Jerrybaldy
11-09-2012, 06:57 PM
My pyjamas are wet. I have just pissed myself. I am in pyjamas, in a nicely arranged garden with wood bark borders and visitors wandering around.
Jack off John had been pulling himself off in the rocking chair for a good half an hour before I came outside. He kept calling ‘Mummy’, as he rocked back and forth, but still he couldn’t come. I think he may have lost it. Or it may be a technique problem.
He had a visitor on the third day of the rota last week. I was told it was his sister. The inevitable happened. She was left with a look in her eyes that said nothing made sense any more. Nothing has a time and a place like masturbation. Except maybe defecation and that’s a whole other story around here.
My pyjamas are seriously wet. How long does the sun take to dry piss soaked cotton on an average English summer’s afternoon? Whole puddles disappear from the pavement in no time at all.
I begin to burn a red ant with a looking glass. The glass belongs to Lily. She uses it to read the small print on her medication. ‘35mg!’ she declares after breakfast most days, with a wet cornflake clinging on to her chin. ‘ Enough to stun an ox!’
The ant is all legs in the air, in the midst of a dramatic death. His middle section is melting like golden toffee in a desert. ‘He was a good and brave ant’, the other ants may well recall. Death does wonders for your kudos.
John whispered in my ear, two Tuesdays past, whilst I was washing my face. He told me that the even numbers are evil. I didn’t sleep for days, so troubled with this thought. Proving it over and over through mathematics, using birth dates, ages and events. At breakfast, the following Friday, I spread golden shred marmalade on whole meal toast and then removed the little finger of my left hand. It hurt like hell, not least because the bluntness of the knife meant I had to hack at the bone for nearly a minute.
Luckily, cries of pain are background noise around here, so my actions went unnoticed, until my finger fell onto the floor beside a surprised earwig. I crunched into my toast and felt the anxiety flow from me at the comforting sight of my 9 remaining fingers.
‘Enough to stun an ox!’, finished Lily, then screamed as she caught sight of my squirting finger stump, interrupting John at a vital moment.
I am not drying out anytime soon. Today is Thursday. Visitors day. I met Mary at junior school. She had scars on her legs that she said were from a house fire. She had foster parents. I assumed these were people you pretended were your parents when you didn’t have any. The way we pretended that Santa, God and the tooth fairy all populated our days.
She had brown eyes and the softest voice and heart, I loved her of course. Somehow we always kept in touch. I was still ok last time we met. Ten, or maybe fifteen years ago. I have cut ties with all my past since I came here. I pissed myself when Mary arrived. It gave me a hope that I could not cope with.
I am running around the garden, arms spread like a kid being an aeroplane. I figure this will speed up the drying process. I can see Mary inside through the French windows. She is looking at a crayon creation of a former inmate. It is a an angry red sun picture; placed in a frame it may well be priceless.
Soon I will be dry. I will be ready for Mary. I will kiss the scars on her legs. We may well marry.
John jacked off for the last time the following night. He came and he went. He was 72. I would guess his sister attended the funeral and buried an earlier version of John; playing marbles and kissing a girlfriend with acne, climbing trees, maybe playing catch with his adoring little sister.
Jack off John had been pulling himself off in the rocking chair for a good half an hour before I came outside. He kept calling ‘Mummy’, as he rocked back and forth, but still he couldn’t come. I think he may have lost it. Or it may be a technique problem.
He had a visitor on the third day of the rota last week. I was told it was his sister. The inevitable happened. She was left with a look in her eyes that said nothing made sense any more. Nothing has a time and a place like masturbation. Except maybe defecation and that’s a whole other story around here.
My pyjamas are seriously wet. How long does the sun take to dry piss soaked cotton on an average English summer’s afternoon? Whole puddles disappear from the pavement in no time at all.
I begin to burn a red ant with a looking glass. The glass belongs to Lily. She uses it to read the small print on her medication. ‘35mg!’ she declares after breakfast most days, with a wet cornflake clinging on to her chin. ‘ Enough to stun an ox!’
The ant is all legs in the air, in the midst of a dramatic death. His middle section is melting like golden toffee in a desert. ‘He was a good and brave ant’, the other ants may well recall. Death does wonders for your kudos.
John whispered in my ear, two Tuesdays past, whilst I was washing my face. He told me that the even numbers are evil. I didn’t sleep for days, so troubled with this thought. Proving it over and over through mathematics, using birth dates, ages and events. At breakfast, the following Friday, I spread golden shred marmalade on whole meal toast and then removed the little finger of my left hand. It hurt like hell, not least because the bluntness of the knife meant I had to hack at the bone for nearly a minute.
Luckily, cries of pain are background noise around here, so my actions went unnoticed, until my finger fell onto the floor beside a surprised earwig. I crunched into my toast and felt the anxiety flow from me at the comforting sight of my 9 remaining fingers.
‘Enough to stun an ox!’, finished Lily, then screamed as she caught sight of my squirting finger stump, interrupting John at a vital moment.
I am not drying out anytime soon. Today is Thursday. Visitors day. I met Mary at junior school. She had scars on her legs that she said were from a house fire. She had foster parents. I assumed these were people you pretended were your parents when you didn’t have any. The way we pretended that Santa, God and the tooth fairy all populated our days.
She had brown eyes and the softest voice and heart, I loved her of course. Somehow we always kept in touch. I was still ok last time we met. Ten, or maybe fifteen years ago. I have cut ties with all my past since I came here. I pissed myself when Mary arrived. It gave me a hope that I could not cope with.
I am running around the garden, arms spread like a kid being an aeroplane. I figure this will speed up the drying process. I can see Mary inside through the French windows. She is looking at a crayon creation of a former inmate. It is a an angry red sun picture; placed in a frame it may well be priceless.
Soon I will be dry. I will be ready for Mary. I will kiss the scars on her legs. We may well marry.
John jacked off for the last time the following night. He came and he went. He was 72. I would guess his sister attended the funeral and buried an earlier version of John; playing marbles and kissing a girlfriend with acne, climbing trees, maybe playing catch with his adoring little sister.