An UnCautionary Tale by Thinker St. James
Chapter 1: Scrutiny of the Vessel
Under the white glow of the brightly lit bathroom, there was the great I Am. An odd position for a man to achieve: one leg upon the counter, the other on the ground, one arm pressed against the wall holding my balance, the other positioning a mirror underneath my scrotum. Oh yes, completely naked of course. Dear God, you might say, why on earth would I do such a thing? Of course I have a lovely, dare I say pert ballsack, but to look at it with such intense recognition of detail? Oh, I do so wish that the paranoid bodily analysis ended with my lovely balls. I wish it were a mere scratch from a Taiwanese girl's ornate finger rings or a slight ice burn to the goodie bag from some equally freaky French socialite but no, no it was not. The inspection stretched far and wide, the entire landscape of my personal nethers. As such, and quite obviously, this included my thunderstick.
I had already paid the Don Johnson a fair bit of mind; it felt to be about three hour's worth of mind. Studying every detail. Learning. Sharing. Connecting on a personal level. It's amazing how little you know about your best friend until you go out of your way to care. Between the jewelpouch, the lance, and all the other surrounding terrain, I'd say I'd spent a total of eight and a half hours in the bathroom over the course of two days - mirrors, magnifying glasses, headlamps and swimming goggles all being utilized along the way. And while I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, what the hell do I know? I'm no doctor; I just play one in the bedrooms of drunken Brazilian women during Carnival! And also in the bedroom of a German exchange student, and then the Dutch exchange student that came after her. Between the last twelve women, ten of whom were particularly invasive, the concern over my bodily wellness had somehow taken hold in the absolute forefront of my mind.
I knew one thing to be true: this magic stick of mine has been on more whirlwind adventures than Lewis and Clark (and has probably been inside an equal number of Native Americans). And as I waited for the results of my blood analysis, I couldn't help but reminisce in grandeur and discomfort, looking back upon my raucous sexual escapades. Oh the hysteria...so many needles...Duran Duran...The results would be available tomorrow.
Chapter 2: Red Flags
Oh where to begin, really. There seems no definitive starting point. From my youth as a courier in Marrakesh, to my teen years in Cairo...so many women. So many positions. So many satisfied customers. Lord, the amount of opiates involved in the whole mess. The formative mind of a drug-beleaguered sexual impresario encased within a young man with a love for English gin and Peruvian nipples. Times like this - those of waiting and woe - always draw the concept of choice into question. Sitting here now, possibly diseased, would I have chosen this life of fast living, counterintelligence trafficking and perpetual sex with outrageously attractive women from around the world? As my father would say, "we could've all been dentists."
In the time spent darting between blurred, drunken memories of intercourse, I attempted to collect some definitive notion of what my enemy may look like. Which are the impure ones? Who are those snakes of Eden with superbly flat stomachs and life threatening afflictions? And more importantly, could I even remember them well enough to put a name, face and bra size to any tangible event from my past? Lets see here...
- Ariela - Canadian gymnast. Enjoyed the use of pipe cleaners in a particularly creative fashion. Lost her number when the ketamine faded.
- Brin - Bulgarian waitress. Didn't trust her after the dispute over who should be tipping whom.
- Roxanne - Yep. The real Roxanne.
- Rita - Mexican poet from Tonalá. Christ man, unprotected sex on a German U-boat?!
I gasped for air, feeling lightheaded for a moment. A terrible, daunting pang. I sulked my body from the counter and fell to my knees, bowing naked before the Lord (who was apparently somewhere in the vicinity of my linen closet). "Lord!" I shouted, raising a fist towards the heavens. "Why do I let my cocker spaniel run wild and untamed?! Why must I succumb to the wanton desire of the many, many, many many women who set their aim on using me? Why did I have unprotected sex on a German U-boat?!"
I crashed down onto the floor, where a plastic handle of Benett's firewater gin had been strategically placed for me. Lifting my weary head, I put my lips to the opening and swung the bottle, funneling hell into my throat. It was time to face the music. Time to take responsibility for my reckless abandon. And, as this might be my very last day as a "healthy" human being, it was time to sling as much alcohol into my body as I could physically bare. With that, I slammed the plastic jug to the ground and swallowed hard. "Let the last liquid supper commence!"
Chapter 3: Accommodations or The Outbound Train
Sweet Mary, you couldn't possibly imagine the mammoth cyclone, the towering inferno that was my perceived-to-be last night on this world aflame. I had confirmed with myself that I would take my own life in the event of bad news (or "incurable news," as I was referring to it mentally). Mr. Saturday Night Special lay across my dresser as I gripped my own gun. One is for fighting, one is for fun. One for the rising, one for setting the sun. The circumstances of the evening paired with Thinker's own regularly-scheduled abandonment of regard was like a hailstorm of ennui.
How many times have you dreamt about your teeth falling out? How many times have you dreamt about your teeth falling out whilst still awake?
The glass of broken bottles lay scattered across the floor -- if they were rose petals, there may have been a Prince-like sexiness about it. But as they were glass fragments, glistening in the light of the muted television, they resembled peering, judging eyes. "This is perhaps not the best time to think about Mariah Carey," I said to no one, cackling like a mental patient while cracking the seal on a small flask of whiskey. Nick fucking Cannon, tapping that ass. You get it Nick Cannon; I'm on my way to suiciding.
Things To Do if Your Dick is Untainted
- Take another trip to Africa.
Sex the locals.
- Take another trip to Africa. It's your motherland too, pal.
- Buy a copy of Kids on DVD.
- Donate to a Keith Herring charity.
- Shout the words "My dick is clean" from atop the Empire State Building.
- Dance to ABBA records.
I threw the crayon at the bedroom window. One more hard swig and one more sleep. "Wow; I've discovered the exact opposite of Christmas!!" The laugh became hysterical -- my hands darted towards anything resembling a bottle. In a grand culmination, I guzzled the end of the gin, the whiskey, and the beer in that very order and, as luck would have it, this proved to be the knock-out punch which finally put me down. In a murky, hulking blur, I collapsed to the ground with a hard thud and promptly faded away.
Chapter 4: Go to the Mirror, Boy
Sprawled amongst my destruction, I awoke in the afternoon; thousand-ton eyelids painfully parting, receiving the realization of what this otherwise normal new day really was: birds chirping, automobiles hustling and my loft in utter shambles. The time had come to make a phone call which had the potential to be my last. Not the ideal situation for a man who is both hung over and still drunk, I would venture. "Fuck it," I said aloud. "Time to own these sins I'm leasing."
As the clinic's number was the last thing I'd dialed out (some three days prior), I found it fairly easily and clicked the call button. After two rings, a voice shot through.
"Who is this?"
"Who is this?! Bitch who the fuck is THIS?!"
"This is Ralph."
"Ralph?! God damn it, I thought this was Pine Grove Medical, sorry dude."
"Oh no, this is Pine Grove Medical. I'm Ralph."
"This is how you answer the phone of a medical establishment?!"
"It's casual Friday."
"Look Abbott and Costello, put a fucking doctor on the phone or I'm going to shove my foot so far up your ass you'll be wearing my steel toe as a grill. Got it?"
The pause felt like another day-long wait; silent and solitary, distraught and even still, ill-prepared. A new voice graced my ears.
"Thinker! It's Dr. Garner, how are you?"
"Fucking hell doc, you tell me."
"Well sir, after cross-referencing your poliurothropic data diagrams with clean samples and analyzing your cell polymer xylosljlgoiu..."
I tuned the doctor out for a moment, attempting to comprehend select portions of his information. What the hell do these words mean? I command words like Zeus commands the heavens and even I had no clue what the hell this man is saying. Once he'd stopped talking, I responded with one very simple, all-encompassing question:
"Look, just tell me: is my dick clean or what?"
And in the straight-forwards manner I'd asked for, the doctor replied with one tiny utterance:
Without another word, or even bothering to hang up, I dropped the phone to the ground.
Chapter 5: Up Above
The tale ends here for now, my friends. For better or for worse, I am very much alive. Certainly for the better, I am very much in a hot air balloon. High above the Atlantic ocean I sail, piloting a beautiful Aerostar Makinos 3200 Silverline Helia - Sports model, as I'm a humble man. I'm drinking champagne now: real champagne. If it's not from Champagne, France, it's not actually champagne. I can taste the difference.
I should reach Africa by daybreak. I hear the Aerostar Makinos 3200 is a total pussy magnet in Burundi.
It would seem, with such a gargantuan yarn spun in detail, that some sort of moral should be gleaned. Some meritorious edict, to be kept close at heart and always in mind. Here's the one I've gathered from this dolorous trial: