CECIL'S WILLY

An odd little story that doesn't seem to make much sense until you realise it's a critque of an old-fashioned morality.

"Sylvia," called Cecil, "I'm stuck. I can't get my trousers up."

"Are they down?" called Sylvia, obviously.

"Right round my ankles," he replied.

"On the floor, you mean, round your ankles?"

"They are, and they're stuck," he sniffed.

"And what are you wearing under them?" she asked, cautiously.

"Nothing."

"Absolutely nothing?"

"I'm commando!"

"And you can't get your trousers up?"

"They're stuck down."

"Then I can't help," she called from the garden where she was hanging out the washing. "I can't help because you're commando and I might see something I shouldn't see."

"What's that?" he asked, knowing but still enjoying the way the question tripped off his tongue.

"You know what I might see," she replied.

He hesitated, then, "I can't imagine." he said at length.

"Your willy," she said, "I might see your willy."

"What's wrong with that?"

"A woman shouldn't see a man's willy. Not like that. Not when his trousers are stuck round his ankles and he's commando."

"What if I put some pants on?"

"Now?"

"Yes. I could put some pants on and then would you help me with my stuck trousers?"

"If you were to do that I wouldn't get the smallest glimpse of your unmentionables, but it would involve you taking your trousers completely off, which might be difficult if they're stuck."

"By unmentionables, do you mean my willy?"

"You know I do."

"I'll put some pants on then. You couldn't throw me a pair, could you? Through the door, without looking?"

"If I must, though I don't see how it's going to help."

"It'll help all right. After all, you don't want to see my willy, do you?"

"I should think I don't!"

"So you get me some pants, I'll put them on, then you can help me pull up my stuck trousers."

"This isn't making much sense to me."

"It will when you see my predicament."

"Just a minute and I'll get your pants. What colour do you want?"

"Does it matter what colour I wear?"

"You know better than me. I don't mind what colour your pants are, but you might!"

"Tartan ones," he decided. "I've got some tartan ones in my pants drawer."

"I know," she said. "I bought them for you last year. Remember?"

"Of course I do, and very nice they are too."

"Just a minute then, and I'll get them."

He heard her scurrying in through the back door and the sound of her feet on the stairs as she went up to their bedroom. Then he heard the sliding noise his drawer made when it was opened, and the slightly raunchier sliding sound it made when it was shut.

"Here you are!" she called, and a pair of tartan boxer shorts landed several feet away from him, on the carpet.

"I can't reach them!" he shouted. "They're too far away!”

"You've got legs, haven't you?" she bawled, frustrated b what had turned into the silliest conversation they'd had since last week.

"That's the problem," he replied. "I haven't."

"You haven't what?"

"Got legs. I haven't got any legs."

"Don't be so bloody daft!"

"But I haven't!" he almost wept. "They're in my trousers!"

"Now you're being silly!"

"They are! They're in my trousers, and they're stuck!"

"Stuck where?"

"In this hole in the floor, the one that opened up, the one with flames from the Underworld shooting through it and scorching me. They're stuck there, and my legs are still in them. I really need help, Sylvia."

"I can't come," she decided. "Not with you being commando and not wearing any pants!"

"It would be really useful if you did."

"I can't. I might see your willy. You'll have to sort yourself out."

"But…"

And that was the last word she heard him say. Ever. They buried him the very next week in an economically short coffin because, as he'd said, he'd lost his legs. They were still in his trousers somewhere. She never did find either garment or body parts.