I nodded my sincere thanks and began slowly walking toward the hospital exit, carrying my wife proudly. Doctors, nurses and patients formed a guard of honour up and down the hospital corridors and slowly clapped in appreciation as we left. All I could think, as the outside air pissed all over us, was I’m doing the right thing.
…
My wife awoke about 30 minutes into my aimless walk. She stared at me with the blank expression of a politician. I smiled down at her, flashing all five of my teeth.
“Your dreams come true today, my sweet,” I said in a whisper.
As the situation began dawning on her, she kicked her legs and whimpered. This made it difficult to keep my grip firm, but I persevered.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Don’t fight it. You were right. A woman deserves to be carried by her man.”
“Put me down,” she screamed.
“Not on your life. I have a lot of making up to do. Are you hungry?”
She didn’t answer me straight away, which was somewhat bothersome as I was growing rather famished. I kept quiet though. This was all about her and I didn’t want to interfere with my petty wants. I endured her escalating screams knowing they couldn’t last forever. With her mouth open as it was, she’d already swallowed several bats and I knew her threshold was approaching. Eventually she quietened down and said, “yes, I’m hungry.”
It took longer than I’d hoped to arrive at the nearest convenience store. Having another person weigh you down understandably slows your pace. We approached the stark fluorescence of the store and I manoeuvred us inside. Patrons stared at us in awe. A unibrowed child approached us and asked, “Is it okay if I get on too, sir?”
I assessed the situation. He was a small lad, so I didn’t assume his added weight would affect us too much. “I’m quite alright with it. However, I must seek the permission of a guardian. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d kidnapped you.”
“DAAAAAADDDDDD!” the child yelled.
From within a freezer emerged a charming looking sort. His hair was brilled back and his jaundiced complexion shimmered in the bright light. “Are you this scamp’s guardian?” I asked.
“I most certainly am,” he replied.
“Your boy – he’d like to join my wife and I. Would you object to this?”
He stared at his son with folded arms. His son stared back in anticipation.
“If you think you can handle the extra load, I’m more than happy with the proposal.”
The child jumped about. Liquid excitement seeped through the crotch of his pants.
“Are you sure about this?” asked my wife.
“Quite sure. Hop aboard, my good man.”
He mounted my wife like playground apparatus. The sudden increase in weight came close to toppling us. After a brief adjustment, we were ready.
“Some food please,” I called to the shopkeep.
Within seconds he handed over a large flask of gravy, which the three us took turns suckling upon. Although my arms ached like broken hearts, I felt full of life.
…
We had been travelling around for quite some time. A sizeable procession of individuals now followed us and news helicopters hovered overhead. My wife was largely silent and the child sat atop her like a throned king. He made up for her seeming lack of enthusiasm.
“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” she eventually said.
“What’s that, my sweet?”
“Are you ever going to put me down?”
I had no immediate answer. I simply hadn’t planned that far ahead. I was involved in what was perhaps my first grandiose gesture. I hadn’t yet developed a blueprint.
“I’m really not sure,” I said honestly.
She breathed deeply. “In that case, I have one request.”
“Of course dear. Anything you desire. I want this day to be as perfect as possible.”
“I want the cat.”
This didn’t come as a surprise. The cat and she had been partners in crime ever since she gave birth to it as a dare. The added weight would be miniscule. If the child was willing to keep the cat under control, I saw no issue with it. I turned toward home and began my slow, stumbling walk. The growing crowds and helicopters re-oriented themselves and continued to follow. A reporter riding a penny-farthing slowed down beside us. He retrieved a microphone and jutted it toward me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Popping back home to pick up the cat,” I replied.
“And this cat – is a good one?”
“You’d have to ask my wife,” I said with a chuckle.
The reporter repositioned the microphone and repeated the question to my wife. She didn’t respond.
“She’s a little overwhelmed by the enormity of my gesture,” I said.
As these words left my mouth, the crowds cheered and the helicopters flashed their spotlights like a disabled disco. The reporter cycled away, pumping his fists and yelling, “What a scoop!”
…
The trip home took just under two days. I was happy to arrive. We all needed to utilise the toilet and the mailman needed coaxing out of the roof guttering. I was terribly sore. My arm muscles were starting to entropy and drizzle through the pores of my skin. I was counting on the existence of some soothing balm in our medicine cabinet. I kicked wildly at the front door, splintering it apart. I had to use my wife’s legs to free up enough space for us all to get inside.
The cat cottoned on to our arrival instantly and leapt toward my legs. I felt its claws hook into me and scrape away small strips of flesh. I hollered toward the ceiling, nearly falling down. I had to shake my leg ferociously before the cat flew off in a furry blur and collided in a distressing smear against the wall.
“You bastard,” said my wife. “I think you’ve killed it.”
“What would you have me do, my dear? It latched onto my leg.”
“You could have put me and this strange child down and removed the cat with your hands.”
I laughed sprays of saliva into her face. “Not a chance!” We both know I’m not putting you down. What kind of man would that make me? Now, who needs to use the toilet?”
The child raised his hand. I made my way into the bathroom. The immediate dilemma was a logistical one. How was I to angle my wife’s body in such a way as to avoid becoming drenched in her urine? I had no answer. I just angled her downward and asked her to lift her hospital gown. Her initial refusal was usurped by her plump bladder. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I would have crossed my fingers also, but they weren’t moving any more.
Not a drop of urine landed in the toilet. Instead it wept from my arm and soaked into all three of us. We participated in a combined, slightly disgusted wince. It was the child’s turn next. He was a trooper. He grasped his equipment and took aim. It all went in the bowl. I was rather relieved. Its one thing to have your wife’s urine coating your body, but quite another if it originates from a random child. It was my turn next. I wished that my grasp of hindsight had prompted me to ask an individual from the crowd to lend assistance. As it was, the three of us were alone. Without a zipper assistant, I wet myself embarrassingly.
“Quite unpleasant this,” I said.
Ashamed yet relieved, we emerged from our house. The crowd had grown ten-fold and as we emerged, a deafening roar lured blood from everyone’s eardrums. Thousands of people collapsed to the ground in pain, downed by their own powers of ovation. The tinnitus whistled in my ears like an overeager shepherd. The only benefit, as far as I could ascertain, was that the gutter-dwelling mailman fell from the roof, impaling himself on a passing vole as he landed. Traversing the writhing bodies as I limped away wasn’t easy, but I persevered.
…
As the days stretched by, my wife grew despondent and the child grew gaunt. These were hard, ethically confronting times. My arms were now nothing more than skin-wrapped bone. They had solidified into place. The ghost of the vole-fe
lled mailman sat on my shoulders, adding an esoteric weight that was more taxing on my mind than my body. He spent most of his time mimicking my voice and yelling sexually suggestive insults at people. I was slapped by numerous offended ladies and the occasional beat poet. I shrugged this off as unavoidable.
Crowds continued to gather and follow and the media never lost interest. A telegram, delivered by a ball of meerkats, kindly informed me that I’d been nominated for a civically minded award. The reason for my nomination was ambiguous but I gladly accepted it on behalf of my wife.
“Look dear,” I said. “We’re really making a difference.”
She managed a half-smile, which I wasn’t expecting and coughed a spray of black vomit into my face. “Thank you, love,” she said quietly.
“How are you doing, sport?” I said to the child, just in time to catch a centipede scurry from his left nostril.
“I think he needs a hospital,” said my wife.
“Has that thing always been inside your face?” I asked the child.
Rather than providing an adequate response, his eyeballs merely rolled back.
“I think it’s a new arrival,” coughed my wife.
“How rude! I didn’t allow it on board. Filthy little stowaway!”
“Please, dear. Take us to the hospital.”
“It’s hundreds of metres away. It will take hours to get there, encumbered as I am.”
“Will it?” interjected a synchronous duo of lumberjacks from the nearby crowd.
Without thought, they approached me in tandem stride and lifted the three of us aloft. My legs purred with relief.
“Who are you kind gentlemen?” I asked.
“All we’ve ever been are lumberjacks, sir,” they both said as they marched us to the hospital.
…
It was the same hospital my wife had been in days earlier, after the puddle incident. Although I didn’t know where I had intended to go with my wife, it felt shameful to have arrived at the beginning again. I had hoped for some forward momentum.
“Life is cyclical,” said the child before a team of concerned looking doctors retrieved him.
The lumberjacks put me down gently - however, the brief break afforded to my legs had made them lazy. I collapsed instantly. My wife rolled out of my arms and bounced along the corridor like a beach ball. War paint-smeared doctors chased after her with butterfly nets and spear-length scalpels. My rigid arms jutted upward, unable to move. They looked like beef jerky and made cooing sounds.
A short while later, the doctors returned with my wife safely captured. Her wide eyes stared at me in horror through the butterfly net.
“Are you proud of me?” I yelled to her.
“Not really,” she called back, before disappearing into the bowels of the hospital.
“Ungrateful bitch!” I screamed, hoping she could hear me.
Some children dressed in hospital scrubs encircled me.
“How are you, sir?” asked one.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I’m a little confused.”
“Confused about what?” asked another.
“The whole shebang really. I really do love my wife, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that sometimes it can all be… rather precarious. I think I’m in trouble.”
“Sounds like a pickle,” admitted one of the child-doctors.
“What would you suggest in a situation like this?”
They began to laugh. “Don’t ask us, sir. We’re barely doctors. Sounds to me like you’re going to be in the dog house for a little while.”
“Bloody typical,” I exclaimed as the doctors dragged me toward intensive care. “Has all this been for nothing?”
The doctors began laughing again. One of them said, “Probably,” and the others agreed.
Stuck in the Splits
October 12th 1993 will forever be burnt upon my mind in the most acute detail. That was the day I saw my beloved, Molly Sturgeon do the splits. I was in grade four at the time. During a lunch period the playground had filled with the frenzied monotony of identically dressed children, all going about the serious task of playing, gossiping and eating. Like most lunch periods, I was hanging from the monkey bars, secured intricately by my hair. This precarious position was made possible thanks to efforts of some schoolyard chums, who dedicated a good portion of their break to making it happen. This was often followed by a brief pelting of delectably inedible fruit, picked from various trees populating the schoolyard. The exertion of energy would typically tire my poor friends rather quickly and it wasn’t long before I was left alone, hanging by my hair, covered in smears of fruit.
It was from this position that I first spotted Molly Sturgeon, and I mean really spotted her. She was a student in my class, notable for her pale, freckle-covered skin and unusually red hair, which had the quality of neon light. She and a group of friends had occupied a healthy patch of grass, not too far away from the monkey bars and I. Molly’s friends formed a loose circle around her and began to clap arrhythmically, as if to spur her on. After a few moments of this clapping, Molly did something that irreversibly changed the trajectory of my life. She slowly began to spread her legs, farther and farther, exciting both her friends and I more and more. Molly’s legs struck me as elastic in the way they stretched, seemingly separate from her torso, which was descending ever lower. I bit my bottom lip and held my breath as Molly’s crotch gracefully kissed the grass below before bouncing back up moments later. Her friends erupted into applause and attempted awkward celebratory cartwheels that resulted in more than one bruised forehead. Molly was by no means finished though. She bobbed back into the splits five more times, holding the position longer with each repetition. When finished, she faced her friends and gave them a humble curtsey. I was now oblivious to everything except Molly. I knew instantly that I was in love and that I needed Molly to love me back. What’s more, I knew how to ensure this happened.
I was left hanging on the monkey bars for the remainder of lunch. The playground had emptied minus a few stragglers. Eventually a kind teacher thought to let me down. For the rest of the day I was eager to go home and begin enacting my plan.
…
I have never been a flexible person. My bones have a tendency to crack at the slightest limb extension. I’m more at home lying down or in a seated position where I believe my talents are better utilised. Learning to do the splits was never going to be easy, but I just knew that if I could manage this feat and display my newfound abilities in front of Molly, she would fall hopelessly in love with me. Molly’s precious face stayed in my mind and acted as all the inspiration I needed.
My first attempt was dismal. I was in the backyard wearing loose shorts and a headband. I inhaled impossibly deep breaths while visualising my goal. With my feet an equal distance apart I slowly began to spread. Mere centimetres later, the bones in my legs and lower back began to creak and crack. I felt like a cog in an old machine, turned on for the first time in years. A snapping rope sensation coiled around my inner thighs. Rivulets of blood emerged from the legs of my shorts. I let out a gasp and fell back rigidly, hitting my head on something much harder than soft. After an hour or so of immobility, my body finally regained the necessary strength to army crawl inside the house where I rested before my next attempt.
Recovery from my first attempt took just under a month and I was unable to attend school during this time. My inner thighs sported ungainly tears but I was determined to continue until I could successfully do the splits with ease. I had drawn up an incremental stretching routine that was designed to minimise further tearing. This was combined with a new diet, invented by me alone, without the expertise or knowledge to gauge its effectiveness. Each week I increased the stretch of my legs by barely perceptible amounts. Each week I felt myself getting lower, closer to my goal.
I had made a decision to avoid Molly at all costs. The next time I saw her I wanted to be a master and able to dip into a quick split at the slightest inkling. However, th
is decision to avoid Molly was doomed to failure. We were in the same class and there were only so many sick days I could take before my parents started to literally drag me to school. I would sit in class, covered in dust and gravel rash, doing my best not to look in the direction of Molly’s desk. Unsurprisingly, I found myself magnetically drawn toward it, virtually unable to avert my gaze. I could sense her, radiating an innocent beauty, mere metres away, enveloping me in her presence. Inevitably, I stole a quick glance, which turned into a prolonged stare, which instantly intensified every emotion I was feeling. This proved to be my undoing.
…
I went home that night with unwavering conviction. I was going to successfully perform the splits and my uncooperative body wasn’t going to stop me. I didn’t care what it took – I’d force my legs apart if that’s what was needed. I would perform the splits, I’d show Molly and then we’d form a bond so complete that it would withstand anything. We’d both enter into the splits in perfect unison and embrace warmly, remaining that way for a strange eternity.
I marched straight into the backyard without any thought of food, bathroom or getting changed. I stood in the centre of the lawn and cast my vision skyward. I cried out Molly’s name at the top of my voice, frightening several birds. With my fists clenched tight I began to spread my legs – wider and wider. I heard a crack from somewhere within me, which I ignored. A trouser button snapped off and flew through the air, shattering a window several houses away. I pushed myself further. The logical part of my brain kept imploring me to stop, that I wasn’t ready, but I ignored it. The passionate part of my brain was in complete control, telling me to ignore the pain, to focus only on my goal. The muscles in my legs pulsated violently as I forced myself further down. Grisly fault lines yawned in my legs as my muscles and skin began to tear. I held back the pain, wouldn’t allow myself to even register it. The ground was looming ever closer. I sensed that I was nearly there. With Molly in my mind I forced myself down with more vigour than I thought I possessed. Something inside me popped and my left kneecap caved in. A puff of bone dust plumed from a gaping tear, eventually settling around me. Fighting the urge to pass out, I slapped myself in the face and slowly began to comprehend what I had achieved. My right leg, awkward and spent, was jutting out perfectly in front. My left leg was in a similar position behind me. My crotch was pressed firmly into the ground. I was in the splits.
How to Avoid Sex Page 16
