The Hand that Bleeds
The itching was unbearable. It was the primary cause of my sleepless nights. I was exhausted and beginning to worry. I could no longer concentrate on my job and it was beginning to show. By day, I worked calculating the measurement of the typeface on movie posters. At night, I succumbed to an acute, torturous itch emanating from my anus.
To explain: Before a movie poster goes to print it is the task of some conscientious individual to make sure the bloated actors’ name is the proper size, font, and color designated by his/her contract. For many movie posters, I am that individual. Although awkward and somewhat anti-social, I manage to procure sexual intercourse more than most individuals with these characteristics and I reconcile this with the conclusion that women find me harmless, which for the most part I am. I am rather tall and thin and my penis has been described as “very average”.
After work on a Tuesday, I find the worst part of myself with a co-worker at a well-known corporate restaurant adjacent to the corporate park where we both work. She’s the receptionist. She’s several years younger than I am and I can tell, mostly because she said so, that I am “cute” in a “harmless, nerdy sort of way”. My problem, which is what I call things I can’t quite understand, is that I know why this girl is sitting across from me, again mostly because she said it.
I’ve just broken up with my boyfriend.
In these situations I can never tell who did the actual breaking up and honestly, I don’t care. Which brings me to the other reason that I am allotted more coitus than people who suffer from non-participatory behavior and ungainly social graces.
I simply don’t give a fuck.
Not in the badass, biker, Mark “Chopper” Read kind of way but in a, I believe 4 billion people will die from a resurgence of The Black Plague next year kind of way. For some reason this seems to help.
Halfway through my milky chicken Caesar salad, I excuse myself for the Men’s room because the itching, which usually begins after the Sun has fully disappeared from view, has started to rattle my concentration. I burst into the bathroom but am made to wait outside the stall for a man who is dropping what can only be described as “Little Boy” into the bowl. Another man who is utilizing the urinal passes judgment on me and I can tell by his spurn that he thinks I’m a “timid tinkler”. I wait nonetheless. I don’t know what the man who just killed hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians looks like because I look away from his face as I enter the stall. Although I can only see his suit, I feel his energy translating into these words: “this young man is a perverted masochist, and he is going into this stall to pleasure himself to the smell of my fecal matter”, which is not entirely false. I slam the door and tear off some toilet paper and am relieved to feel that it is tantamount to 30 grit sandpaper. I slide my dungarees just below my ass cheeks and compulsively scratch my hole. Relief is instantaneous but elusive.
Back at my flat she slides her vaginal opening over and around my cock and although she moans with pleasure I sense that it’s disingenuous. Her slit cannot be described as wet but these things are of no consequence to me. I recognize immediately that this encounter is exactly like all the others where my role is to act as a bridge from her previous boyfriend to her subsequent boyfriend. Sometimes the bridge burns down before she can cross and she goes running back to her previous boyfriend. That’s not what happens this time as far as I can tell. Since I am unable to ejaculate she reluctantly takes her mouth to me. Another problem that plagues me is that I find it increasingly difficult to accept fellatio coupled with the fact that my face cannot hide injustice especially if I’m being subjected to it. She must’ve sensed this causing her to take refuge in a move that her previous boyfriend must have insisted upon. She rolls her eyes as she bobs then dips her free hand through my legs, under my scrotum, passed my spevba, straight toward my buttonhole. The level of fear is monstrous partially because my buttocks contains clumps of hair that is equal but not exceeding that of a chimpanzee not to mention that the mountainous bumps protruding from my anal cavity are not to be touched by foreign hands, most especially ones that recently fingered the Baby Back Rib Platter. Her bold hand movement triggers a powerful reflex motion consisting of a quick tightening of the butt cheeks followed by a forceful upward pelvic thrust. This motion causes the head of my penis to become temporarily lodged in her trachea seconds before she is propelled backward, hitting her head on the wall, gagging uncontrollably.
The next day at work is somewhat uncomfortable.
It appears that the receptionist has taken it upon herself to discuss the previous evenings events with several female co-workers resulting in dirty looks at the snack machine and snickering by the copier. I have other problems though. I’m tired. Last night, after the incident, I stayed up pushing and squeezing a painfully prickly polyp situated on the rim of my anal opening. At one point, I resorted to yanking out the butt hair adjacent to the problem area offering a short-lived reprieve before I was at it again; scratching and squeezing, followed by the desperate technique of burying one of my finger nails into the center of the bulging beast. Finally, I jammed an ice cube into my crack, which numbed the afflicted area until daybreak. Upon rising, I found that although the burning itch had subsided, I was well below my required number of sleeping hours causing headaches and crankiness. This proves to be a terrible combination when the day’s task consists of careful, calculated measurement of the names Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant.