(when I made a joke about the Batcave, he didn’t get my reference, so he didn’t know everything). “From the myth of Pholus, we get the phrase ‘shooting yourself in the foot’—did you know that?”

I shook my head and smiled.

“After Heracles finished his fourth labor, he was tasked with wiping out the centaurs. Their drunken, sexual carousing was proving too much for the local populace, so he came to Pholus’ cave here in Mt. Pelion—this very cave—to seek a special Dionysian wine to lure the centaurs out into the open. Ultimately, Heracles slew them all with arrows poisoned by the blood of the hydra. After the battle, Pholus, marvelling at the idea that so small a thing as an arrow could kill something as magnificent as a centaur, dropped the poison arrow on his foot where it pierced his skin and killed him.”

“That’s what happened?” I asked.

“That’s the myth,” he said, taking another hit. “I love this stuff, marijuana. It’s rare that I have any—I’ve lost my taste for what passes for wine nowadays.” He exhaled and passed back to me. After taking a moment to adjust his huge balls, he continued. “In fact, it wasn’t Heracles, it was a small armada fighting in Heracles’ name that wiped us out—again, time and telling change the story. And it was understandable—we’d created too many. We got a little… trigger happy in our play—there needs to be a balance.”


“Right! Well, obviously not men with the bodies of horses—but you’ve seen what they become, what their cocks become when we change them. Is it any surprise that they became known as ‘horse-men’ or ‘half-man/ half-horse’ to the people who are left to describe them? Mythology has a wonderful way of literalizing the traits of the gods. We are spirits of nature, sexual spirits, not animals—organized religion has used that metaphor to death. They took our form and made it into their Satan! Yet still, our ways persist—men still worship us—religion or not, they put gnomes in their gardens, wards in their crops, they know that fertility IS sex, Nature’s sex—when the gods are fertile, the land prospers—we are linked.

“No, Heracles’ Armada wiped them out—nearly all. I’d been hit in the battle and spent the next few months curing myself with herbs and medicines.” He showed me a scar on his thigh, barely evident after all this time. “Rumor had it I’d died—that’s what the myth said, too—but that wasn’t the case. I’d just gone into hiding. I was too late to help you, though,” he continued, rubbing my pec with the arm he had draped over my shoulder. “You were nearly gone by the time I got to you, so I… did what I could and preserved your essence.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it without getting all technical and metaphysical—I don’t know if you’ll understand it, even then. Suffice it to say that through physics and arcane sorcery, I captured your essence in a form not unlike your favorite thing: Dionysian wine!” He chuckled then, kissing my head. “I was the one who bottled it and guarded it for several thousand years, waiting for the right man, until it was spirited away from me during one of the many wars of the former century. I didn’t know anything more about it until I heard about you on the internet—my Pholus, come back to me!”

Kissing, kissing, always kissing.

“Someone sealed it inside a garden gnome,” I said. “It was in my grandfather’s garden. I honestly think it was meant for him—his build, his attitude (maybe he was a centaur?)—he had to have known about it. After his death, it was passed to me where it Lorded over a bunch of marijuana plants until I broke it… and discovered…’

“Your destiny,” he said, grabbing my cock.

I stayed with him after that—he claimed the cave was mine to begin with—and allowed myself to be his apprentice, his pupil, his son, and his lover. He was trained in all the fine arts—music, literature, theatre (he adored musicals!), the sciences, herbs, art. “This is what sets us apart from the beasts we make,” he said. “They cannot appreciate the finer things.”

He taught me the art of sex, techniques from people long-forgotten. We played daily with each other, the staff, the local boys, visitors who came just to worship—it was a scene from the great erotic writers, sexual energy providing the energy for everything, from the ideas to the art to the power for life.

On my 92nd birthday, the same age as my grandfather when he’d passed, I was just-over seven feet tall—still a foot shorter than Chiron—but with a spectacular body and an unbelievable cock. I was vital, vigorous, and very horny. Chiron had re-grown the hair on my head—he’d concocted some kind of (very) smelly salve, but it worked! After having been bald for most of my adult life, it was fun to have hair again as an “old” man. I certainly wasn’t was some kind of dried-up prune of a thing pushing my oversized cock before me on a cart, no matter what the stories said.

I found Chiron in the hot-tub, soaking in the bubbling water with his arms along the edge of the tub—even from here, I could smell his scent. “There’s the birthday boy!” he said when he saw me.

I laughed. “Your favorite eccentric centaur has made his first complete lap around the sun,” I said, standing in the waist-deep water so my giant cock floated just below the surface, like a small shark.

“Then you’re really just a one year old, right?” he asked. “That sounds like a good average—one year for you equals ninety-two for everyone else. So you’ll be around 8,400 when you’re really 92.”

I laughed. “And they say I’m the eccentric one,” I said, leaning forward to kiss him.

“I’m saying immortality requires a different mindset.” He began to rub the tip of my cock, right beneath the glans—of course it started to harden. Horny old fuck.

I bent forward and kissed him. “So, what’s next?” I asked.

“Travel, I think. I should like to see the world! I’ve never been to the Americas, your former home—and we should see how your centaurs are getting along. I’m curious.”

“You’re just horny,” I said, toying with his cock as he teased mine.

He chuckled in our kiss. “Eternally,” he said.

We began our normal day—we fucked—and we made our plans.

We leave tomorrow and have been fucking our goodbyes through the local populace. Our personal staff will travel with us and we have people to watch the cave (not that we expect any trouble—even the worshippers are dedicated and respectful) and of course everything is connected to everything now, so communication is hardly in the Age of Homer, trying desperately to reach Ithaca.

I plan to visit my grandfather’s grave and bury the little stone icon of the muscular man with the giant penis there to honor him. He watched over it for so many years in life, I’d like it to watch over him in death. I will thank him too, properly, for the gift he gave me.

That’s the purpose of this story, I suppose—to honor my grandfather. I’ve taken much of the last week writing it—to help organize my thoughts—and I’ve struggled with its theme. Chiron has read it and thinks it’s just fine as it is. “Let it speak for itself,” he said. “You Americans and your obsession with plot. It’s a symbolic piece—it requires more thought than what’s happening in the plot. Let it be.”

And so I do. This is my story—this is what happened when Pholus was reborn.

Thank you, Big Red.


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