RuKsaK

Read 10,000 Carpenters first, if you haven't already.
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‘So, what’s up with my eye?’
‘Sorry – just a moment. Nurse Patsy, can you leave us a moment please?’
‘So, conjunctivitis? What is it?’
‘Sorry Mr. RuKsaK – you’ve got Chlamydia.’
‘OK – what’s that?’
‘Do you have a partner?’
‘Yes – she’s waiting outside.’
‘You’ll have to go to the STD clinic to get this sorted. I can’t help you. You’ll have to take her with you and be checked.’
‘Whoa! Shit – I came here with an eye infection and you’re telling me I’ve got the clap? My dick is fine!’
‘Thank you Mr. RuKsaK.’

I centimetred out of the office, my bottom lip sucking the top one, shaking my incredulous head. She saw the look on my face and hers asked a jumble of worried questions.

On the walk down the hill, out of pensioners’ earshots, I told her. I said:
‘It’s not my fucking eye. It’s my dick. I’ve got some shit called fucking something on my fucking dick.’

Her reply carved two weeks of a blue-black stain across my left eye. I read a lot in bed in the coming weeks.
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‘Just lie down and remove your trousers and underwear please. We need to take a swab.’

This remains the only time in my life two women held my dick simultaneously. The plastic gloves, the white coats, the six-inch swab-stick and the calm, distant voices did nothing, but give me a shrink on:
‘Nurse Tortura will hold it while I take a swab from inside the stem.’
‘Inside? The stem? Down my stem?’
‘Yes – it’ll sting a little, but we need to take a sample.’

She jabbed the stick down a generous two and a half inches. The stump-end stabbed a dark, virgin portion of my urethra. Then a nipping, scraping sloth-climb back out. My last hole got popped – completely explored, taking more space on my shelves.
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She shimmied down her underwear, with her bra still on, standing in front of the colossal radiator under the triple glazed window. I glared with pupils lasering a shaft of light into her pubes, eyes wettening, and felt a mass of that gorgeous hunger. My dick agreed with the rest of me that we should marry her.

She climbed into bed and an hour later I’d proposed and she’d said yes. In the morning I felt like Happy Henry Miller in my foreign, fridgeless kitchen.
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Her name was Day and she was screaming at me:
‘Stop! Stop!’
‘I’ve stopped! Jesus – what’s wrong?’ I pleaded, our fingers now off and out of each other.

We were sitting on the concrete where I’d lost my virginity. It was on the way home, as it had been for me and Day’s sister. The alcohol and the zealous pursuit of cunt had obliterated any sense of guilt:
‘It’s Liz! It’s Liz!’

She meant the thunderstorm which had cracked open during our wet fondling:
‘It’s not her. Don’t talk shit. I thought we’d been through this. Thought me and you had something coming on here. Fuck me! Don’t lay this down on us.’
‘No Paul – we stop here. That’s it. It’s her.’

It did end there and me and Day finished. My drunken, pleading philosophising fell into the grass. Liz rained us off from wherever Day thought she was. We both felt different ends of blunt.

I so seldom ask questions about my shelved selves , but for this one:
‘What was I doing with my fingers in this pussy?'
'With the sister of the dead girl I’d lost my virginity to?'
'The sister who had died just two months before?'
'The one I lost my virginity to a week before she died?'
'What was I doing?'

It was a time when I felt I was running out of exits.
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My bookshelves are full of books about myselves. There are books I got to the end and knew the writer was me – had lurked into me and put me down, robbed me. I’m stuffed with these books – they’re like a mirror.
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The Carpenters Bite Back coming soon.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

18,000+ Carpenters