Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Stupid Prick.

I woke up one day with a fear. I was absolutely positive that my cock’s gonna fall off. It wasn’t pain, it wasn’t itchy, just an irrational fear that it’s just going to dry off, wither away and crumble, like chips in your clenched fist. My cock is a late fall leaf that fell off some sad old tree eons ago. I held my cock for three hours non-stop for the first time without beating it. Just held it as if it were a newborn baby that’s bound to die due to some unspecified disease. And unspecified indeed it was. I put on the tightest underpants my drawer was harboring, slowly and carefully got dressed and walked out into the world.
The world was terrible. A foul, filthy place filled with terrible creatures, rushing through me as if I were transparent. Everyone is in a hurry and I don’t let them even brush against my dick in the bus. I rush out of it as soon as I reach my doctor’s office. My GP is a middle-aged fat woman that I’ve never met before in my life. The queue is almost nonexistent, and yet I am sweating like a wild boar in a forest fire. They call out my name and I am in the office in a matter seconds. She looks at me and I presume my face is a chill pepper. You can almost cut through the smoke coming out of my ears. She giggles like a teenage girl and invites me to sit.
“My cock’s gonna fall off!”
Excuse me, she says.
“My fucking penis is going to fall off, I know it.”
Did I cut it, she enquires with a tone of ridicule.
“No, I didn’t fucking cut it, it’s gonna wither and die and I fucking know it.”
Before she could protest, my pants are down and her eyes are locked onto my private parts. I have no time to be ashamed, my dick is gonna fall off.
She stands up, kneels down, looks at it for nothing more than I tiny bit of time and tells me to pull up my goddamn pants.
“Pull up my pants? What the hell is wrong with me?”
Two drops trickle down my face disfigured with terror and I can’t tell which is which, tears, or sweat. I breathe heavily and she deduces that I oughta visit a shrink.
“A fucking shrink? I need a fucking operation! You need to scan my cock, MRI, or some shit!”
Call in the boys, everyone’s gotta see this freak.
She is writing me a referral to a very dear neurologist friend of hers, she says, if he can’t help you, no one can, she says, just calm down, she says.
“Calm down?” I say, ‘Calm the fuck down?”, I say, “I need my cock for future endeavors, don’t tell me to calm down!”
Moments later two guys are carrying my screaming body through the hallway, moments after that I am on my ass outside.
I start running.
What does a man do when he is lost? He starts running. And he runs and runs as the stars go by in the sky or right before his eyes. I’m talking about the white dots when one completely and utterly exhausts himself. When one’s knees start shaking and his arms start aching in exhaustion. When his own mind starts a failsafe procedure of firing up the fuel reserves of rage, when the images of him start flashing before his eyes only to shovel the coal of rage into the big oven.
I don’t know where I’m going. There is a river on my left side, and I can’t bear to think about that which is between my legs. I cannot bear to look at it, I can’t bear to touch it. I already start feeling that it is not a part of my body. A dire need flashes before my eyes. Scenes of gruesome violence embroidered with white dots randomly appearing all over my gaze. I scream and yell and scream. Then I fall down, tormented by exhaustion, filled with irrational fears. I feel somebody clenching my bicep, but I shake off and jog on.
It is cold and dark and my skin is steaming. Everywhere across my body I can see the steam. I have no time to stop and investigate this occurrence.
Pictures of him, carpet-bombing my memory more and more often.
I am my own worst enemy. I am literally my own worst enemy.
I imagine breaking his nose. I imagine him thin and bloody on the dance floor. I imagine him dried up and I think of my dick.
Out of my mind I start strolling back to my place. I stroll back because I cannot run. I cannot run and I will never ever run again. My cock is being separated from my body, and in some other universe, in some other body, I laugh at the irony of it. I am rolling on the floor and this is a comedy.
I feel the gaze of every and anyone I come across. I feel I look like seven different kinds of shit. I am going to end up a dickless beggar on the slimy streets of this dear city of mine. My dick is no longer a part of me. My hand feels its soft skin but my mind tells me it’s dry, almost crumbling into the inner parts of my underpants. Crumbs of my penis.
It has gotta go. This madness has to stop. It’s either him, or both of us.
The knife is sharp. Give it a few moments and it’ll be hot. Like hot knife through butter. I feel my cock with my hand and it is shriveled up. It won’t give up. It’ll never give up. It runs back into his cave, but he can’t fit entirely.
“What a prick.” I giggle.
My dick is on the table and this looks like a terribly low-budget pornographic picture. Somebody kicks my door in.
This is the police, don’t move, they say
“What you gonna do?” I laugh madly.
There is help, they can help me, they will take me to a place with white walls and my prick’s gonna be perfectly fine there. Words, words, words.
A man dismembers his penis in a satanic ritual, I can already see it in the papers. Fuck Satan, this ain’t about him. I gotta do this. I know you don’t understand. Neither do I, but I have to. There are no voices in my head. No voices but mine. And I am reasoning with myself. I have patiently waited for any other solution, but there isn’t. I cannot be one with my penis anymore. It’s either him or the both of us.
It is fine, the policeman says. He will help me, he begs. If it were a woman she wouldn’t care. They never care. They just welcome it for a hot party and then throw it out all drunk on juice and flabby. They never care, he never cared.
Let me help you, his words come as shocks springing me into the reality, but only for brief moments. I am my heart and they are blowing pulse into it. Every word of his is just a spike. A spike that doesn’t support another one. There is no spike after spike. Only a spike. One. One is not enough.
His gun is away and he is approaching me. His right hand directed towards the knife and left one slowly moving towards my dick. Now it really looks like a stupid porno.
Then I smile and say: “Sorry for the future nightmares”, and thrust the knife downward.

No comments: