How to Avoid Sex
Page 11
I can hear you wondering ‘what will happen if Windsor never wakes up?’ Well… although I think that is a pessimistic and unlikely outcome, I see no other choice but to stay here. I don’t want to move about in a world where everything tries to fuck me. It’s not appropriate. I need to spend some time regaining my composure. I’m Montgomery Worthington! I am not some sex beast. It doesn’t matter what Sexualis Delirium’s invasiveness put in me. By sheer will I can flush it out. All I need is time and the support of my greatest companion. Staying right here, sitting in this empty room, my feet slightly raised from the carpet lest it get the wrong idea, is the best option. I am a man of dignity and I will not fall victim to the human condition. While I may have slipped a little into the carnal quagmire, all I need to do it dry myself off and move forward with my head held high.
I have an urge to tell you a story. I have all the time in the world, so why not? When I was a boy, I fell in love with a girl who lived in my neighbourhood. Her name was Laura, but everyone called her ‘biscuit’ because she was forever falling in cups of tea. Biscuit and I would play together during the summer evenings, looking for new adventures to satisfy our burgeoning curiosity. I had a great fondness for this girl and sought every opportunity I could in which to play, going so far as approaching the local council with a request to extend summer.
One evening, after I had helped wring the tea from her pigtails, we set out to explore a nearby cave that some of the other neighbourhood children had told us about. To reach this cave, we had to travel up an overgrown path. This path was guarded by an obnoxious milkman who refused to let us past until we sung him a song. I serenaded him with a love number my mother had taught to me, hoping that the words would inspire something within Biscuit as well as satisfy the milkman. She seemed oblivious to my intentions and went about singing a song about anal hygiene, which although informative, wasn’t very romantic. Still… we achieved our aim of passing the milkman and we spent the rest of our walk joking about how many nipples he had.
The cave was unspectacular in most respects, but it didn’t matter. I was here for Biscuit, and the cave was of secondary importance. We decided to venture inside, because what else does one do when confronted with a cave? I found something that would prove to be very important in this cave… my first hat. It was a panama hat that had been discarded by its previous owner, presumably due to it’s bent rim. I shook off the dirt and brushed away the cobwebs before placing it atop my head. The sensation was unlike anything I had experienced. With that one addition, my confidence grew and, for the first time, I truly was Montgomery Worthington.
What surprised me more than anything was the way Biscuit’s demeanour changed when she saw me in this dishevelled panama. I was no longer merely the boy from the neighbourhood – rather, I was a superior specimen that commanded a certain respect. In a somewhat brazen manner, I took Biscuit’s hand in my own and gave it a gentle kiss. She let the hand float for a while before pulling it back, utterly beguiled by my actions.
“I love you, Biscuit,” I said.
“I love you too, Montgomery.”
She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek, which although simple in execution, was unforgettable. I tipped my newfound hat in her direction, and she clutched her hands toward her heart.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
I nodded and watched as she retrieved a bag of grapes from her satchel.
“Would you like one?”
I nodded once more and took a single, plump grape. I squashed it between my teeth and felt the cool juice coat my tongue. It tasted divine. Biscuit followed suit, placing a single grape on her tongue and closing it within her mouth. She smiled at me while the grape bulged her cheek before sucking back onto the centre of her tongue. The whimsy came to an end when her eyes widened and her hands moved toward her strained throat. She was choking.
Not knowing how to remedy such a situation, I tried fanning her with my panama. When that proved useless, I took to poking her with a stick, but this only inflamed matters. Before long she was down on her knees and with a bruised hue on her face. She worked to cough the grape up, but it wouldn’t budge. As she fell to her side and the last remnants of life flushed from her face, I felt the weight of hopelessness bearing down.
With the love of my life dead in the cave, I placed the hat back on my head and walked away. I still have that hat, but I never wear it. To be seen wearing a hat of that condition would not do. HAHA… it’s quite amusing what one remembers. HAHAHA… life is quite a funny thing when you get to the heart of it. HAHAHA… I really must tell Windsor that story when he wakes up. I don’t believe he knows it. HAHAHAHAHAHA… he’ll love to learn the genesis of Monty’s precious hats. HAHAHAHAHA… Oh dear… I’m not sure why this is so amusing, but I can’t keep the laughter at bay. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA… I best be careful or I’ll fall of my chair… I mean… I’ll fall of Windsor. HAHAHAHAHAH…
CHAPTER 20
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…and Other Stories
Concentration Tongue
It started as a mere curio - writing the word ‘shoes’ on standard, lined paper. I was introduced to writing the word ‘shoes’ by my good friend, Carl. He had been doing it for a few months and, in that time, had become extremely proficient at writing that particular word. I couldn’t see the allure at first and was initially reluctant to engage in the activity. Carl suggested that I tag along to one of the group sessions he attended twice a week. He assured me that participation wasn’t necessary and if it made me feel more comfortable, I could simply watch from the sidelines. Being a Tuesday night, I had nothing better to do. At the very least, attending Carl’s ‘writing the word ‘shoes’ group’ would break up the monotony my week usually contained.
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The writers’ group itself had no single locus of operation. Each new class was held at the home of a member, based on a simple rotating roster. The class I attended took place at the house of a lady called Linda. Thinking back, it was really Linda who inspired me to participate in the hobby. She wasn’t particularly attractive, interesting or intelligent, but there was this mosquito-like lingering quality that was strangely alluring.
I didn’t just jump in and start writing the word ‘shoes’ though. After Carl introduced me to the enthusiastic group of 20 or so members, I was guided to a well-cushioned spectator’s seat. A bowl of salt and vinegar chips sat within easy reach and I was far too weak-willed to deny its tangy charm. So I sat, stuffing my face with chips and watching. The members sat about the lounge room. Some were lucky enough to get a couch or an armchair but most had to resort to stools, fold outs or the ground. Then, in a strange unison, each pulled out a lined piece of standard paper and with tongues jutting from mouths in concentration, they began to write.
The writing continued ceaselessly for exactly 90 minutes. The vigour in which they carried out their writing was admittedly admirable. It was Linda who I watched the closest though. The concentration that played about her face summoned beads of perspiration to pop on her brow. Ropes of watery drool swung from her lower lip. Her writing hand scrawled in near-religious fervour. I could honestly say that never in my life had I exhibited such passion… for anything. It made me feel inadequate somehow.
After the writing component of the meeting concluded, a discussion was initiated. I was asked directly to share my thoughts on their hobby. I felt singled out unfairly but had a determination to speak truthfully and candidly. I admitted that although I couldn’t fault their obvious commitment, I didn’t understand the general thrust behind what they were doing. The choice of the word ‘shoes’ struck me as arbitrary and I let them know this. I queried the need to pluralise the word and wondered if perhaps ‘shoe’ would have the same effect. It would certainly sound less awkward in general conversation. Each and every one of them laughed at my apparent display of ‘naivety’. I was told outright that the only way I could hope to understand their hobby was to partake in it myself. They urged me to try writing the word ‘shoes’ when I arrived home. They were adamant that the act itself would be enough to help me understand.
I had a pretty strong conviction to ignore the group’s suggestion. That was until Linda approached me. I was waiting in the driveway for Carl, feeling a little annoyed by the attempted indoctrination. I was inhaling deeply on a cigarette when I felt a tug on my shirt. I jumped at the unexpected intrusion, sending Linda slinking backward like a startled animal. I apologised profusely and asked her what she wanted. I was expecting more writing the word ‘shoes’ related propaganda but instead, with grave tones, Linda warned me never to participate in their hobby. The way she uttered the word ‘hobby’ was ominous and cold. She told me that if I went down that path, it would mean the end of my life as I knew it. A few tears mapped her face and the way she shook was contagious. I wanted to know more, but she ran off, ducking behind some sparse shrubbery before I had a chance to question her. I could clearly see her behind the shrubbery. It was a poor choice of hiding spot, but if she was so intent on avoiding me, I wasn’t going to push it.
…
I didn’t talk much to Carl on the drive home and for whatever reason he didn’t try talking to me. I guess he could sense the agitation his group had caused. Linda’s words were percolating in my headspace like rotten coffee and scolding my brain. It was at this stage that I became certain that I would at least try to write the word ‘shoes’. I’m a fairly simple guy to work out when it comes down to it. Tell me not to do something and I won’t stop thinking about it until I’ve given it a go. It’s the reason I only have two toes and the reason my last dog was called Mrs. Felch.
That night, kneeling in my bedroom, stuck in a pose that approximated veneration, I placed a sheet of standard grade, lined paper on my bed. With a common, mass-produced ballpoint pen, I began to write, a little cautiously at first:
Shoes
I leant back a bit and stared hard at the word on the paper. A strange sensation coursed through me. It was the unmistakable feeling of having written a word, only with double the intensity. I wasn’t sure why the word had such an effect. I tried experimenting with other words:
Lip
Tuckshops
Quarry
Mint
Bradley
There was no doubt about it. The feeling garnered from these words contained nothing beyond the typical base-level sensation associated with the writing of a standard word. There was something about ‘shoes’ that simply hit all the right buttons. I eve
n tried removing the pluralisation, but sure enough, the elevated feeling was nowhere to be found. My desire to keep writing the word ‘shoes’ began to far outweigh my desire to understand why it was important. For the rest of the night I remained on my knees, writing the word again and again. With each repetition, I felt stronger and more alive. This was coupled with an ambiguous sense of achievement.
…
Morning hit and I was alarmed to find I had spent the whole night writing the word ‘shoes’. It was also confusing to note that despite the hours dedicated to the activity, I had only written it 12 times. There was no logical reason that such a short, simple word should take so long to write.
All I wanted to do was get better. I knew I could increase my writing speed if only I could spend a little more time. A quick glance at my clock revealed that time wasn’t something I had. Work was looming and despite an urge to call in sick, I did the right thing and left the writing behind. It would still be there when I returned.
The morning commute made apparent the immediate change that had occurred within me. Rather than concentrating on the pop music coughing through my headphones, my mind was on the fellow commuters. Usually these people passed me by in a blur of early morning humanity, but today I couldn’t help but wonder if any of them liked writing the word ‘shoes’. I studied each face closely, trying my best to ascertain whether I was looking at that face of an enthusiast.