Hours in the life of a man when Rosey visits
May 21 '03 (Updated Jan 12 '05)
The Bottom Line A true horror story, we men don't know - we just don't really know.
“Do we let our fears control our motion?” The first question that the professor posed was greeted with quite confusing looks from four girls in the back third of the room who mistakenly thought he had said “emotion” and mistakenly thought they were being pleasantly startled. They were not; this was going to encompass psychology, physics and a lot of shoe-leather research. The end of the game was going to feel of giving birth, and while they had some vague notion of that, the professor had one ever more vague…all he knew was that his sack was aching mightily and he needed to get off of his feet for a few minutes.
He didn’t always take out his cramping pains on his students “have any of you faced the underbelly of your friends and dismissed them for the fools that they are?” but today he was in no mood, he felt sharp, he was the ‘jack of speed’, or was that ‘jack of shadows’ – either way, Zelazny or Fagen it was all just pain and pressure.
He had managed throughout the years to obfuscate, making the nebulous, sucking faces before him confuse his agony for intellectual intensity. Menacing, hacking at them with his eyes he felt a gush, his cock growing partially hard from the pressure, and the blood coming out…he had soaked his tubular pad, and felt the wetness beginning to spread slowly onto his slacks. “How will you live if you don’t begin to equate a certain philosophical integrity within your mind?” “It is possible to step away from the Narcissistic Pain and embrace a MATHEMATICAL LIIIGHTTTTT.”
Nothing but dull, under catalyzed faces. Not only had he not moved them, if possible they had taken on an even more sheepish appearance, slack and minds flaccid. And then the cramping struck his sack again like the fist of god between his legs and he blurted-shout “LIGHT LIGHT LIGHT” and felt a splinter sink into the side of his hand when it came down rhythmic-light in sync with the words and the MOTHERPHUUUUUCKING pounding in his balls. As the day had worn on he had imagined that the throbbing was actually not himself, but the bass player from Wheezer, playing Hashpipe with thumb popping force on his berries.
His dad had tried to help him as best he could to get ready for “your little friend”, when it came to him at 12. He had heard stories from the other little boys who started earlier and the laughter from his dad with his drinking buddies when one of them would lose a finger to an angry game of mumbledypeg after “rosey came down from the Redlands.” There was no violent game strong enough to distract the men, sweat and whiskery amid their crisis of cover. There was no real way to get him ready...and now he thinks back to the problems that he knew his father had to have faced as a laborer when the pounding came.
So now he had an inch and a half of ancient, poorly varnished pine impaled in the meaty part of his hand, and as if he wasn’t beginning to bleed enough…the thought of pulling it out later seemed to him a relief from the cramping.
He turned on them again, a glimmer-grin and sadistically told them to give him a couple of hundred words on the physics of conformity. He didn’t want whining, clever stories or some kind of 7-11 greatest hits version of the thing. He wanted cold, dispassionate logic – a trail and flow that would break down into a quantifiable exercise. He didn’t imagine he would get three papers back with any kind of real. He wouldn’t get thought and clarity, dying for the clarity.
He gave them 45 minutes, turned and he made his way to the back of the room, menstrual blood beginning to drip down his inner thigh. He thought he had some nice cottonesque (it is all fiber these days) tubules in his briefcase, but they weren’t there when he got to his office. He did keep a change of trouser there though, always in the back of the closet – sometimes he needed help on his heavy days. He managed his way into the bathroom and fumbling with the horrid machine - got what would pass for coverage. He moistened paper towels (sand-paper towels) and trudged toward his office. I am afraid these shoes are goners…and he thought of his dad, filling a jock strap with cotton balls just to make it to his morning break.
The short trip to his office didn’t seem quite so daunting, maybe he would introduce them to numbers and motion today, maybe he had a couple of Premsyn in his desk.
Thank you Liquored for hosting this interesting challenge…I found myself digging into a story idea that I had tossed around somewhat, and made into a chapter here and there – but ultimately it all seemed to fall into the horror category quite nicely. I can’t imagine any thing more horrifying.
Participants have until May 31 2003, to enter a review of creative writing to the Super-ball challenge.
Here are the extremely groovy participants sharing their souls and their art….many are friends, you will delight in their work:
artbyjude
corpgent
cr_01
ed_grover
haggis
imprimis2
jcrismon
jo.com
reddiva
sleeper54
thegeniusx
treeseed
If you want to check out the web site go here:
http://www.angelfire.com/alt/reddiva/Liquored/SuperBallChallenge.html
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