Story Notes: A while back somebody somewhere was bitching about sentient cocks in fanfic. And, for some reason, that made me want to write about Ray Kowalski's sentient cock, or, failing that, just write a story where I talked about his cock a lot. (This also made me look up "sentient" and try to figure out if they meant "sapient cock" instead. I think maybe they did.) So here's my thing about Ray and his thinking/feeling/wanting cock. Except I used the word 'dick,' because I'm fickle like that.

Ray's horny again. He's sick of jerking off, no matter what his dick is trying to tell him. Way back when he'd first discovered masturbation it was like he'd found heaven, found the thing that completed him. He was ready to write poetry and love songs to the feel of his hand on his dick.

Then he'd discovered other people's hands on his dick and his own lost some of its charm. Ray's hand and Ray's dick drifted apart, reuniting once in a while when nothing else was on offer. They were old friends; no spark, but it was never a bad thing, back then, to sit down and get reacquainted.

Over the years, when things were getting bad and worse with Stella, Ray's dick and his hand had grown closer again. He didn't realize it at the time, but he tried to avoid his dick sometimes. Maybe because he didn't want to think about what it meant that he spent more time with his palm on his dick than his wife on his dick. Maybe because it felt pathetic to fantasize about his own wife, like she was still the prom queen, the cheerleader. Somebody he could only hope for.

Or maybe because when he jerked off, he didn't always just think about Stella.

It wasn't like monogamy was easy; he'd never thought it would be. Temptation was everywhere, and his dick let him know it, but temptation could never out-tempt his Stella, his golden girl. He could live with the constant low simmering itch towards other people no problem; it was the doubt that killed him.

He loved Stella. He married Stella. They were Ray and Stella, for better and for worse, for richer and for not rich enough, for laughing and dancing and for long hours at work and cold dinners alone.

He figured his dick was just sluttier than the rest of him, the way it perked up for pretty girls and pretty men. He'd fooled around with enough of both to know that his dick was happy either way. But the rest of him had only ever cared about Stella. He just wondered sometimes if his dick was trying to tell him something. If Stella, who was enough for the rest of him, couldn't keep his dick's full attention 24-7, if he couldn't keep focus on her when he was close and gasping alone in their apartment, then maybe what she'd been trying to tell him, through years of hints and frowns and exasperated, fond shakes of her head, was true.

Then he'd lost Stella. Lost her over and over until one time she stayed lost. Out of reach forever, back to being the pretty girl who wouldn't look at him. His dick got pretty confused around then. It wasn't dead, no matter what the rest of him felt like. And it still liked the pretty girls and the pretty men.

And they liked it. Over and over they proved it. Plenty of people made friends with his dick back then, despite the lingering, frustrating thought that he was cheating, that he was giving away what wasn't his to give. His dick slowly taught the rest of him that liking people who weren't Stella was okay now.

Then his dick started fucking with him.

Liking pretty men was fine. He was cool with it, he was. Very cool. Liking pretty men in bright red suits who did distracting things with their tongues out every time Ray glanced their way was fine. Liking one pretty man in one very red suit wasn't so good.

Liking him no matter how screwed up he was; as a cop, as a participant in the twentieth century, as a guy with a dick of his own, that was a problem. Fraser wasn't a cop; he was a bloodhound, a police dog turned into a really polite man. He wasn't in the twentieth century; he was from some other time, a time when people were kind and decent and didn't rape and lie and murder and litter just for the hell of it. Ray didn't know history like Fraser did, but he was pretty sure there wasn't any time like that. So Fraser was just weird.

And Fraser was especially weird about his dick. Ray knew he had one. Not just 'cause Fraser was a real live human, despite Ray's occasional doubts, but because Ray was a cop and he saw things. He saw when Fraser wanted people, saw that he was pretty flexible himself about the sex of the people he wanted. And he saw Fraser deny himself, saw him stand straighter, use bigger words, and not once, not ever do anything about it.

So he'd figured his dick's interest in Fraser was just another bad idea from south of his buckle and tried to let it go. But, as it turned out, his dick was stubborn. Worse, his dick had finally discovered monogamy, or whatever is like monogamy when you're not getting any from anywhere. His dick was obsessed, and when Ray tried to distract it with pretty girls and other pretty men it couldn't be bothered. Ray would have thought something was wrong with it, except it was still enthusiastic as hell about that one guy in that damn red suit.

Only, as it turned out, "enthusiastic as hell" was the old scale, the pre-fucking Fraser scale. On the post-fucking Fraser scale, the old "enthusiastic as hell" was something like fond affection, and the new "enthusiastic as hell" was more like death by orgasm. Once Fraser'd finally taken the chance and cracked his shell and given in to the advice his own dick was giving him, Ray's dick found new levels of excellence it hadn't even known to hope for. Both Ray and Ray's dick were pretty damn happy with the post-fucking Fraser world.

Ray's dick loved every inch of Fraser, and, conveniently enough, Fraser's dick felt the same way about Ray.

Naturally, Ray's dick and Ray's hand drifted apart again. They still had their moments, times when Ray was slicking up to fuck Fraser, or jerking off while he sucked Fraser or Fraser fucked him, or watching Fraser shave with that big old-fashioned razor, but mostly they were passing acquaintances. If either Ray or his dick thought about it, they might have thought that maybe they'd never be left alone together again.

But they would have been wrong. Now Ray's alone with his dick and his hand and he's horny again. And, still, nothing but Fraser or Ray's hand and fantasy-Fraser would satisfy his stubborn, fixated dick. But Ray's sick of jerking off; he's telling his dick to shut up and leave him alone. It's been twelve days and Fraser's due back any time now. Ray's dick will just have to wait a little longer, and then it can have the real thing.