The Dr. Patel Penis Jet Ski Flotilla

The plastic surgeon’s pickup service wasn’t exactly what I expected. Stepping out into the busy city street fronting my building, I’d thought there’d be a car to meet me. Probably one of those shiny black Lincoln sedans with tinted windows, or something like a limo.

But, stepping from my lobby’s refrigerated air, out into the morning’s simmering humidity, I saw only an idling motorcycle. A big pink Harley.

The driver, wearing what looked like a pink wetsuit and a bright pink helmet with a mirrored visor, began nodding for me to jump up on the bike’s backseat. Each of the driver’s nods, to me, felt calming as infusions of Xanax. And so, casting any initial apprehension aside, I hopped on.

The motorcycle taxi set off like a racehorse. Went from fast to warp speed. Riding pillion, I nervously gripped the underside of the seat, clinging for dear life.

The bike’s engine roared, loud as death metal, and we were weaving furiously through traffic, then took a turn at what must have been 30 MPH. But the pink driver didn’t even wince. Dude just kept plowing forward, threading through oncoming traffic, cars, busses… The big bike riding roughshod, the Harley to city traffic as a lion is to the jungle…

But my heart skipped a beat when we jumped a curb, went from the busy road to a crowded sidewalk. Fortunately, the driver slowed once we hit the pavement.

After almost running over a rough sleeper, the bike stopped suddenly, causing me to rock back and forth. Thankfully I didn’t tumble off the pillion.

The pink driver wordlessly nodded to an unusual sight. An ornate doorway. A doorway sandwiched between two shadowy, interconnected skyscrapers that resembled darker glass versions of Kuala Lumpur’s Petronas Towers. Perplexed, I dug out and checked my phone, seeking to confirm the address, my Google Map dot.

Yes, I was at the right place… The dot directly between the two dark towers…

So I slinked off the bike’s backseat, and as soon as I did, the man in pink gunned his engine, sped off down the sidewalk.

Turning on my heel, I again laid eyes upon the doorway. How was this a plastic surgeon’s office? I’d have expected the doctor to be up on an upper floor of one of the dark skyscrapers. I’d have expected his office to be palatial, overlooking a park or a river. But instead, there was simply this doorway.

But it was no ordinary doorway. The door was bejeweled. Bedecked in glittering diamonds, rubies and sapphires. What’s more, the door was rimmed with solid gold, a sparkly gold that shone as if electrified, and even the door’s handle was an L-shaped rod of the precious metal.

Stepping closer to the door, listening to the laps of traffic buzzing by, like insects, I felt more at ease. My anxiety, my aversion to whatever strangeness might be behind that door, all of that was leaving me like water down a drain.

Once I was about an arm’s length from the door, it opened on its own. It creaked, loudly, as it drew back and a glance inside revealed a scene that could have been printed on a postcard…

A gorgeous, tropical beach.

Trepidation washed over me. How could a tropical beach exist in the middle of a bustling city?

But before I could ponder this peculiar occurrence, a force pulled me inside and the gilded door squeaked before it slapped shut behind me.

For a second, I felt completely alone. And terrified. There was no one in sight on this beach. It was as if I’d been marooned on an island in the far Pacific.

Up in the water-blue sky, twin suns glowered like a buttery pair of eyes. Lowering my gaze, I scanned the endless horizon and limpid seas, watching the tides’ tongues slide back and forth over marble-white sands.

But I didn’t see anyone or anything, anywhere.

It must have been 20 degrees hotter inside this realm and my clothes, my T-shirt and jeans melted like butter plopped into a hot skillet. My clothes’ collective residue began dripping off my body. Then my shoes dissolved, slid off my feet, their slime the same marble-white color as the sand. Next my socks and Sheath underwear similarly disintegrated.

Standing completely naked, I strolled the shore, unsure where my plastic surgeon might be. He’d been highly rated on Google, had loads of followers on social media, and had once appeared at cricket matches and on a popular reality TV show. The guy was famous. Yet neither he, nor anyone, was anywhere in sight.

Plodding along the beach, I shouted his name. “Dr. Patel!” “Dr. Patel!!!!” “DOOOOOCTOR PAAAAAAATEEEEEEL!!!!!!”

But there was no reply.

The skies above began to haze, morphing into a mauve-ish color I’d never seen. The seas, too, stirred and stewed and took on an entirely artificial pinkish hue.

In the distance, further up the shore, I spotted a clump of people playing cricket.

I hurried my pace, though it was hard to gain traction on the beach’s surface, slopping through the sands. But I pushed forward. Sweat bubbling all over my naked body…

It occurred to me that I might offend. Being a naked man and all. But I couldn’t care any less. I was determined to find Dr. Patel. I’d come all this way, entered this strange world to find him. And find him I would.

But as I thrust myself forward, the cricketers in the distance stayed the same size. Instead of enlarging, becoming more visible, they remained the same static, blurry figures cricketing in the distance.

But what was changing was my penis. With each step I took forward, my penis felt wildly heavier. Yes, my penis, which I’d come to Dr. Patel to sort out. Lowering my gaze, I witnessed that with each step forward, my penis grew larger and larger, ballooning in length and girth, eventually assuming approximately the magnitude of a boa constrictor.

For whatever reason, I stepped backward, and as I did, I sensed my penis shrink. At first, this was pleasurable, a welcome respite. Then I moonwalked back a few more steps and discovered my penis was as long as my arm.

Then I had an idea. I walked backward a few more steps and my penis shrank further, stopping its shrinkage at exactly my desired, Pete Davidson size.

No wonder Dr. Patel was so popular. All he had to do to correct, enlarge or shrink whatever body part you wanted to fix was to lure you to this strange beach, make you run or moonwalk…

But now I had another problem. I needed to get home. I couldn’t see the ornate door anywhere, and the sea was turning a brighter pink. And getting rougher. Larger and larger waves rising like walls of fire, crashing like Miami Beach building failures at the shore. The white sands were also heating up, starting to singe the soles of my feet, and my head started swimming with vertigo…

Thinking the door would be in the direction, vicinity I last saw it, I ran for that path. But the tides were coming in, washing over my feet, erasing the shoreline. Soon enough, there was no beach left. Only jacuzzi-hot, burbly, Barbie-pink waters. And I was up to my knees in the pink deluge.

Then I heard a motor, swung my gaze to the right and saw the same pink wetsuit-wearing motorcycle taxi driver that’d brought me here. However, this time he was riding his big pink Harley atop the water, like a motorcycle Jesus.

Off in the distance, not far behind the motorcycle Jesus, rumbled a flotilla of jet skis. And as the flotilla sailed closer, I could see that each jet ski rider was either Dr. Patel or a clone of Dr. Patel. I knew it was him because I knew that face from cricket matches and social media…

That handlebar mustache, the genie pants, the pastel pink turban… His bare, ripped chest and abs, his romance novel coverboy body looking freshly waxed, his walnut skin glistening… Beyond any reasonable doubt, it was him!

DOCTOR PATEL.

But the motorcycle driver reached me first, and his nod only affirmed my beliefs. Without hesitation, I climbed atop the motorcycle, mounted the pillion and we skidded out, rode over the surface of the water while the flotilla of Dr. Patels raced after us in dogged pursuit.

The big pink bike swerved right, and we bopped along for what seemed like an eternity, over nothing but Pepto-colored waters, riding up and over pink waves, jumping them like something between a surfer and MotoGP driver.

Eventually, the violent pink seas evened out, and I swung my gaze back to see if the Dr. Patel flotilla was still chasing us. They weren’t.

Once I looked back ahead, I saw the same ornate doorway, smack dab in the middle of the pink seas. As we rode forward, it again opened on its own, and with a loud WHOOSH we went through the doorway and arrived back where we started, parked on the sidewalk, facing the same two dark skyscrapers.

I swiveled my head, looked at the crease between the skyscrapers, where the golden door had been. But it was gone. Then I noticed that I was again clothed. However, I was shirtless, had shredded abs and was wearing hot pink genie pants and matching, pink Aladdin shoes with curled tips.

Clapping my hands to my crotch, I felt my penis to have assumed its ideal shape and size. It was the penis I’d always wanted! Damn that Dr. Patel is good!

Sliding off the pillion, I reached to pay the driver. Then the driver chortled, lifted the mirrored visor to his helmet, and I knew that handlebar mustache from anywhere.