Don’t because you can’t
“Like really loose man…
Not just the foreskin, but like the skin all around my cock.
It’s really really loose…”
Yeah. I get it.
“No…”
Sweaty hands mimed wringing water out of a towel.
“No, like it’s weird, I can twist and twist my cock, this way and that. It’s crazy, like I can’t feel it, like I can’t feel pain in my cock. Like it can be difficult for me to cum. I mean like I can withstand a lot. A lot down there. It can really fuck up sex man, really mess it up. I can sometimes feel nothing. I mean it’s like…”
Sweaty hands violently mimed wringing water out of a badly behaved towel.
No, I do…
“I don’t think you understand.” His voice pinballed between bellow and shrill.
No. I do. You’ve told me before.
“Women don’t get…it’s…they…not disgust…when they get..get confused…don’t get how to…”
He had drifted and momentarily lost himself to the throttling torture of his invisible dick. It slipped for a second and it looked like a plump nine pound baby Hercules wrestling with a giant phantom penis.
“It’s frightening man!” The invisible penis had now encircled him by the waist and appeared to be staring into his face but he had it clutched with both fists as he explained. “…frightening how much pain my dick can take. It scares me man! It’s just numb sometimes! Terrifying!”
I get it.
“No! You can’t!”
I do.
Grasping hands had become claws and he seemed to have gotten the better of the ghost-cock and seemed to be tearing clumps of its flesh away as he emphasized how numb and useless it was if he was lucky enough to get an erection.
“You don’t…”
No, really, you’ve told me before.
“No I haven’t…man, don’t insult me, this is very personal…”
Seriously, you told me like last weekend after the second bottle of wine, you were crying for a bit of it, don’t you remember? You swore at the wine and the beer then you demanded I was not to tell anyone. Don’t you remember?
“Did I…”
It’s not like that’s even the first time either, you regularly tell me about tortures your mutant penis can withstand.
“It’s not a mutant!”
Sorry, your numb penis.
“It’s not a fucking mutant!”
Okay, okay, I apologise for referring to your superhuman abilities to withstand cock and ba-
“It’s really mostly just the cock, just seems like more ‘cause the flesh is loose.”
Ll torture as mutant.
It’s just you like to paint such a vivid picture.
“Do I?”
Yes.
“Seriously, do I talk about this a lot?”
Every time we get drunk. Actually every time we have more than three drinks, you bring up your numb cock and all the the things it can suffer.
As if by magic, the astral-penis instantly dissipated and he slumped to the edge of the couch, a damp, spent lump of folds and hatred.
Sweat beaded his brow visibly like swollen pomegranate seeds and the neck of his t-shirt hung loose around his sternum, stretched from throttling and grabbing.
“Jesus…I am sorry man… I am very sorry, I am so sorry.”
It’s okay, I’m used to it.
“Please don’t tell anyone.”
I won’t.
“Promise! Swear!”
He abruptly tilted back to the mouth of the hallway of rage as the idea that I might reveal his secrets without his permission reared its head.
I nodded some and slipped from my chair to amble to the kitchen and get more beers. His grunting got lost in the shuffle of the movement and by the time I paused around the fridge to ask him if he wanted a beer as well he had dissipated to “Yeah, thanks man”
When I came back, he seemed to have lapsed into silence and was furiously typing into his phone. This was common, he would bounce between talking and writing lyrics for raps into his phone. These were rap fragments he would write whilst I was in the toilet. If I was lucky, he would try and recite them to me. He would often forget verses between telling me how great it was, describing it and then reciting it. Some of it he would have on his phone, the rest would be lost and it would largely be my fault.
Sometimes, he would sleep, abruptly, without word or warning or even, as odd as it sounds, cooperative permission. I say permission, because it would be early, and we would come back for beers and the moment he sat down he would find a blanket and just say he was going to sleep and that was it. If you mentioned anything he would get aggressive at you and shout at you.
In that way, he reminded me of a sort of broken Mean Machine Angel, in that the dial had decimal point markings where it jarred and got stuck for various levels of ridiculously belligerent and shouty.
I wondered why I put up with it. But long months of encroaching PTSD hermitage will make you amenable to different, even abusive company. As long as it keeps the abuse to a low gadfly hum.
You’re a very smart guy. You know it. I know it. But I am very smart too…
This concept popped up late one night. Like many, it would gallop up over the ridge of nearby verbal hill. Silhouetted with intent, it would look down on the conversation and then, with much fanfare, gallop to join the chat and be a forever reoccurring part of the conversation.
There’s a few ways of turning it around in your hands and looking at it.
- It is rather like the issues with reindeer and thus can be compared to them using this very long tangent about Finnish Reindeer, their herding and their natural habitats. PTSD isolationism and agoraphobia bears many similarities to a psychological yeast infection. At first it itches, but in time it will beat you down and you will accept the strangest behaviour just as long as it is not: silence, your moving stories, the Internet, the person at the shop you see twice daily, who still frowns in confusion every time you say “Marlboro”, the print shop woman who thinks you are a paedophile on the run because you once posted a photo from The Tin Drum film on your Facebook and asked her to print one of your novels that centres around children being kidnapped in Scotland (and a giant fucking troll) that she swears she did not read but clearly has skimmed and now with the David Bennent as Oskar Matzerath photo has deduced the conspiracy number florbteen from two plus two and paedophile on the run is the concept. She will worry the edges of conversation with this but over time grow comfortable enough to just straight out accuse you of it whilst jokingly if emotionally asking things like “What does your mother think?” You have slipped into her snow globe horror-fantasy but are too busy dealing with your own to deal with whatever she is writing about you. The Vietnamese barman at the dive bar behind your house who hates you with the throb of a convection oven, this is not in your head, he has told you so over a cigarette. It’s okay though, it is because you are white and do not speak Finnish. You have explained about being stabbed, but, you are clearly lying because you are white and the true reason is what you are lazy. But you can get away with being lazy because you are white. You can go to countries and be rude and lazy and not learn the language because you are white and he hates you. He will then stop speaking English and deny he ever spoke English of this quality again. You’ll consider telling him his relatives are stealing from him but decide to wait it out a bit, after all he seems to have enough stress putting up with the white nationalist bikers that have decided to make his bar home. Your snowy-haired neighbour who will talk at length about how much she hates immigrants, sorry-sorry she meant refugees, (mostly brown ones it’s okay), she’ll rectify this a few days later when she realises she mixed up the words. She is always doing that, don’t you know. Your reflection in the synthesiser room at Verkkokauppa.com (come for the synths, stay for the racism), your one real physical friend, your moving picture stories and the silence. when, at this point the skin on the soles of your mind is flaking and your thought-nails have become slightly yellowed and visibly gnarled, but at this point you’ve begun to think it was always like this.
- It may be unwise to strike up a friendship with the friend of a fling you had. Especially if that fling had some mind issues and thinks they are operating some sort of Medici web.
- Two can probably be summed up more efficiently with “if you fuck crazy don’t make friends with crazy’s friends. Or eye contact. Or anything that could be seen as encouraging.” And if you are going to be pointed about crazy, put it in italics because they often make their eyes hurt so they skim over them and don’t read them beyond the first and last sentences which they’ll angrily use to show they did read it which is surprising as from the name you would deduce it would be much smaller, almost dainty when in fact, the Finnish forest reindeer is one of the largest species of reindeer. It is 180–220 cm long and the tail 10–15 cm. The male is larger, weighing 150–250 kg, while females weigh about 100 kg. Their longer legs, wide hooves and narrower V-shaped antlers facilitate movement through deep snow and wooded habitats.
You’re very smart so don’t try and manipulate me. I am very smart too, I can manipulate people too.
Now that you have slipped across the narcissism and sociopathy Rubicon (take the waterslide, not the boats, whilst it has more screaming, it’s faster). You will suddenly discover the ability to go deep within yourself and have a sort of out of the body conversational narrative with yourself. Don’t panic — this is your brain preventing you from going insane by giving you a mind hug by way of a slight Wonder Years Statler and Waldorf pep talk.While he is ranting about how smart he is with occasional pauses to briefly remind you that you are also smart, but manipulative, so very manipulative. You will wonder if he realises he appears to be signposting what other people have told him.No. He has just leapt into exposition as to how manipulative you are. Again.As you barely spend any time together beyond a scatter of lonely late night drinking and shouting sessions the voice of the fling you deeply regret fucking needles the edges like fat fingers working greasy pizza dough. Oh, and there's the jealous promoter. Internal worries pop-up, do you sleep socialise? Are you going out more than you know, in secret, on yourself, so these people have a chance to get to know you? Will he corroborate this time... No, he's still talking about how he can see you manipulating him.
You wonder if he means manipulating him to repeatedly come over and drink over half of all your alcohol. Oh, and he has paused to remind you you're smart, but now, not as smart as him.Time drifts as he rants and rants and rants and his voice falls in and out of the words other people have told him and so self unaware he will quickly say no one has told him any of this even though he has not been asked.Is this what the Magic Band went through?Did Captain Beefheart do this?I can hear my heart beating. I have begun to will it to stop.He pauses to get more beers but stops laughingly at the fridge and remembers to ask you. Then continues.I have begun to think Finland is not a real place.I am in a Jacob's Ladder type plot play out. My classmate's attack succeeded and I am lying on the floor of the classroom with two burst eyes, bleeding out of my carotid artery in spreading big deep pulses of red. I don't know this and can't accept it, because in the darkness, I can't see myself die...because he burst my eyes, like I mentioned...so the angels are really demons
So don’t even try and manipulate me! Because you can’t! Because I know! Because I am very smart!
Man…
Firstly, I’m not very smart and or I don’t think I am very smart. I mean, if I was, I wouldn’t be in this mess.
“That’s good because I am.”
Secondly, I’m not trying to manipulate anyone. I’m just having a few beers talking shit with you. Hanging out. I don’t play games. Hell, it might sound pathetic, but, I don’t even see many people so it can get pretty lonely. Why would I fuck up one of my very few visitors by trying to manipulate them?
“Don’t! Because you can’t!”
I’m not… man…I am just living very quiet, very hermit, trying to recover from the PTSD.
I was trying to end it on a poignant real note there. But you're not listening. This is long and this is the Internet, your eyes glazed over long ago. You're patiently trying to count seconds until you can say "very good" and I'll accept you've read this. Quietly wondering why this guy can't just come in and buy coffee like everybody else.Ending it on a real and emotional note does not matter either, because you don't care. You don't care.Because this entire time you've just been thinking and wonderingTraitor!
If the guy asked him not to talk about his loose numb penis why the fuck is he writing about it? Why is this utter bastard telling the world this man's horrifying penis secrets? Why!? When he swore him, he swore him to secrecy and made him promise never to tell anyone.
No matter what anyone did, nothing could be so bad as reveal their penis secrets. Nothing. This guy. The writer, it is a guy isn't it? Fuck it. This person is a total coc-I mean cunt. Who does that?
You'd have to have done something pretty bad to warrant penis secrets revelations.
And he did.
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You can support the struggle through this bigots fraud and death threats and the maybe asbestos poisoning and the rest, if you like, by buying Mooseville99 a ko fi or three or more ;)
Thank you for reading.
