How to Avoid Sex

by Revert, Matthew

  The men flashed fury across their faces. Their penises barked in glistening, red anger. The captain met their hateful stares with a dignified stare of his own. He began explaining his decision to mutiny against them. He told them it was the only way he could live with himself. The men made no indication that these words were connecting. They continued their hateful stares. The captain continued explaining his decision, losing himself along tangential roads. His words lacked dynamism, but at this stage, what did it matter? He let his words flow freely, expunging his opinion about anything that came to mind, including a brief anecdote about the pitfalls of Yahtzee. It wasn’t until his voice disappeared completely that he stopped. He turned his back on the men. The thump of POINTLESS JOURNEY hitting the ocean floor shook everyone aboard. The ocean had been absorbed completely.

  After filling a duffel bag with arbitrary possessions, the former captain dismounted POINTLESS JOURNEY. His feet squelched into the muddy ocean floor. He pressed his lips against the hull, saying a final goodbye, accidentally inhaling a starfish. He glanced up at the enormous television carcass and tipped an imaginary hat to the foe he felled. Then, he walked…

  There was no correct direction. He simply felt for the direction of the wind and followed it. The men on his former home were moaning in self-pleasure again. It was a relief for the former captain when these sounds began to fade. The more he walked, the more relieved he became.

  After some time, he chanced upon a clam dressed as Morgan Freeman. It was reciting lines from ROBIN HOOD: PRINCE OF THIEVES in that deeply sonorous tone Freeman was famous for. Wedged in the slush of the ocean floor, at the foot of the clam, sat something that filled him with jubilation. It was his crotch hook. He extracted it from the slush like Excalibur and screwed it back into place. He breathed deeply, inhaling a medically ill-advised quantity of salt. Although more aimless than ever, he felt whole.

  There was a wooden door in the ocean floor. Opening hours were painted on the front in gold. He had nothing on him in which to tell the time. The angle of the sun suggested it might have been March, but that wasn’t accurate enough. He fell to his knees and twisted the doorknob. The door swung open, revealing a staircase. The former captain stood by this staircase for some time, lost in contemplation. Eventually he fisted his pockets with either hand, jutted his crotch hook outward and descended down the stairs.

  The Nook

  A new pile of second-hand pornographic VHS cassettes sit on my coffee table. This has become a weekly tradition. I must have two hundred of these things, all of them courtesy of my best friend, Greg. I never watch them anymore. It makes no sense to me. I have the Internet. The world of porn is at my fingertips and, with the Internet by my side I don’t have to squint my way through tracking problems or censorship laws. I’ve told Greg this so many times. He believes that one should own the physical pornographic artefact. I believe that the pornographic artefact only leads to post-orgasmic guilt. I find it more morally sustainable to simply delete my web history.

  “Aren’t you even going to look at ‘em?”

  Greg sits before the porn like a cat that has just presented a dead bird to its owner. His glasses edge down the bridge of his nose, saved by an unconscious finger just before it has a chance to fall to the carpet below.

  “Why would I?” I respond. “You know I don’t want these things. They’re not even on DVD for fucksake.”

  Greg shakes his head dismissively – a sensei disappointed in his student. He makes his way toward the fridge and retrieves a Grolsch beer. He bites at the cap, removing it and half the bottleneck at the same time. Beer froths down his chin. He spits bloody shards of glass into the sink and sucks at the jagged drink spout.

  “People shit on VHS. It pisses me off. They’ve become fucking lepers. If we don’t nurture them, they’ll die.”

  I snort beer through my nostrils as laughter takes me over.

  “There’s a good reason that people shit on VHS. It’s not like a vinyl record. I’m willing to bet that 90% of the porn you’ve given me is virtually unwatchable. If I’m watching porn, I wanna jack off. I don’t wanna endlessly adjust the tracking or fish tape from VCR guts.”

  Greg falls down onto the adjacent couch (this is his couch) and farts upon landing. A smell most foul rapes my nose.

  “Fuck!” I yell, waving a hand near my face. “I don’t get it. You’re here all the time. We eat the same shit. Why do your farts smell so… so… idiosyncratic?”

  “Must be all that time I spend eating your mother’s pussy,” he mocks.

  “If you had all this pussy to eat, you probably wouldn’t need the porn,” I reply while prodding the porn stack on the coffee table with my foot.

  “It’s a good way to hone technique, my man.”

  “Yeah… I can’t count the number of times I’ve utilized the piledriver at the end of a romantic evening.”

  “Because you ain’t meeting the right kinda chick,” Greg replies. ‘Have you watched any of the porn I’ve given you?”

  “When would I find the time? You’re always here.”

  Greg burps a beer-drenched laugh. We both lie back on our respective couches in comfortable silence. The best way to measure a friendship is in silence. If you’re comfortable saying nothing to someone, then they’re a true friend.

  I let my lethargic eyes soak in the detail of my apartment. I love my apartment. I’ve been here for nearly ten years. Since leaving home, it’s the only place I’ve ever been. It’s small. It’s rundown. It’s completely unexceptional in every way, but it’s mine. This place knows me better than anyone, including Greg. I know this place better than anyone, including Greg. The apartment is an extension of me. My presence has given it a heart – a heart that beats in tandem with my own. Our relationship is based on divine symbiosis. There is nothing about my apartment that I don’t know. It’s the closest anyone can come to physically living inside themselves.

  …

  I wake up to the wet, slapping sound of masturbation. I don’t mind Greg doing this – it’s actually nice that he feels comfortable enough to do it around me. I could never whip it out in front of him. He calls my constant state of dress ‘prudity’ and he’s right. I’ve never even let a friend see me topless and I would rather kill myself with a knife of frozen shit than show my cock to anyone. Even the girls I’ve been with need to fill out a legally binding confidentiality agreement before I’ll remove my pants in their presence.

  “Let me know when it’s safe to look,” I yawn at Greg.

  “Nearly… there… buddy,” he pants.

  I bop my head to the rhythmic slap of his wank. I’d hazard a guess that he’s at 90bpm. He must be feeling tired. Sometimes he gets to 240.

  “Safe to look, dude,” he groans.

  I turn my head just in time to see a watery blast of cum douse his t-shirt.

  “Fuck, dude!” I yell. “You asshole! What’d you do that for?”

  Greg wheezes with laughter while repackaging his dick.

  “It’s just a dick, dude. Reports suggest that even you have one and what’s more, you’ve probably even seen yourself cum!”

  I feel disgusted, but I have no idea why. It turns me on when a guy cums in porn, yet when I see my best friend do it, it creeps me out. I feel my cock engorge with involuntary blood.

  “This is my fucking home! I don’t want you treating it like your own personal cum dumpster.”

  “Nah…” Greg replies. “That’s what your mother’s for.”

  We both start laughing and insulting the other’s mother. It’s a slightly abstract notion when you consider my mother’s been dead for ten years.

  Before the cum has a chance to dry on Greg’s shirt, all is forgiven. We’re drinking more Grolsch and watching illegally downloaded episodes of Quincy M.E. Tragically we know all the dialogue and revel in demonstrating this.

  …

  The hour or so following my arrival home from work is typically the only time I’m alone with my apartment. As much
as I love Greg, it’s important for me to get these little snippets of time with my home. It’s my chance to prove to it that I am its loving owner. I slowly run my tongue over its walls like a lioness cleaning her cub. I press my flaccid crotch against it and rub. Every square inch is coated in my DNA. I’ve marked my territory.

  I embark upon my daily dilemma – do I cook myself dinner, or do I wait for Greg to arrive so we can have something together? I fool myself into believing I’m not going to wait and search through the cupboards. A sweet perfume of rising damp and old spice wafts over me. I inhale like I’m about to go down on a pussy dripping with arousal. I open and close the cupboard in quick succession, fanning the scent into my kitchen. The muscle in my legs starts to jelly and I feel myself gently collapse onto the tepid linoleum below. On all fours, I crawl, my nose pressed to the floor. I snort up my apartment’s history, feeling the detritus left by food and shoe soles float into my flared nostrils. The microscopic flotsam strikes the back of my throat before assimilating with my insides. I tremble and buck my leg - doglike and frisky. It’s as my aroused pelvis begins thrusting that Greg appears behind me.

  “You totally need to get laid.”

  I roll onto my back, hiding my erection with pretzel-contorted legs.

  “What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

  He shakes a greasy paper bag. “I brought us donuts.”

  “Are they good?” the suspicion in my voice evident.

  “Get fucked! Are they good? They were baked today.”

  “Did you pay for them?”

  “Who gives a shit? Let’s just fucking eat.”

  I pluck a sixer of beer from the fridge, place them on the coffee table and fall onto my couch.

  “What’re we watching tonight?” I ask.

  “I downloaded a crapload of shitty high school plays. This is meant to be some of the most abysmal shit out there. It’ll be fucking hilarious.”

  I crack a beer bottle open like a coconut and let the frothy nectar cascade into my mouth and over my face.

  “That sounds pretty fucking cool,” I admit.

  Greg prepares the DVD player and flicks off the light before returning to his couch and cracking open a beer of his own. Footage, clearly recorded in the 80s, flickers on screen. A generic white text informs us that we are about to enjoy the Bentley High 1983 production of JOSEPH AND HIS AMAZING TECHNICOLOUR DREAMCOAT. A fat kid with overtly rimmed glasses begins stammering his way through introductory dialogue. From the fuzzy darkness of the crowd, some genius throws a stepladder at the fat kid. It collides with his face, his glasses break and he convulses about on the ground crying. Greg and I nearly choke on the power of our hysterics. Sprays of laugh-spat beer shower us. This is going to be a good night.

  …

  My insides are swimming in glorious beer. The words that leave my mouth are trying to sleep. My limbs move like a developmentally challenged Thunderbird. I love this magical inebriation. The walls of my apartment glow with the ornate grandeur of a kingdom. I feel humbled by its acceptance of me and collapse on my bloated knees in veneration.

  Greg tumbles from the couch to join me.

  “What are we doing?” he slurs.

  “I dunno what you’re doing, but I’m paying my respects.”

  “To the apartment?” he asks.

  “To the apartment.” I confirm.

  “What the fuck’s with you and this shitty apartment?”

  I burp a dribble of beer vomit down my front before answering his question.

  “First thing’s first – this apartment ain’t ‘shitty’. It’s my sacred fucking temple.”

  “And who do you worship in this ‘temple’?”

  “I worship the apartment.”

  “So… lemme get this shit straight. You worship your place of worship?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but settle on a confused nod. We are both momentarily distracted by a gawky looking chick on the television struggling through a ballet routine.

  “It’s just an apartment, dude” reasons Greg.

  “What? You’re telling me you don’t like it here?”

  “I never said that. I’d like any place you moved to as long as it had beer and a television. I’m just sayin’ that it’s only a fucking apartment.”

  “Yeah,” I shout, a distinct element of defensiveness creeping into my voice, “but it’s mine! I know this place better than anyone will ever know anything.”

  “Bullshit!” he yells, burping up a vomit dribble of his own.

  I motion to slap him, but my limp, inebriated hand misses the mark and somehow I slap myself.

  “Did you just try to hit me?”

  “I’m not sure,” I respond. “I feel like this place is my woman. I need to defend her honour.”

  Greg struggles to his feet and stumbles toward the fridge. He grasps the handle with his teeth and works open the door.

  “Beer?” he asks.

  “You are!” I respond, not quite sure what he said.

  A bottle of Grolsch comes careening toward me and explodes against the coffee table. I suck the bitter liquid from the carpet.

  “You know… I reckon I know this place just as well as you do,” challenges Greg.

  I bite into the carpet, childish rage pulsing. All I can think about is punching him. All I want to do is hurt him.

  “I mean, I’m here nearly as much as you are, dude.”

  I roll onto my back and spit the carpet from my mouth.

  “I’m not trying to piss you off,” he pushes.

  “Fuck you! This is my place. No one knows it better than me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Fuck you! I live here. If you think you know this place better than me, you prove it.”

  Greg sets his beer down on the coffee table and starts rubbing his hands together.

  “Let’s make this official,” he says.

  “Fine… if you discover something about my apartment that I don’t already know, I’ll hook my old VCR back up and we can watch whatever shitty tape you want.”

  Greg’s eyes light up.

  “And if you fail,” I continue, “you have to take all that fucking porn back and never dump anymore on me.”

  Greg begins to thoughtfully rub his chin, so much so that his beard comes off.

  “You have a deal,” he says with an extended hand.

  After several minutes of drunken orientation, our hands meet and we shake. His hand feels so soft.

  …

  I settle down on my couch, waiting for Greg to fail. I can picture him lugging away all that shitty porn and it makes me feel so good. My whimsy is interrupted by Greg’s muffled voice.

  “Did it!”

  I sit up straight, trying to ascertain where the voice is coming from.

  “Get the VCR, dude,” he continues.

  “Bullshit!” I yell, standing up to confront him.

  His self-satisfied laughter vibrates through the walls. Where the fuck is he?

  “You can’t find me, can you?” he taunts.

  Nothing about this makes sense. My apartment consists of four rooms. I can’t find him in any of them. My breath quickens and my beer buzz leaves me in a wet sneeze. Greg’s fucking laughter continues, accentuating what has now become strange panic.

  “Where are you?”

  “HA! You can’t find me.”

  I ball my fists, gouging nail-sized crescents into my palms.

  “I’m fucking drunk, man. I can’t think straight. Just come out.”

  “Not until you admit you can’t find me.”

  I’m trying to focus on the location of Greg’s voice, but the minute I think I have it pinned down, it seems to shift behind me and the same process begins again. It’s like he’s nowhere and everywhere.

  “Come out!” I yell.

  His laughter starts up again. I have to fight back the useless urge to cry. If Greg ever saw me cry… where is he?

  I massage my temples with firm fingers
and feel a tap on my shoulder. I swivel my body to greet the tap and fall backward. I’m on the ground like an upturned turtle with Greg’s unusually sinister body towering over me.

  “I fucking win, dude!”

  I scrunch my eyes shut. This is a drunken illusion. When my eyeballs re-emerge, Greg will be passed out on the couch, burping the cartoon bubbles of a lush. This is bullshit. My eyes spring open and all I can see is his grey smile.

  “I fucking win, dude,” he repeats calmly.

  “Where were you?”

  He stares at me in the same way my father used to when I drank ocean water. His smile disappears for a brief moment before returning, more sinister than ever.

  “I was in your apartment,” he explains. “I’ve found a little nook. I don’t think you know where it is.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  “I do so.”

  “Would you like me to show you where it is?”

  I want to say yes so badly. I need to know where he was. My apartment would never do this to me. She’s faithful. She only reveals her secrets to me. I know everything about her. Everything… A flash of frustration strikes me like lightning and I lose it.

  “GET OUT!” I scream, my voice breaking like Peter Brady’s.

  Greg’s mouth drops open and I watch a millipede scurry out. It becomes lost in his thick, manic hair.

  “If that’s the way you wanna play it, dude. I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re off the rag.”

  I don’t see him leave. He’s just gone and I’m alone. The walls of my apartment don’t feel like they’re protecting me anymore. They feel as if they’re trapping me.

  …

  I’m running my hand over every surface of the apartment and feeling for something new. Using something similar to phrenology, I’ve become accustomed to the slight variables in the contours of the walls. I used to be so sure. Now everything smacks of ambiguity. I need to find this enormous secret she’s been keeping from me. How could she let Greg in on it? She’s been cheating on me. She’s a loose whore.