It's a cruel trick that the Keepers of the Streets keep pulling on me, and it's irritating. It's also irritating to my teacher whose badass beard and flat cap give me the impression that he's going to go Drunken Irish on my ass if I continue to be late. So I'm finding closer private places to park at the cost of some of my decency, if any is left. And the tasks have been getting worse, too. And if I told you any of them, you would probably turn off your computer and go for a very long walk so you can ponder how your hopes and expectations of human dignity have just been seriously called into question. Plus the doctors would be turning their heads in curiosity at why a man has burn tissue on the inside of his rectum. That's all for the sake of attempting to be early. You're welcome, Professor.
This made me recall that in our lives, we've all done something degrading, humiliating, or unpleasant in our lives to pay off a debt to somebody. We might've been in a desperate situation, or in most cases we probably lost a bet. And more often than not, they involve sexual favors. Even if you're straight and with a bunch of straight friends, it might be something sexual, or for a lack of a better description, completely gay. And none of you have to be gay to do it. If anything, forcing your manfriends to do sexual favors is as straight as an arrow because you're both consciously aware of how horribly unpleasant and humiliating it is. That's the point of losing a bet. Frank complained when he had to shove that carrot up his ass, but it didn't make him gay for doing it. He was just owning up to a bet. It made him gay that he ended up enjoying it, but you understand where I'm coming from. Obligations have and always will be a perpetual pain in our asses. Unless you like things in your ass like Frank. But I'm getting off on a tangent. Right, let's get into a narrative that seems to put this on display, which thankfully involves no dick-sucking. Well, at least to the best of my knowledge.
* * *
"I want you to get me a new one." she said.
"...A new 'what', exactly?" I was a bit anxious.
"One of those." There was a pause. My anxiety was well-founded.
"Oh good Christ, one of those."
"And it has to be a good one."
"......Do I really have to go through with this?"
"Yes."
"Can't I do something else?" I groaned.
"No."
"Oh come on, there has to be something, ANYTHING I can do besides that." I pleaded.
"Nope."
"Nothing else I can do comes to mind?"
"Nope.
"I'M PROBABLY NOT EVEN OLD ENOUGH TO PURCHASE SOMETHING LIKE THAT."
"Not my problem."
"MEN DON'T SHOP FOR THOSE KINDS OF THINGS."
"Not my problem."
"I HATE YOU SO MUCH."
"Not my problem."
So most of you might be wondering how I got into this particular situation. Or what the situation is. This girl I knew in High School enjoyed having sex. She had no shame about it; she liked to sleep around, and she enjoyed every bit of it. And people just sort of knew and accepted it. Nobody really condemned her for it because it wasn't really doing any harm to anyone. She was a connoisseur of the sensual arts, and that's all there was to it. I won't use the term "slut" because I always found it to be a double standard since when men like to whore themselves out, it's somehow alright or badass that he's scoring with so many hot bitches. He gets high fives down the hall whenever he talks about the new squeeze he just laid out, and no men, NONE look at him with contempt for enjoying himself. They look at him with contempt because he's getting laid and they're not. This perception is generally different for women, so out of equal respect, I won't call her a slut or a whore. She never helped a man cheat, and if she accidentally did, she would help his girlfriend kick his ass. She was just out to enjoy herself and didn't want to ruin anybody's love life in the process. It was a refreshing change of pace from all the women who were in fact cheating whores at the school.
Oh right, I guess I lied. I'm an equal opportunist, so I call plenty of men whores, as well. Fair? Alright, back to the story.
Again, she liked to sleep around but didn't give off that "slutty" vibe. She was definitely a bitch, though. Rude, is what she was. And a smartass to boot. But I think it was just a facade since she still managed to frequently do nice things. One thing in particular was helping me with my English homework every single day. Okay, so it was more than one time, but you get the point. What? I couldn't be bothered to do it. I was off indulging my own hobbies and pleasures of cutting school, getting drunk, and generally waking up in places I've never been to while regretting actions I can't remember doing. Although I assume it eventually hit the point where it probably got bothersome for her after the third or fourth week.
"This is getting really bothersome." she bluntly stated. I WAS RIGHT.
"I suppose so." I said. "Well, you don't have to keep doing it. I suppose I can actually start working again."
"Fair enough." she said. And that was it.
Except I didn't do my work. Whoops.
That pissed her off, so she did my work for me anyways. And she had the audacity to complain about it, too. What the fuck, I didn't ask for her to keep doing my homework. Goddamn, let me fail if you don't want to do my homework. That's what I was doing with my other classes. Was she going to help me in those, too? One of the reasons she told me to pick up the slack in my English classes other than her not having to do the work was that she apparently thought I had talent or something and said it would be a shame to see the only thing I'll probably ever be good at go to waste. Now I'm writing lewd stories about rape and substance abuse on internet forums. HA, SHE TURNED OUT TO BE FULL OF SHIT, DIDN'T SHE?
Eventually though, I couldn't motivate myself to do the work, but I still felt guilt-tripped by her adamant refusal to stop. So because of this, I eventually became her bitch in the "errand-boy" sense of the word to make myself feel like I was doing my fair share of the work. The requests generally weren't a problem for me to do; hell, they were easier than doing schoolwork. Until ONE particular request that put me in the current state of panic I was in now. I had to get one of THOSE. Apparently her old one stopped working. Now the first question I had:
"How the fuck does something like THAT stop working?"
Seriously. How does something like that stop working? What was she doing? Did the motor burn out from overuse? Knowing this girl, she probably had one big enough for the job of clubbing a fellow human being to death, so maybe an intruder tried to break into the house while she was having a moment with herself and that was the closest object at her disposal to use as a weapon. I hadn't a clue, but my morbid curiosity wanted to know the answer.
"Overuse." she said.
"Didn't see that coming."
"You aren't clever."
"I never said I was."
"But right, get it to me by next week."
"...Or what?"
"I'll cut yours off and fill it with rubber as a replacement."
"...That sounds unpleasant." I muttered, slightly shaken through the alcoholic haze. "Besides, I'm not well-endowed. That'd be a waste of your time."
"I was at the overhang outside the cafeteria when you were pantsed. Don't lie to me."
"...Shit, fine." Yes, I was pantsed in High School, because the mature High Schoolers so above childish pranks still did that. And it happened to be the day I was going commando because my deadbeat mother didn't do any laundry. It was one of the more embarrassing experiences in my life, especially since at that point in time I was terribly naive. This was before the internet generation started really catching on and kids weren't watching porn when they were FUCKING TEN. So I didn't know much about sex and hadn't a clue what being "well-endowed" really meant. She apparently did though, so the threat went through. Really, she couldn't be serious about that threat, right? But better question; where the Hell was I going to get something like that? Other than her, there was really no feasible source of information I could rely on in this situation. I mean, there's almost no realistic approach to any conversation where I could work this into the context of discussion.
But really, what was I to do? I pondered this as I stumbled home in the 110-degree heat with the humidity being drier than my mother after my father left. Actually, that's a terrible comparison. You'll understand why later, whether you want to or not. But it was arid, dead wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I was in jeans and three layers of clothing, and I wasn't sweating a drop. I was either completely resistant to heat or approaching a dangerous level of dehydration, but either way the barren conditions diluted my thoughts and made it impossible for me to form any kind of coherent thought on the way home. In fact, I ended up in the back alley parking lot of a movie theater and I couldn't remember how I got there. There was a homeless man in only boxers pissing behind a dumpster. Johnny the homeless man actually has no relevance to this particular story, I just felt that it was an observation worth noting. He was going to be dead soon. Again, nothing of relevance but another observation worth eventually noting. Now I don't know why I stumbled around in that alley. I actually considered asking Johnny the homeless man to find a sex shop and buy one for me if I did him a favor, but then the cycle of being indebted to other people would continue. And Johnny the homeless man was a crazy and sexually depraved. He had been arrested four times for indecent exposure that involved masturbating inside the Save Mart in the shopping center and asking women if they liked what they saw. They didn't, and neither did the children he asked, either. God forbid what this crazy homeless man would ask me to do if I sent him into a sex shop. He'd probably start working his crank and get thrown out before he bought what I needed. Or what I didn't need, I couldn't trust him with money. So I continued on my way home from school and I heard him wailing like a dog as I left. Okay, maybe he wasn't pissing behind the dumpster after all.
I get home, and I want to watch TV. The problem is that the TV downstairs has the terrifying premise that my mother comes down there on occasion to leave or go get more beer or to talk on the phone, and she's a tornado of drunken fury that destroys everything in her wake. My room on the other hand I share with my brother, and despite it being 3pm in the afternoon, he's asleep because he has work at 6pm until the wee hours of the morning. I actually of all places prefer to watch TV in my mom's room, because she usually doesn't go in there since the phone is downstairs and so is the refrigerator. She only goes into her room to sleep or for some reason or another. That particular afternoon, I found out what "some reason or another" was.
She was locked in her room blaring her music and I was downstairs, attempting to watch Conan since it came on CNBC in the afternoon and it was the only thing to watch at that time. I couldn't hear the TV because her music was fucking loud. Eventually though, I heard the music dim and noticed it was Friday; she was going to leave to the Bay Area for the weekend. Oh joy, time alone in the house without fear of death. She came downstairs, didn't say a word, and went out the door. I immediately got of the futon in the living room and went upstairs. It was uncomfortable as Hell. It felt like it had a corpse inside it and smelled like it, too. So I was all too eager to hurry upstairs and go watch TV in the master bedroom. I turned on the TV and situated myself on the bed and saw her car leave when I looked out the window. But when I sat there for a bit, I sensed something. Something terrible. Something to this day, if I sense it, I immediately retreat into that happy little place in my mind and start whimpering. It was a disturbance in the air that most kids learn to sense whenever SOMETHING was going on.
And what was worse was that I couldn't shake this gut feeling that something was wrong. It was like the sound of a faint ticking inside my head that couldn't be completely drowned out. And what made my stomach turn even more was when I realized that it wasn't in my head; it was an auditory ticking noise that could very be distinctly heard if there was silence in the room. And when I sat up, I listened to where that ticking was coming from. It sounded like a clock that had jammed. It was coming from a black bag in the corner of the room. In most cases, a black travel bag with the sound of ticking would be something that a Middle-eastern man at a airport would be carrying with him on board a plane, so needless to say I was cautious. Like a timid animal, I slowly got up and approached it, cautious scanning it, wondering what the noise was. I started breathing heavily as I got ready to peer inside of the bag, and with a final push through hesitation, I opened it and reached my hand inside of it.
"OH SWEET MERCIFUL JESUS WHAT THE FUCKING CHRIST DID I JUST GRAB OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD I CAN'T EVEN GET A GOOD GRIP ON IT AND IT SMELLS AND WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK FUCKING SHIT IS THIS AM I GOING TO GET A DISEASE AND OH LORD WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THI--"
I would've continued to revile in horror longer, but I passed out. That was pretty much all the energy that I could muster in that situation through shock. This was great that I was home alone at the time, because one couldn't possibly begin to imagine the compromising position I'd be in if one were to walk in on me, unconscious in the corner of the room, with one of THOSE in my hand. I mean, the possibilities would be endless as to what I was up to. But when I came to and realized what I was actually doing... I started screaming and yelling and crying and passing out again. This went on for two more times before I could accept the crux of the situation I was in. When I regained consciousness for the fourth time, I had a crude and brilliant idea, and decided to make a phone call.
"Hey you." I said.
"What?" she asked.
"You didn't say anything about where it needed to come from or any specifics like that, did you?" She decided to humor me.
"As long as it works and it isn't diseased, then sure, why the hell not?"
"Good, that's all I needed to know."
And that my friends, is how I channeled emotional trauma into a positive outlet by helping others in the most twisted and vile manner possible. I'm serious. She didn't care about where it came from. She bleached and desensitized it and said it was acceptable. The only qualm she had was the rather unimpressive size, but then I remembered that this would be what normal people preferred and her preferences would probably stretch to livestock eventually since anything that wasn't human would be the only thing substantially large enough to please her.
Of course I knew where it had come from, and I was glad to get such an insidious device out of my house. And due to how ashamed my family is of exploring those prospects, nobody would say a word about it ever. EVER. A man wouldn't ask his family "Hey hon, I seemed to have misplaced my Gemerald Stud, do you have any idea where it went?"
But right, the moral of this particular story is that whores are evil and will put you in compromising positions and make you learn more about yourself and those around you than you're comfortable knowing.
I had to burn the skin off the palm of my hand just to feel clean again. Christ.
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